by J. N. Chaney
She laughed and said, “I guess you would itch. That’s normal. But regardless, I’ve got to run some tests on you. Sorry about that.”
“Why sorry?”
She scrunched up her face and said, “Because if these tests are like the simulations we ran to prepare, it ain’t gonna be too much fun.”
“Simulations?”
“This is all new ground here, uh . . . can I call you Reverent? Or would you rather Sergeant?”
“Rev is fine. But only simulations? Not on people?”
“Well, you’re our first guinea pig. You knew that, right?”
“Yeah, for the arm. But for that thing?” he said, pointing at the box on top of the cart.
“Well, it isn’t like this is from scratch. We built upon proven practices. But your connections, both the normal and biosynth, well, nothing’s ever been done to this level, and least not in the Union. There’re rumors about the Manifest Destiny Sphere, but if they are, they sure aren’t sharing anything with us.”
If the MDS was experimenting in this arena, it wasn’t surprising that they’d be secretive. Rev didn’t trust them farther than he could throw them, even if they were allies at the moment. Still, it would be nice to know if they had something that could help the docs work on him.
“But we need to proceed. Doctor Chakrabarti wants an eighteen-hour baseline, and that’s right now.”
“Can’t keep the doctor waiting, I guess. What do you want me to do?”
“Just lie still for a few minutes while I hook you up.”
“What’s your name? I’d like to know who’s torturing me.”
“Hah! I’m Fanny d’Tair. Pleased to meet you.”
“I hope when this is over, I’ll still be pleased to have met you, too.”
“Me, too. I don’t think I’d like to have you for an enemy. But before we start, I need to deactivate your AI.”
Rev felt a momentary surge of . . . not panic. Distress, maybe. “Why do you have to do that?”
“Just a precaution. We don’t want it damaged.”
“Does that sound right, Punch? Should I let her do it?”
“So, you don’t mind?”
“So, does your AI approve?” Fanny said, holding a cable with a jack connector poised in her hand.
Rev didn’t like that she knew that he’d been asking Punch, but he gave her a sour look and a sullen “Yeah.”
“I don’t blame you, you know. That crystal is in your head, after all.”
She connected the cable to his main jack at the base of his neck. A few seconds later, she said, “There. All done.”
“Punch?”
There was no answer, and Rev felt alone.
Fanny returned the cable, then took the temporary cover off his sleeve, exposing the interface. She pulled another cable from her box, the end matching the diameter of his sleeve, then connected it. Rev felt a tiny tickle, then nothing while Fanny studied the six or seven displays.
“That’s it?”
“No, just using the residuals to zero out the readings. And I’ve got that. So, try and relax, and we’ll get through this as quickly as possible.
“Ready?” she asked, turning to look him in the eye.
Ready for what? What’s she going to do to me?
Not that it mattered. She was going to do whatever it was that she was going to do.
He nodded and said, “Hit me.”
Fanny put on a headset with a throat mic and quietly said, “Level One base test. Ten seconds.”
Immediately, Rev felt a buzz that didn’t actually hurt, but it was decidedly uncomfortable. It was as if he was continually getting hit in his funny bone . . . but his elbow didn’t exist anymore, so he wasn’t sure how that could be.
Thankfully, the buzzing stopped, and Rev used his right arm to wipe away the sweat that had started to form on his brow.
“You OK there, Rev?”
“Yeah, that wasn’t so bad.”
“Unfortunately, it’ll get worse,” she told him before saying, “Level Two base test. Ten seconds.”
She wasn’t lying about it getting worse. This time, the discomfort graduated to downright pain. His shoulder was afire, and he had to stop himself from ripping the jack out of his stump. He twitched uncontrollably all over his body.
And then it was gone. The intense pain, but not the after-effects. His shoulder was sore, and it felt as if his harness had broken free of its anchor points under his skin.
“Still hanging in with me?”
Rev took three deep breaths. “Am I allowed to ask you just what the hell you’re doing?”
“Allowed? There’s no precedent for what we’re doing, but it’s your body, so I don’t have any problem with it. At least as far as my knowledge goes.”
She took off the headset and said, “You’ve got a billion new connections, and I’m not using that term figuratively. Every one of them is raw and inflamed, so what you’re experiencing is neuralgia, or pain caused in the nerve endings. The problem is that your chassis . . . uh, that’s what Doctor C calls your body.” She looked embarrassed, but Rev just wanted her to get to the point. “Um, your chassis wasn’t designed for that, so we’re forcing it to accept what is essentially a new nervous system. What I’m doing is sending tiny pulses through the connections, then measuring how much of those are being returned.”
“They didn’t feel like they were tiny,” Rev groused.
“A femtojoule the first time. A picojoule the second time.”
That was hard to believe. It didn’t seem like such a small amount of power could have that much effect on him, but he wasn’t going to argue with her about it.
“And what does that tell you?”
“I’m measuring how much gets through the bio-mechanical interfaces. If all get through, then the interfaces are at full efficiency. If the number is low, then more of the signals aren’t getting through.”
“And the pain?”
“The more that doesn’t get through, the more it excites your organic nerve endings, which have already been split and are inflamed.”
