Appeals Court | Page 6

right.
"You want a cup of Joe?" asks Doc. "Sure, we can do that." He pats Huw's shoulder with avuncular charm. "You jes' lie there and let my little helpers eat the blood clots in your brain for a while."
"Bonnie --" Huw whispers, but Doc is already standing and turning towards the door at the other side of the surgery, out of his line of sight. The blow from the motor did something worse to him than concussion, and he can't seem to move his arms or legs -- or neck. *I'm still breathing, so it can't be that bad*, he tells himself hopefully. *Remember, if you break your neck during a botched parachute landing and then a mad conspiracy-theorist injects black market nanomachines into you, it's highly unlikely that anything worse can happen before sundown*, he tells himself in a spirit of misplaced optimism.
And things were, indeed, looking up compared to where they'd been an hour or two ago. Bonnie had found him, still unconscious, lying at the foot of a tree that was already dribbling toxic effluent across his boots. The teapot was screaming for help at the top of its tinny electronic lungs as an inquisitive stream of brick-red ants crawled over its surface, teaming up to drag it back to one wing of the vast sprawling supercolony that owned the continent. The ants stung, really, really hard. And there were *lots* of them, like a tide sweeping over his body. It was Bonnie who'd called Doc, using some kind of insane spatchcock mobile phone jury-rigged from the wreckage of her parachute harness to broadcast for help, and it was Bonnie who'd sat beside him, whispering sweet nothings and occasionally whacking impudent formicidae, until Doc had arrived on his half-rusted swamp boat. But she'd vanished immediately afterwards, not sticking around to explain to Doc how come she and Huw were at large in the neverglades -- and Doc seemed mad about that.
After a couple of hours on the operating table Huw has begun to realise that half an hour can be a very long time indeed when your only company is a demented quack and you can't even scratch your arse by way of entertainment. And his arse *itches*. In fact, it's not all that itches. Up and down his spine, little shivers of tantalizing irritation are raising goose-flesh. "Shit," he mumbles, as his left hand begins to tremble uncontrollably. The nanobots have reached the swollen, damaged tissues within his cervical vertebrae and are busily reducing the swelling. They're coaxing suicidal neurons back into cytocellular stability, laying temporary replacement links where apoptosis has already proceeded to completion, and generally wreaking the wonder of the Christopher Reeve process on Huw's supine spinal cord. For which Huw is incredibly grateful -- if Doc was as nuts as he seems he might have injected a auto engine service pack and Huw might at this very moment be gestating a pile of gleaming ceramic piston rings -- but it *itches* with the fire of a thousand ants crawling inside his veins. "Arse, bugger, fuck," he moans. And then his toes begin to tremble.
By the time Doc reappears Huw is sitting up, albeit as shaky as an ethanol addict in the first week of withdrawl. He moans quietly as he accepts a chipped ceramic Exxon mug full of something dark and villainous enough that it resembles a double-foam latte, if the barrista substituted gulf crude for steamed milk. "Thanks," he manages to choke out. "I think. Do you know where Bonnie's going to be back?"
"That evil woman?" Doc cranks one eyebrow up until it teeters alarmingly. "Naw, son, you don't want to be going worrying about the likes of her. She's bad company, her and her crew -- between you and me, I figure she's in league with the space bats." He chuckles humorlessly. "Naw, you'll be much better off with me'n'Sam. Ade told us all about you'n'what you're here for. We'll set you straight."
"Ade. Told you." Huw's stomach does a backflip, which feels extremely strange because something is wrong with his body image. It feels all wrong inside. He clears his throat, and almost chokes: the alien whistle-thing-communicator is gone! Then his stomach gives a warning twinge and his momentary flash of hope fades. The godvomit has simply retreated deeper into his gastrointestinal tract, hiding to bide its time like a robotic extra in a Ridley Scott movie. "How'd you know him?"
"'Cause we do a bit of business from time to time." Doc's eyebrow relaxes as he grins at Huw. "A little light smuggling, son. Don't let it get on your nerves. Ade told us what to do with you and everything's going to be just fine."
"Just fine --" Huw stops. "What are you going to do with me?" he asks suspiciously.
"Ade