Sherrie Tenderfoot holds his hand to her cheek then pulls it away. “This was part of the deal, Ty. We’ve known this was a short term thing from the beginning.”
“This is not how it’s supposed to happen. You’ve barely—” He stops speaking, but the flush of coloration tells the story of his low happiness level with the situation.
I have a sympathetic drop in happiness to four simply observing it. I shift closer to the bed, anxious to begin diagnosis and treatment.
Tyrus Ariel Jackson sits straighter. “This med bot has a new treatment for you.”
“I thought we had exhausted all the—”
“This is something new,” he interrupts her. “Something different. Something… I had to make special arrangements for.”
Sherrie Tenderfoot glances at me, and the small black case in my hands. “We talked about this. I don’t want you risking your position—”
“I’m not,” he cuts her off again. “I promise. This is something a friend of mine developed for cases just like yours. It’s an experimental drug that stays within the parameters of the laws for legacies. My friend believes it might disable the virus that’s attacking your system.”
She gives him a skeptical look. “You’re sure this isn’t putting your project in jeopardy?”
I am uncertain as well. Tyrus Ariel Jackson’s coloration has gone static—the constant swirls and changes in hue no longer indicate his mood, so I am unable to determine if he is telling Sherri Tenderfoot the truth. It’s very possible my ascender master would lie about the cost to himself in obtaining this new treatment. However, the process by which it was obtained is not my concern—only that it is an effective treatment for Sherrie Tenderfoot. And my ascender master must believe it has a good chance for a positive outcome: his love for my patient master is clear.
“I promise,” he says. “You’re not the first legacy to be in this position. Please, just give it a try.”
She smiles again. “All right.”
I step forward, set the medication case next to the bed, and initiate my rapport sequence. I am not gendered, but my humanoid form can be interpreted as either male or female. I will select a voice pattern that genders in a way which will put my patient most at ease. Sherrie Tenderfoot is a young female who already has a male presence providing sympathetic care, so I choose an older female voice.
“Hello,” I say, my female voice simulation soft and low. “I will administer your new course of treatment, but first I must run a diagnostic to assess your current health status. May I initiate a scan?”
“Yes, proceed,” she says as she leans back into the pillow. I am clearly not the first med bot she has had interaction with. Her file concurs that she has received her previous courses of treatment at Life Hope Hospital.
I float my hands above her body, scanning the length of it. I keep a half meter of distance between us, a balance between my human master’s comfort with the procedure and my sensor range. While that data streams in, I observe my patient. Her hair is limp, her muscle tone slack, and the gray pallor of her skin is consistent across her extremities, although on closer inspection, there is a mild flush in her cheeks along with detectable perspiration. Her temperature is elevated due to the infection but not in danger of adversely affecting brain function. However, her demeanor indicates the possibility of depression or physical discomfort.
I do not experience pain or discomfort myself, although some modes are less preferred: waiting, routine system checks, and the servicing that comes once every thirty days. These drop my happiness level, but I recognize that they are not the same as the feeling that makes Sherrie Tenderfoot squint.
“Are you in pain?” I query. “I can offer relief of several different types. Please tell me the truth so that I may assist you.”
“Just the usual: aches, weariness, like I might cough up a lung at any minute.”
“Hopefully, that will not be necessary.”
She laughs.
My happiness level jumps back to seven. Humor is a proven therapy that can influence immunoresponse, and I deploy it when there is a high probability of appropriate response for sympathetic care. But I am eager to start the true therapy that my ascender master has gained for his beloved patron at apparent possible cost to his ranking in Orion. This is a noble purpose, a sign of his love for her, not unlike my own purpose and love for my masters. My sympathetic identification with my ascender master increases my happiness to 7.5.
My scans show that Sherrie Tenderfoot’s immune system has been severely compromised by the treatments she has endured. The lymphoma has been substantially diminished, but an opportunistic infection in her lungs presents an urgent danger to her life. The infection is a class-1 type, resistant to standard non-genetic-based anti-bacterial and anti-viral treatments. Genetic therapies exist to combat class-1 viruses, but they are also restricted to persons above my sentience level.
My diagnosis is consistent with the patient file, I transmit to Tyrus Ariel Jackson. The infection in her lungs is the main concern. If your new treatment has anti-viral properties as you suggest, there is a possibility that restoration is possible.
He has retreated to the door of Sherrie Tenderfoot’s room, but he is still within transmission range. He does not respond immediately.
After a moment: Administer the medication. Then he leaves the room.
My hands still hover over Sherrie Tenderfoot—she likely believes I am still conducting her exam. I lower them and retrieve two monitor patches from the compartment in my forearm.
“I will need to install these, one at your temple, the other on your chest. They will monitor your internal signs as we progress through the new treatment. Do I have your permission?”
“Go ahead.” She waits patiently as I place the patches. They adhere, painlessly infusing her with a local anesthetic while simultaneously drawing minute quantities of blood and other fluids to process.
When I have finished, she peers around my body to look for her patron, but he is already gone.
To me, she says in a low voice, “What is the true probability this treatment will work?”