Rev stopped to digest that for a moment before asking, “And what are my numbers?”
“Pretty shitty, if I can be so blunt. But that’s expected,” she said, cutting him off before he could ask why that was. “It should be better over the next two weeks. At least Doctor C thinks so.”
Should be? Rev was beginning to regret signing on to this project. Maybe he should have listened to Mr. Oliva’s advice when the man warned him about volunteering.
“So, are we done then?” he asked.
Fanny grimaced and said, “’Fraid not. Three more rounds. A nanojoule, five nanojoules, and ten nanojoules. You ready for them?”
Come on, Reverent. Man up.
“Hit me again, Miss Fanny.”
She put her headset back on. “You’ve got it. Level Three base test. Ten seconds.”
Rev tried to brace himself, but it was like getting kicked by a mule, starting in his left shoulder and radiating out through his body like fingers of fire. His lungs locked up, and his vision narrowed to a tiny tunnel. He was sure he was about to break when it let up.
His vision returned and he saw Fanny looking at him with concern in her eyes. “These numbers aren’t good, Rev. Let me let you rest up while I call Doctor C.”
“Is she going to tell you to quit?”
Fanny looked down and said, “Probably not. No.”
“I didn’t think so. Let’s just get this over with.”
“Are you sure? I can let you rest for a bit. You know, catch your breath.”
“No. Let’s just get it over with.”
She frowned, obviously worried about him, but Rev meant what he said. He wanted to be done with it, not waiting in apprehension for the next jolt.
>
“It’s OK, just do it. I don’t blame you, and if it’s gotta be done, it’s gotta be done.”
“Level Four Base test. Five seconds.”
Rev didn’t know if it was supposed to be set for five seconds or if she was taking pity on him, but he didn’t have time to ask before he was hit. And it was bad, but maybe no worse than the Level Two test. That, or maybe it felt that way because it was only five seconds.
He didn’t give Fanny a chance to ask if he needed a rest. He pushed her to the last test, enduring the pain, trying to compartmentalize it.
And finally, it was over. Fanny was detaching her torture kit, apologizing for putting him through it. And he hurt. This wasn’t like getting neuromapped back at Camp Nguyen, where once the machine was turned off, the pain was gone. His shoulder, in particular, radiated pain and soreness. But it was bearable.
“So, what are the results?” he asked as Fanny turned off her equipment.
“I don’t have that expertise—” she started to say when he cut her off.
“You already said the numbers aren’t good. You know more than I do what that means.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that you failed or anything.”
“But . . .”
“OK,” she said, looking back at the door before continuing, “We’re supposed to keep you calm. Better for healing and all that. But you deserve to know what is going on.
“Your numbers were lower than we’d hoped, but they were in the expected range.”
“And if I fell below this expected range?”
“Then Doctor C and her team would implement an intercession. And before you ask, I really don’t know what that is. But I can say it would be to help you. I know she doesn’t come across that way, but she does really care.”
“For my chassis, as you call it.”
“Well, maybe. But she’s got her career riding on you, so she’s going to give you the utmost care. Really, I mean it.”
Rev could see she was being earnest, but maybe he was a little more cynical about the system. Getting conscripted because of a traffic violation had a way of doing that to a person.
“But you’re still inside the envelope, and we’ll see next week where you’re at,” Fanny said.
“So, I’ll be blessed with your company again?”
“Yes, a week from today. But you’ll have healed a lot by then, so it should be much better next time.”
There’s that “should” again.
“Look, if you have any questions, or if you just want to talk, page me. Just ask for me by name. Day or night.”
“Will do, Miss Fanny d’Tair.”
“So, were you still pleased to meet me?” she asked with a shy smile.
“What?”
“You said you hoped you would have been still pleased to meet me when this was over. After all I put you through, are you still pleased to have met me?”
Rev laughed and said, “Sure, Miss Fanny. You were only doing your job.”
She smiled and said, “Well, then. With that, I’ll take my leave and see you next week.”
“No,” he said, sitting up and reaching with his right hand to stop her cart. She looked back, confused, until he said, “Punch? My AI?”
“Oh, goodness. I’d swear, sometimes I’m such a scatterbrain.”
She pulled out the other cable, jacked him in, and activated the switch.
“You there, Punch?”
Rev was still sore thirty minutes later when the door to his room opened and another person in an isolation suit came in rolling a cart on which was a single metallic case. It didn’t look like some medieval torture contraption, but he eyed it warily.
“Good afternoon, Sergeant Pelletier. I’m HM1 Grigori Tannebaum. How’re you feeling?”
A Navy first class petty officer? The thought that the corpsman was a brother-in-arms made him feel a bit more comfortable. He knew the civilians working on him probably had advanced degrees out the ass, but there was something to be said about the military family.
“I’m doing OK, considering.”
“Those tests you just had, were they as bad as we were briefed?” he asked in a soft hush as if not wanting to be overheard.
“If you consider having your body on fire is bad, then yeah, I’d have to say so.”
The corpsman shook his head and said, “Sorry, man. That sucks. But I’m here for your prosthesis selection, so I promise, no pain.”
