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Ambros sat on the table, his body drenched with sweat, his cloned leg aching like it was newly attached. The Physical Therapy Magistros sat on a stool across the room, making notes on a lapscroll. He spoke to the Technican who’d been twisting and testing his leg: “What’s your opinion?”
She said: “He’s good to go. If he keeps up his exercises, he should have no more trouble. The leg will ache in wet weather, and maybe if he’s under stress...for perhaps another year or so, but that’s normal.”
“Endaxi,” said the Magistros. The fellow grinned: “Good health to you Spathos, and may we never see you here in the Temple again.”
“That’d be fine by me,” Ambros said, a little grumpy. He sent a note to Combat Medical, announcing his full recovery, and copied that note to the Sacred Band chat space on the Kyklo.
Then he walked out, both legs equally pained, as had not been the case since he’d been injured: ‘I suppose that twisting both legs past discomfort and affirming that the injury is no longer affecting my gait was worthwhile...’
He suspected that Temple physicians and techs got a rise out of doing PT on Warriors: ‘Just to see how much suffering we can take.’
He dismissed that thought as unworthy. He muttered: “Now I need another shower, though, and clean clothes.” He walked right past the Baths, wanting the cleansing power of the ‘magic’ lockers in the Command Complex, rather than a random outfit from the Laundry.
The trip to Tokyo for his now-routine speech and Q & A had been, until now...routine.
‘Weird that jetting around the planet to talk about “The End Of The World As We Know It” has become so everyday for me.’
He put that aside: ‘My sparring partner here is a shihan: a sensei’s sensei. Relax and concentrate...’
