The last thing I remembered was the Hot chair and the grey CAT-15 cable jamming into the jack socket in my skull. I knew what that meant. I rolled over in bed. My new, standardized body smelled of the stasis tank and moved with clumsy naivety. "Car bomb," said Sara. I looked up. She stood at my bedside like a coroner, gazing down impassively at another piece of meat. Her tone was flat and her face indifferent stone. "Outside the Smithsonian. The Separatists again."
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