“I’m afraid Mr. Aziz was the victim of a bad prep. His blood was apparently drained hastily, and not sufficiently completely. Small freezing hemocysts riddled his brain tissue with necrotic patches. We removed them, and started new growth, which has taken hold successfully. But his personality is permanently lost.”

“Everything?”

“He may perhaps retain a few frustrating fragments of memories. Dreams. But he cannot re-access his neural pathways through new routes or sub-routines, because the tissue itself is gone. The new man will start over as a near-infant. He’s lost language, among other things.”

“Will he recover his intelligence? In time?”

Aragones hesitated for too long before answering. “In a few years, he may be able to do enough simple tasks to be self-supporting.”

“I see,” Miles sighed.

“What do you want to do with him?”

“He’s another one with no next of kin listed.” Miles blew out his breath. “Transfer him to a long-term care facility here on Escobar. One with a good therapy department. I’ll ask you to recommend one. I’ll set up a small trust fund to cover the costs till he’s out on his own. However long that takes.”

Aragones nodded, and both he and Quinn made notes.

After settling further administrative and financial details, the conference broke up. Miles insisted on stopping to see Aziz, before picking up the other two convalescents.

“He cannot recognize you,” Dr. Aragones warned as they entered the hospital room.

“That’s all right.”

At first glance, Aziz did not look as much like death warmed over as Miles had expected, despite the unflattering hospital gown. There was color and warmth in his face, and his natural melanin level saved him from being hospital-pale. But he lay listlessly, gaunt, twisted in his covers. The bed’s sides were up, unpleasantly suggesting a crib or a coffin. Quinn stood against the wall and folded her arms. She had visceral associations about hospitals and clinics too.