System Update

by Patrick Logan

  Ian opened his mouth and lifted his tongue to indicate to the doctor that the pills had dissolved.

  “Good, now get some sleep.”

  “Doc,” he barely managed to croak, “I want a second opinion.”

  FRIDAY

  Ian had the dream again that night, and like the worst kind of nightmares, it started out as a memory. He was in a hospital only a few years before they had become obsolete. His memory, affected by time and age, made it difficult to remember much about the institution, but the recollection of the awful stench of disease that emanated from the place remained potent. That, and the annoying beeps and blips that seemed to bombard him from every direction.

  He was sitting on a chair next to his mother, who lay on a simple cot, pale and gaunt. His father, standing somewhere behind him, was angry, and when he spoke, he made sure that everyone in the vicinity could hear him.

  “Infection, disease, incompetence,” he was saying. “Did you know that more people die in the hospital than anywhere else?”

  Ian didn’t answer, and his mom slowly turned her head away from her husband. The few wisps of hair that remained on her thin scalp were damp with sweat. Ian leaned forward and offered a cup of water in his outstretched hand. His mother’s lips and tongue searched pathetically for the straw, the chemotherapy-induced cataracts rendering her eyes useless, and when she finally drew liquid into her mouth, her lids closed halfway in what could only be described as ecstasy.

  Somewhere, his father was still talking.

  “I hate this place. I mean, couldn’t they at least give you a private doctor? Or even a private room? A second opinion? This place is—”

  Ian turned to his father and realized that for all the man’s bluster, he was but one thing: scared. As he examined his dad, he realized that the beeping had stopped. His eyes turned skyward for a moment, trying to find the sound again, but when he turned back to his father, he was surprised that his dad was crying.

  Terrified, Ian quickly turned back to look at his mother, but she was no longer there. Instead, another face stared back at him. It was his face he knew well, but it was different; it was older, weathered, like a piece of leather left out in the sun for far too long. And there was pain in that face, more pain then he had ever seen, even when his mother was at her sickest. Startled, he pulled his hands away from the cot and the cup of water fell to the floor. Only, when it struck the ground, it was no longer filled with water; a large gout of red liquid splattered the white tiles—it was filled with blood.

  Ian stood so quickly that his chair toppled behind him, and his eyes darted back to the cot. He was staring at a body—his body—but unlike his mother, who had been wrapped tightly in the generic hospital linens, his body had no such coverings; he was naked, and his abdomen, cut from one side to the other, was pulled open. Inside his body, there were no intestines or ribcage or any other discernible organs. There was only a digital outline of his liver, only now it was completely green—a bright, infectious, lethal green. And there was blood; there was blood everywhere, Ian noticed in horror, soaking the sheets, the bed, and the pillow in a thick, coagulating paste. Ian screamed as loud and as hard as he could, turning to face his father. But it wasn’t his father anymore; it was a man in a white lab coat, a man with thinning brown hair and a thick, oak-colored mustache.

  “Doctor?” he began, but everything started shaking, as if the hospital were being wracked by an earthquake.

  “Mr. Stardon! Mr. Stardon!” he heard someone shout.

  Ian’s eyes snapped open. He was soaked, and for one terrifying moment, he thought he was lying on a hospital bed and the dampness he felt was blood. A quick glance and he realized that he was in his own bed and the wetness was only sweat.

  A young man stood before him, his smooth features knotted in concern. The man was gripping his shoulders tightly and shaking him. Ian shoved him away and pushed himself to a seated position. Out of breath, and still trying to catch his bearings, he managed to croak a few words.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  Relief washed over the young man’s face.

  “I’m sorry—I didn’t want to wake you, but you were screaming.”

  Ian assessed the man and somehow managed to relax when he saw the recognizable yellow gloves that extended to his elbows and the white plasticized smock that covered his body.

  “I am from FeynPharm, picking up the waste from your capsule,” the young man said, holding his hands up defensively. “You—you were shouting something, something that sound like ‘second opinion’.”

  Ian ignored the comment and wiped the sweat from his face with his hand. The man pulled something out of one of his many pockets and held it out so that Ian could see. It was a laminated badge with a large photograph, a name, and the words ‘FeynPharm Inc. Employee’ underneath.

  “Yes, yes,” Ian said, huffing in a few ragged breaths. “Go ahead.”

  The young man nodded and headed to the opposite side of the capsule and continued his business in near silence. From the exterior, the capsule looked strangely like a giant silver bullet that had been decommissioned by carving arched openings on either side. After a few moments, the adrenaline subsided and Ian realized that he was feeling better than the previous day. His head felt more or less normal, and his throat was now just wrapped in a dull ache. But just as his heartrate began to return to normal, he started to recall his dream and his abdomen seized. Then the doctor’s ominous words from the previous day returned as well.

  The metastases are back.

  Ian winced and wrapped his two arms protectively around his midsection. He must have been moaning, too, because when he looked up, the young man was staring at him again.

  “You all right, Mr. Stardon?” the man asked, setting down the large yellow container with an orange biohazard label affixed to the side.

  “I’ll be okay,” Ian answered through gritted teeth. His eyes were inadvertently following the slow sloshing of the offensive liquid in the container—back and forth, back and forth—and he had to force himself to look away to avoid vomiting.

  My blood, he thought, trying to calm himself. My piss.

  “Well you don’t look so good,” the young man continued.

  Ian suddenly wished the man gone. Immediately.

  Let me suffer in peace.

  “Listen,” the man started, his eyes softening.

  Compassion—is that what this is? A final visitor meant to ease me on my way?

  The man pulled off one of his large yellow gloves.

  “I’m not supposed to do this, but there is a new system update for the FeynCap,” he continued, indicating Ian’s capsule with his chin.

  He pulled his plastic smock aside and began reaching into his pocket.

  “Your insurance doesn’t cover the upgrade, but I have a copy here.” He pulled out a small silver chip, roughly the size and shape of a quarter.

  Software? What is he talking about?

  Ian was again struck by a pain in his liver, but this time it was almost unbearable. He grunted and wrapped his arms tighter around himself, effectively curling into a ball. He thought he would piss himself if another wave of pain hit again, and that was the last thing he wanted to do in front of the young technician.

  “Mr. Stardon? You okay?”

  Ian managed a meek nod.

  Go away.

  “Well, I can give it to you for free, Mr. Stardon—I won’t charge you anything. Just make sure when they ask you about the service, you say I did a good job, okay?”

  The young man’s eyebrows raised slightly.

  “Fine,” Ian managed.

  Whatever. Just leave.

  “Okay, Mr. Stardon. It will only take a moment.”

  Ian looked away, still cringing, expecting another wave of pain to overcome him at any moment. He closed his eyes tightly, but when the pain didn’t come, he managed to loosen his grip on his torso. When he opened his eyes again, the man in the white apron was gone. />
  Cautiously, half expecting to collapse in pain again, he turned, lowered his legs off the bed, and slowly dragged himself into the capsule. Crawling, he pulled himself onto the bench.

  He sat there for a good minute, waiting for the pain to come back, preparing to curl back into the fetal position.

  At least in here, I’m safe—in here, my pain is normal.

  When the pain didn’t return, he unclenched his eyelids and cautiously turned them up to the center monitor.

  The doctor stared back at him, but it was a different face this time, and definitely not his doctor: the mustache was gone and the person on the monitor was younger, with medium-length blond hair. The eyes, however—those damn affected hazel eyes—were the same.

  When this new doctor smiled and spoke, he did so in the very same voice Ian had heard every morning for the past six years.

  “Good morning, Ian.”

  END

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