3
The week of Genesios therapy took fifteen thousand dollars out of Ric’s spike. The previous months of treatment had accounted for another sixty-two thousand. What Ric didn’t know was that Genesios therapy could have been started at once and saved him most of his funds, but that the artificial intelligences working for the hospital had tagged him as a suspect character, an alien of no particular standing, with no work history, no policorporate citizenship, and a large amount of cash in his breast pocket. The AIs concluded that Ric was in no position to complain, and they were right.
Computers can’t be sued for malpractice. The doctors and administrators followed their advice.
All that remained of Ric’s money was three thousand SM dollars. Ric could live off of that for a few years, but it wasn’t much of a retirement.
The hospital was nice enough to schedule an appointment for him with a career counselor, a woman who would find him a job. She worked in the basement of the vast glass hospital building, and her name was Marlene.