“I do not know.”
She slumps back into the bed, and my happiness level drops to six with her drawn down facial expression.
“The drug is experimental in nature,” I say quickly to rebuild her confidence.
She looks back to me.
“And your patron clearly loves you.”
She smiles but ducks her head, trying to hide it. I do not understand this. It appears Sherrie Tenderfoot loves her patron as well. I search the common knowledge database and find there is a social stigma in the legacy human population attached to relationships between legacies and ascenders.
I do not mention this.
Instead, I deepen my female-gendered voice to convey compassion and honesty. “If your patron wishes for you to try this course of treatment, I am sure it is because he believes there is a substantial possibility for recovery.”
She nods. I believe this is a true statement, and I am relieved I do not have to lie to my patient master, given that her patron has already revealed the unconventional source of her medication.
“There are two courses to the treatment,” I say. “Please make yourself comfortable while I administer it.”
She settles into the headrest, and I pick up the black case. Inside are two med patches with less than ten milliliters of pinkish fluid. I place one near a vein on her arm and transmit the dosage instructions to the processor in the patch.
“This will dispense over the course of an hour,” I say. “Please rest during that time. Food is contra-indicated, but you may have something to drink. Or a sedative, if you wish to sleep.”
“I’m fine.” She closes her eyes. “I’ll just rest while it works.”
Since my patient already appears halfway to unconsciousness, which would be the best state for her, I do not reply. I instruct the household bot to lower the bedroom lights again. I observe the dosage pa
tch for a moment to ensure that dispensation is proceeding according to the instructions then retreat from the bed to a corner of the room where the windows are dialed down. My patient masters do not mind my presence in the room as long as I am near-dormant: silent and immobile.
I wait.
Sherrie Tenderfoot shifts repeatedly in her bed, but her breathing patterns indicate light sleep. Tyrus Ariel Jackson returns to the room twice but remains at the door, watching her sleep, then leaves. I restrain myself from making an additional scan of Sherrie Tenderfoot while she is sleeping—I will wait until the first course of treatment is complete before checking for possible signs of improvement. The monitor patches relay information, but it is merely vital signs, blood sugar, and standard hormone levels. Her temperature has dropped two degrees since treatment has initiated, an encouraging sign.
I wait.
Waiting is not my preferred mode.
An hour passes.
At the end of the treatment, I instruct the household bot to raise the lights. I open and close several low cabinets on the far side of the room, careful to make small sounds before I approach my patient again. Previous experience has shown that startling a patient awake has adverse, if temporary, effects on blood pressure, heart rate, and stress hormone level.
When I finally reach the bed, Sherrie Tenderfoot is blinking and rousing from her sleep. I observe my patient: her pallor has improved. The prior flush in her cheeks has subsided. My happiness rises to eight.
She rubs her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I guess I fell asleep.”
I raise my hands, wait for her nod of permission, then scan her body while I query her. “How do you feel?”
“Better,” she says with a smile. “Stronger, definitely. Could it work that quickly?”
“It is certainly possible for the anti-viral agents in the treatment to begin disabling the virus in your body as soon as they make contact,” I say. But my scans are showing the opposite: while Sherrie Tenderfoot’s temperature has lowered, her viral vector count has increased, and her already-low antibody count has nearly fallen to zero.
“Your temperature has lowered,” I say, starting a second scan while running a simultaneous internal system check. Perhaps my own systems are malfunctioning.
“That’s a good sign, isn’t it?” She takes a deep breath. “I feel better, too. Maybe I could get up for a little bit? Walk around?”
“Rest is still indicated at this point in the treatment.”
“All right.”
The second scan shows that the virus has continued to grow unchecked, in spite of the apparent improvement in my patient’s affect. In fact, I am finding no new vectors in her lungs that would indicate the anti-viral properties of the treatment have reached that location. Nor do I find anti-viral factors anywhere in her body.
I do not understand what is happening.
I pick up the black case, which holds the second dose of the treatment, and perform a scan of the pinkish liquid inside.
Glucose and water.
I run the scan three more times, but the result refuses to change.
There is no medicine.
Tyrus Ariel Jackson appears in the doorway and knocks lightly on the door. “How’s it going in here?” he asks while striding into the room.
“I feel better,” Sherrie Tenderfoot says with a smile, trying to sit up. I automatically instruct the bed to adjust. “Not so feverish and achy any more. It must be doing something.”
“That’s wonderful.” Tyrus Ariel Jackson smiles and takes her hand.
My hand is still running a continuous loop analysis of the illicit treatment that my ascender master has obtained, which in actuality contains no medication whatsoever.
I do not understand why he has done this, what possible benefit—my diagnostic subroutine returns the answer, unbidden: placebo effect.
My ascender master wishes for me to lie to my patient master, but the lie is not the source of the medicine. The medicine itself is the lie.
Placebo effect. My internal medical knowledge database has documented cases where immune function has been enhanced by the patient’s belief systems, including belief in a non-medically-active cure. The effect is not generally strong but can be the deciding factor in some cases.
