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Itty Bitty Bigger World: Not My Day
Jul. 2nd, 2015 06:15 pmAs the world started to turn swirly colors, I made sure my mask was properly fitted and purged. Clearly I wasn't getting enough air.
This didn't help. So I laid across the table, bumping Steven's corpse as I did so. Poor bastard.
Hard to sue a dead man for slander and libel. Still possible to go after his employer, but more difficult.
Certain legal maneuvers notwithstanding, it is also hard to file suit when one is dead.
I murmured biofeedback commands which produced no result. Crashed ware. I'd stripped off the smart googles by reflex when I fitted the mask, not that my eyes appeared to be working. The swirls were replaced by gray and black at the edges of my vision, starting to overwhelm . . .
The mask was flowing air. I could feel it against my face. Then it was ripped off my face by a metal claw.
Goodie. Medic bots. My arm brushed Steven again as they laid me down on my back on the table, which promptly became a critical care bed.
Sharp cutting pain in my arms and inner right thigh. A rush of hot and cold, hot out of my arteries, cold into my veins. A foam strip zipped -- felt like a zipper -- from my spine up to the back of my head. My spine tingled, like I had sat down suddenly on my butt, but all up and down.
Then someone shoved a tentacle down my throat. Or I was the brand new star of a really, really bad porno.
The pain was agonizing. I would have screamed. I would have thrown up. Neither was going to happen.
I had just been intubated while conscious, which is Teh Suck. Not the first time, but I'd certainly hoped it would be the last.
I could now breathe. That was nice. It breathed for me, which was less nice. One bellows breath every eight seconds or so, which seemed about right for ANLS.
An earbud was thoughtfully placed in my right ear.
"Alan, this is Amy. We can't put you out, you wouldn't wake up. I know your ware is down. We'll try to manage the pain the best we can with neuroblockers, but we can't use chemicals. We're transporting to an advanced facility now. I'm going to put on music for you. Try to breathe with the respirator. Don't you dare die on me, we have a date!"
With that, I was treated to a nice classical selection, which I immediately recognized as the same piece I'd played during the felony prisoner transport that morning -- which felt like years ago.
The sub surged upwards against my back. It suddenly jerked. Apparently surfaced.
The sides of the bed closed up around me, which I was expecting.
The human body is strange. You can take anywhere from 5 to 10 gravities of force either against your feet or your butt -- but a few pounds [a kilogram] of pressure in the right spot can break your bones. The critical care beds of a CalFire fireboat are designed with this in mind.
I knew what was happening to me when the bed moved. A slight click, a turn that dizzied me, and a WHAM.
I'd been fired.
Literally. My critical care bed was now a torpedo, which had been launched into a receptor port for the San San transport network, where it would become an emergency priority small capsule.
About two minutes later, when the bed folded down, my eyes still didn't work and my hearing was shaky. But the bed told me where I was using direct sonic induction.
"Welcome, Alan Anderson, you have been admitted to UC Stanford Emergency Department."
This didn't help. So I laid across the table, bumping Steven's corpse as I did so. Poor bastard.
Hard to sue a dead man for slander and libel. Still possible to go after his employer, but more difficult.
Certain legal maneuvers notwithstanding, it is also hard to file suit when one is dead.
I murmured biofeedback commands which produced no result. Crashed ware. I'd stripped off the smart googles by reflex when I fitted the mask, not that my eyes appeared to be working. The swirls were replaced by gray and black at the edges of my vision, starting to overwhelm . . .
The mask was flowing air. I could feel it against my face. Then it was ripped off my face by a metal claw.
Goodie. Medic bots. My arm brushed Steven again as they laid me down on my back on the table, which promptly became a critical care bed.
Sharp cutting pain in my arms and inner right thigh. A rush of hot and cold, hot out of my arteries, cold into my veins. A foam strip zipped -- felt like a zipper -- from my spine up to the back of my head. My spine tingled, like I had sat down suddenly on my butt, but all up and down.
Then someone shoved a tentacle down my throat. Or I was the brand new star of a really, really bad porno.
The pain was agonizing. I would have screamed. I would have thrown up. Neither was going to happen.
I had just been intubated while conscious, which is Teh Suck. Not the first time, but I'd certainly hoped it would be the last.
I could now breathe. That was nice. It breathed for me, which was less nice. One bellows breath every eight seconds or so, which seemed about right for ANLS.
An earbud was thoughtfully placed in my right ear.
"Alan, this is Amy. We can't put you out, you wouldn't wake up. I know your ware is down. We'll try to manage the pain the best we can with neuroblockers, but we can't use chemicals. We're transporting to an advanced facility now. I'm going to put on music for you. Try to breathe with the respirator. Don't you dare die on me, we have a date!"
With that, I was treated to a nice classical selection, which I immediately recognized as the same piece I'd played during the felony prisoner transport that morning -- which felt like years ago.
The sub surged upwards against my back. It suddenly jerked. Apparently surfaced.
The sides of the bed closed up around me, which I was expecting.
The human body is strange. You can take anywhere from 5 to 10 gravities of force either against your feet or your butt -- but a few pounds [a kilogram] of pressure in the right spot can break your bones. The critical care beds of a CalFire fireboat are designed with this in mind.
I knew what was happening to me when the bed moved. A slight click, a turn that dizzied me, and a WHAM.
I'd been fired.
Literally. My critical care bed was now a torpedo, which had been launched into a receptor port for the San San transport network, where it would become an emergency priority small capsule.
About two minutes later, when the bed folded down, my eyes still didn't work and my hearing was shaky. But the bed told me where I was using direct sonic induction.
"Welcome, Alan Anderson, you have been admitted to UC Stanford Emergency Department."
