I hinged open reluctant eyelids, and found myself facing an unfamiliar ceiling.

The Trouble Dog’s infirmary turned out to be capacious enough to deal with a battle’s worth of wounded crew. More awake now, but still woozy with anaesthetic, I estimated it contained at least sixty beds. The room was so long that the curve of the hull hid the far end from sight.

Only two beds in all that space were illuminated and active. The rest slumbered empty and dark, waiting to receive casualties from the Geest van Amsterdam. The first of those functioning beds was mine, the second Laura’s. Propped up on pillows, she faced me from across the aisle, her right leg wrapped in an inflatable grey foam cast.

“Welcome back,” she said.

I worked dry lips, tried to swallow. “Yeah…”

“We were lucky.”

Lucky? I looked down. A similar cast covered my torso from clavicle to pubic bone. IV lines carried clear fluids from a selection of bags hanging on a metal pole beside the bed. The air smelled of strong disinfectant and freshly laundered bed linen. A monitor kept track of my blood pressure, pulse, respiration and body temperature.

“I think you were luckier.” I couldn’t feel anything below my sternum. “How long was I under?”

“About three hours.”

The room wallowed uneasily, the way it sometimes did after six quick shots of tequila. When it settled, I asked, “Why are you smiling?”

The corners of her eyes wrinkled at the bitterness in my voice. “Because we’ve had this conversation three times already.”

“Oh.” I let my eyelids close, lulled by the hiss of the air conditioning, the rise and fall of my own breathing, and the gurgle of the fluids in their tubes. I wanted to get out of bed but I couldn’t move. “Where’s the medic?”

“Asleep, I should think. It’s around 0100 hours, ship’s time.”

“Did they get the pellet out?”

“Yes.” Laura’s voice was hesitant, and I could tell there was something she wasn’t saying. With great effort, I levered open my eyes.

“Yes, but?”

She scratched an itch on the skin of her thigh, trying to work her nails beneath the edge of her cast.

“I’m afraid you sustained a penetrating abdominal trauma.” She wouldn’t meet my eye. “The pellet fragmented inside you, and damaged your liver, spleen and pancreas. In addition, you’ve lost a section of small intestine.”

I tried to swallow again, but my mouth and tongue were still dry. “They removed it?”