He climbed up several decks to sick bay, and when he checked in, was greeted by a medical corpsman. “Ballin,” the fellow said, looking at a screen at his desk. “Implants, is it?” No one had told York what to expect, so he said, “I guess so.” York waited for about an hour, then a female corpsman appeared in the waiting room holding a small terminal. She had brown hair cut chin length, didn’t wear any makeup, was a little overweight in an attractive way, and couldn’t be more than a year or two older than York. The stencil on her chest read PLEMIN. “Ballin,” she announced. York was the only one waiting there, but she said it as if the room was filled with people waiting to be seen and she had to call out his name so he could identify himself. He stood and towered over her. He’d grown a bit more, which had him standing just a little taller than most men, but he’d also started to fill out in the shoulders.
