Chapter Four: The Man in the Cradle

He tore the leads from his forehead. The unpredicted laboratory hit his senses for the first time: cold, mold, and the agony of atrophied muscles. A wheelchair waited beside the cradle, its cushion still warm. The silver memory wafer had never been in the console. His right hand was clenched around it. Freshly scratched into its back were three words: GO TO INK. The letters were wet with his blood.