“Selection? I thought they were going to give me some sort of weapons system, and you’re here for my prosthesis selection?”
“Oh, I don’t have anything to do with that stuff. Way above my paygrade and security clearance. I’m here for your social arm.”
“My what?”
“You know, your social arm. What you wear in public.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“Sure. You’ve seen Hari Jam on the holovids, right? And his lock-picking hand?”
“Well, yeah. But that’s just a holovid, not real life.”
“Sure, it is. Maybe not Hari’s hand, true, but some people do get specialized attachments. Those would be their work hands. When they’re done, they attach a human-functioning hand. Same thing here. And in your case, you’re getting a complete social arm. I mean, we can’t have you wandering around out in the ville with a freakin’ weapon hanging off your shoulder, right?” he asked, laughing at himself for even bringing up the idea. “It would freak out the leeches. They’d think the Genesians are invading.”
Rev frowned. He would still have his face, not the robotic-looking faces of those poor souls. Still, even if joking, the HM1 reminded him of the connection to the old boogiemen that already made him feel uncomfortable.
“Now, when all of this is over, you can go through regen if you want, but until then, let me show you what we’ve got,” the corpsman said, not catching Rev’s unease.
He opened the case, revealing two arms. One looked surprisingly like an organic human arm. Rev didn’t think he’d be able to tell the difference if he saw someone with such an arm walking down the street.
The second one had the same silver-colored metallic surface that Mr. Oliva had for his legs and Gunny Thapa had for his arm. What most military folks seem to choose.
Tannebaum pulled out the human-looking arm first, slightly grossing Rev out as he flipped it back and forth. He had to remind himself that wasn’t a severed human arm there.
“This is the Hotchkins TC-400,” the corpsman said with obvious pride. “The best on the market. Better tactile discernment, finer micro-motor capabilities, better pain feedback than the old Hyun-Parks that we used to have. These can do more than your real arm. With these bad boys, most folks don’t want to go through the time and suffering for regen.”
Rev got the impression that HM1 Tannebaum might be happy amputating his organic arms and replacing them with the TC-400s.
“You said pain feedback?”
“Yeah. Pain is nature’s quit-what-you’re-doing signal. You can damage your prosthesis if you’re not careful. The pain feedback is there so you are careful.”
That kinda sucks. A mechanical arm, and I can still get hurt?
“But this baby, it’s top-of-the-line.”
“What about that other one, the silver arm.”
The HM1 frowned, put the human-looking arm back, and removed the metallic one. “This is the Rycroft Industries’ arm. Not a bad arm, all things considering. Cheaper than the Hotchkins, so between you and me, I think that’s why we still have it.”
Rev held out his right arm, and Tannebaum handed it over.
The arm was surprisingly light, and while it was sheathed in metallic plates, he could see connector cables through the gaps at the elbow joint. He turned it around to look at the upper fitting. It was far simpler than he expected. Instead of a mass of connectors, there was one that looked pretty much like his jack.
“And I just jam that thing into my s
leeve when I’m done blowing things up?”
“Not really. If it were like for everyone else, yes. A person can take theirs on or off. But in your case, the weapons arm has far more connectors and anchor points, at least from what I understand. But I do know you’re going to need a tech to do it until they design one of the applicators like for the mech Marines.”
“So, any time I need to go out and about, I have to have help?”
“Like I said, I don’t know for sure, but that’s how I understand it.”
He rotated the arm around and examined it. “So, compared to the other one, the Hotchkins . . .” He was going to ask which one was better, but he already knew what the HM1 would say, so he changed mid-sentence to, “. . . what are the differences as far as capabilities. What can I do with it that I can’t do with this one?”
“Well, it isn’t what you can and can’t do. They’re both pretty much the same. The Hotchkins will have the better tactile discernment, like I said.”
“Which means what as a practical matter?”
HMQ Tannenbaum shrugged. “Well, not much. Maybe feel slight variations better, but not so you’d notice.”
“Which is stronger?”
“If you mean stronger as in how much you can lift, both are limited so as not to damage your support framework. If you mean which can take more punishment, I’d have to say the Rycroft. There’s no pseudo-skin to tear.”
Rev nodded, and the HM1 must have noticed it because he hurriedly added, “The Hotchkins keeps its skin at 98.7 degrees Fahrenheit.”
“Is that important?”
“Well, yeah. When you shake someone’s hand, it’ll feel to them like a real hand. You don’t want them to know it’s a prosthesis, right?”
He smiled as if he knew he’d just locked up Rev’s decision, but Rev was taken aback. Why would he try to hide the fact that he’d lost an arm? Was there something shameful about that?
He looked at the sleeve covering his stump. He’d lost his arm in the service of others. Kat was alive because of his actions, and in his mind, the life of a small girl was worth more than a mere arm.
He thought about how Mr. Oliva and Gunny Thapa wore their metallic limbs almost as a badge of honor. There was Colonel Destafney with his Phantom of the Opera face and the Marine Corps anchor and crossed swords implanted onto his biosynth eye. Rev’s first commander at recruit training, Major Singh, had gone with a metallic hand.
