When Logan woke, he lay in a comfortable bed in a white hospital room. An IV snaked its way from beside his bed, going with the curve of the sheets and sticking into his forearm. His first thought was that of sharp pain in his right shoulder. The pain was so potent it masked any other damage to his body, which could have been extensive and he wouldn’t have known it.
Logan tried to sit up but failed. His neck was in a brace, preventing him from turning to view the severity of his damaged arm. As though on cue, a wall screen jumped to life and projected a middle-aged Middle-Eastern man with a smug smile across his face.
“Good morning, Sergeant Martel,” an off-human voice said. “Your doctor will be with you shortly, but I can answer a number of questions you might have. Please bear in mind, my programming is limited.”
Logan let out a raspy cough, and then asked, “Where am I? What happened?”
“You are at Ramstein Air Base in Germany. Due to classification levels beyond my programming, I cannot access the files related to your injury.”
“How can you answer my questions if you don’t have the clearance?” Logan asked gruffly, growing frustrated.
“Please rephrase the question. Please bear in mind, my programming is limited.”
“Get my doctor,” Logan’s voice scraped out. “I want to speak to a human.”
“Your doctor will be with you shortly, but I can answer a number of questions you might have.”
Logan couldn’t stand rudimentary computers. His unit was equipped with the latest in gear and bots, but most of the rest of the military still used outdated materials masquerading as artificial intelligence or high-tech equipment. Regardless of how many toys he was able to play with due to his job, he still valued human relationships and preferred a face-to-face encounter to a computerized one.
Logan realized that this was the first time in months he wasn’t wearing his contacts. He didn’t need them to see, but they kept him connected to the internet and they provided him with timely information on all of his surroundings. Everything from an extensive translator to reading the bio signs of someone standing in front of him; Logan hadn’t been without this information for so long he wasn’t sure he’d be able to operate without it.
The door opened, ruining his train of thought, and a doctor identical to the one on the wall screen walked in. He moved his aging body with purpose toward the bed. Taking into account the latest procedures to defy age, he guessed his doctor was in his seventies, though he looked forty. Without saying a word, he opened Logan’s electronic chart and made several notes on the screen. He hated when doctors made notes without him knowing what they were writing. They could be saying he was a fruit and he would be none the wiser.
“It appears you are healing nicely, Sergeant Martel. I’m Doctor Farid Moradi,” the doctor said jovially.
“What happened?”
“After your little fall, the medevac team was able to salvage your life,” he replied, then continued in a muted tone, “Colonel Schneider has permitted me to tell you that Private Parker called in a cancel code, apparently under duress. The medevac was sent in to recover the injured while another squad began pursuit of your target. Whatever was in the warehouse was later destroyed. There still is no sign of the three new recruits to your team. There will be an investigation I’m sure. If there was a breach, well, you shouldn’t worry about that right now.
“From a medical standpoint, your recovery is going well. There’s no doubt in my mind you could return to Active Duty one day if that is your wish.”
“How bad…is it?” Logan choked out.
The doctor put the chart down on the foot of the bed and retrieved a small hand mirror from the counter, handing it to Logan.
“Please keep an open mind,” the doctor said. “It’s not as bad as it might seem.”
Logan lifted the mirror with his good hand and brought it up to his face. Besides a few bruises and cuts he looked fine. He moved the mirror out to get a broader view. Logan’s right arm had been replaced with a robotic replica of his left. Part of his left thigh and lower leg bore the same marks of metallic wonder. Questions raced through his mind as fast as the jolts of pain he felt when his brain realized his arm wasn’t his only injury.
“As you can see, we replaced your right arm, sections of your left leg, and you’ll notice cuts along your midsection. We had to replace several of your ribs with a composite material. I assure you, the antibiotics prevented any infection and your body appears to be accepting the implants with great success.”
Logan trembled as the doctor spoke. One thought kept bubbling to the surface until it could no longer be ignored.
“Why can’t I move?”
“Right, we had to replace a few vertebrae as well and we had to wait until you were awake to try them out.”
“Try them out?”
“Well, we have to turn you on, in a manner of speaking.”
The doctor leaned Logan’s head forward a few inches and pushed a notch that Logan knew had not been there before. He felt a surge throughout his spine as pain flooded his neurons. Memories came flooding back to him of sharp surgical tools spinning and cutting as the arm was grafted onto his body. The surgeon looked determined, as though his greatest creation lay on the table in front of him.
Logan tried to move his arm. Gears churned and the mechanical inner workings of his new limb brought his ersatz hand close to his face. Logan made a fist and was surprised at how lifelike it was, despite being pewter in hue.
There was a clunking sound coming from inside his body. It was strange, but he could swear he smelled hot solder. Logan coughed up several droplets of blood. He could feel the power draining from his fist as his mechanical arm slowly lowered to the mattress. Logan could no longer move the arm and panic began to set in. He would be a vegetable for life. Is this what it had come down to? Without technology he wouldn’t be able to move at all. Without robotics, he would lose the ability to live a normal human life. When did humanity become so dependent on technology? Logan wished he had his contact lenses to tell him the answer.
The doctor sighed and said, “It appears there was a short somewhere. Not to worry, a short trip to surgery and we can fix you right up. I think the problem is we grafted metal in with the original spine. Perhaps we should replace the whole thing. What do you think Sergeant Martel?”
Logan attempted to speak but his voice caught on itself, no words escaping.
“Perhaps I’ll take a look at your trachea as well. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Are you ready for surgery?”
Logan’s eyes closed as tears gushed through the corners like water breaking through a levy. He didn’t have the power to open them again.
He could hear the doctor say, “I guess we’ll go with yes.”
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Trevor Schmidt
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Replica: A Short Story Page 3