“How do you feel?”
She could hear the voice — a reassuring, male timbre — but it seemed distant, quiet, almost unintelligible. “What?” She tried in vain to raise her arms, wanting to push the tank open.
“Don’t move too much. You’re still weak, and the suspension drugs aren’t entirely out of your system.”
She relaxed, still floating, “Didn’t it work?”
The voice chuckled. “Nine out of ten ask that. What year were you tanked?”
“Tanked… I was… 2024? Cancer, I had cancer—”
“It’s 2378. Your cancer is gone. Welcome to Federated North America. I’m going to wheel you into recovery now.”
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