“Is it time for the second dose, then?” Sherrie Tenderfoot asks. It is unclear if she is querying me or Tyrus Ariel Jackson. He smiles at her then looks to me.
You are hoping the placebo effect will boost her immune system, I transmit to him.
Administer the second dose, he instructs me with a smile.
If I comply, I will be knowingly lying to my patient master. But the only medicine I have for her is, in fact, the lie.
This drops my happiness level to three.
I say to Sherrie Tenderfoot, “If you are feeling better, then it would be best to administer the second dose immediately following the first.”
She smiles and nods, offering up her arm, which still has the first patch adhered to it. I remove the second patch from the black case and adhere it while Sherrie Tenderfoot watches with keen interest.
You must tell her it will work, Tyrus Ariel Jackson transmits to me.
“This will take another hour to administer, but I believe the effect of the second dose should build upon the first.”
My happiness level drops to two.
Sherrie Tenderfoot’s smile grows. “Should I rest, like the first time?”
“I believe that would be best.” I look away from her joyful facial expression and spend five full seconds searching for an appropriate storage spot for the now-empty black case. In the end, I leave the case on the table next to her bed. Tyrus Ariel Jackson engages in soft spoken conversation with her, so I turn my back to give them privacy. I move around Sherrie Tenderfoot’s bed, tugging the body-conforming blanket into place, then retreat to the cabinets by the far wall.
My low happiness level has initiated several subroutines which want to start rapid-diagnosis, emergency triage procedures, but these are not warranted for the situation.
I shut them down. I have to allow the medicinal lie time to work.
“I’ll let you rest.” Tyrus Ariel Jackson leans down to kiss Sherrie Tenderfoot’s forehead. I try to find actions which will soothe the urgent need for movement that is being forced by my low-happiness subroutines.
Tyrus Ariel Jackson leaves the room.
I cannot return to the corner of the room to wait—my low level of happiness will not tolerate inaction. I open the cabinets to find bed linens and various low-dosage minor-ailment medications. I arrange the blankets in neat squares and the medications in alphabetical order. When I finish one cabinet, I move on to the next. When I have sorted all three cabinets, I start over with the first one, returning it to its original state. And again. Then twice more.
Sherrie Tenderfoot lets out a deep sigh. I monitor her vital signs from the transmission from the monitor patches. Her temperature is rising. I instruct the household bot to lower the temperature of the room by two more degrees.
I attempt to restrain the subroutines that insist I take action to restore Sherrie Tenderfoot’s health, but my body strides to her bed anyway. She is asleep. Her breathing becomes more wheezy the longer I stand next to the bed. I am wavering between mobilizing all the resources at my disposal to combat the symptoms of her disease—additional oxygen, bronchial stimulants, steroidal injections—and doing nothing.
I do nothing.
This is palliative care. I am not programmed for palliative care. I search the common knowledge database for procedures appropriate for terminal patients. It tells me to comfort the patient and provide pain relief. But she is not in pain and comfort will defeat the one medicine that I have.
The lie.
The conflict makes my body twitch. I shut down my motion subroutines so my patient will not be alarmed if she awakens to find me in this state. I am frozen by her bedside, watching, as her fever worsens and her breathing becomes more labored.<
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My happiness level is 1.5.
I have not experienced this level before without deploying emergency medical procedures. It causes a tension, a misalignment between what I fervently desire to do and what I am physically doing, that feels like it might break me in some way I do not understand. I think this must be the pain my patients describe. Pain is a neural response in the brain caused by a malfunction or danger to the body. It is a signal that something is wrong.
Something is definitely wrong.
With me.
Sherrie Tenderfoot’s breathing transitions from labored to gasping.
My happiness level drops to one. I can no longer suppress my subroutines. My body unlocks, and my hands quickly scan her body. Her lungs have reached a critical buildup of fluid. I continue to scan while mobilizing the respirator stored in my chest compartment. Her heart rate is erratic, so I install a contact-monitor on her chest that will stimulate her heart into sinus rhythm if it should begin to fail. Her temperature is soaring with the infection. One lung collapses, but the other has been respirated in time to continue functioning, with my support. Her heart arrests and is brought back by the contact-stimulator.
I am connected to Sherrie Tenderfoot by no fewer than five different contact points: the respirator intimately entwined with her lungs, the contact-stimulator attached to her chest and tethered to mine, a secondary monitor tube in her arm for continuous blood chemistry analysis, and finally, my hands: one continuously monitors her brain function, while the other scans her body to be attentive to other incipient organ failures due to the diminished oxygen levels in her body.
Sherrie Tenderfoot is dying.
I can keep her alive this way for an extended time: as long as her brain function remains intact. I remain this way for some time. Eventually, my scans show the virus crossing the blood-brain barrier. Once there, it will slowly destroy her brain tissue.
I cannot restore her.
Sherrie Tenderfoot, sentience level 100plus, will die soon, even with my support. Sooner without it. I will keep her alive as long as possible, touching and monitoring and fighting a battle against a virus that I cannot win.
Stories of Singularity #1-4 (Restore, Containment, Defiance, Augment) Page 2
