The small girl moaned as the doctor inspected her. She hung limp from her bonds, welded to the ship's anchor, her naked body encrusted with salt and barnacles, lips chapped and bleeding.

"Try to lift your head for me sweetie," the doctor said in a soft voice. The girl whimpered but couldn't move.

"Look, I understand, but she's an heirloom," a middle-aged man explained. "We've had her for generations."

The doctor sighed. "When's the last time she had a rest?"

"Since when do they need rest?"

The doctor lifted the girl's head with a fistful of hair and flashed his light into her mouth.

"She's part of the anchor. She's been welded there for centuries."

"I'm not saying to remove her from the anchor, just leave the anchor ashore for a few weeks."

"Weeks?"

"You do have spares, right?"

"We have one spare with no girl on it."

"You can manage. She needs a break once every five years at minimum."

The ship's captain held his head in his hands. "You're killing me doc."