The takeover

Notification appeared in his visual field, blinking a lurid, corrosive red - impossible to ignore. Slater felt his blood-pressure drop precipitately; his head swam.

"Bastards!"

He stared through polarised glass at the grey world beyond the window, his plant responding with appropriate infusions of neurotransmitter - just enough to counteract the sudden lurch in mood. Equilibrium restored, he made a call: "Matron - in here, now."

Matron appeared, flustered but remembering to give the proper salute.

"It's now" Slater stated, abruptly. "The takeover. Just received notification."

"_Now_ sir?"

"Right now. They'll take everything. So we need to act fast. How many inmates in the hospital; how many machines?"

Matron calculated rapidly. "1509 patients, sir. 651 machines."

Slater considered for a moment. "Render them inoperable" he ordered.

"But sir," Matron protested, "without the machines, the patients will not survive!"

Slater fixed him with a hard stare. "I was not referring to the machines, Matron."