by Liam Clay
“Yes please.”
“Thank you. The grafts were then connected to electrodes embedded in the socket you now see. Once I attach your prosthetic, these electrodes will link with its processing core, allowing you to control it with brain impulses.” She pauses. “This technique is not new, but the prosthetic processor is a cutting edge prototype. You are very lucky to be receiving it.”
“And why am I? Receiving it, I mean.”
“Partly because you will need it to carry out your new duties. But mostly because clients like to see human trial data before they place orders for our merchandise.”
“Now that, I can believe. Are you guys always this blunt?”
“Confusing language is wasteful, and wastefulness is the enemy of God.”
“Uh... okay. Anyway, you can put my arm on now.”
I'm so distracted by her god comment that I miss the exact moment when she attaches the prosthetic. But now latent synapses are flaring up like the riots I seem to cause so often. This sets off a chain reaction that sets my whole body tingling.
Including my new arm.
I have no sense of control or surface sensation, but what I can feel is indistinguishable from the signals coming from my true body parts. Wow.
I look up at the woman. “You guys may have enslaved me, but honestly? This almost makes up for it.”
She doesn’t smile, but it’s a close thing.
“I'm glad you like it. Acclimatizing to your new limb will not be easy, though. It articulates differently, and is far more powerful than a biological arm. If you aren't careful, you could damage yourself or company resources.”
“Can it be taken off?”
“Yes, but I would not recommend it - especially at first. You will essentially be tricking your brain into believing that your real arm has grown back. Removing the prosthetic will hamper that process.”
And then she leaves me to my own devices. Determined to take things slowly, I focus on making my index finger twitch.
And it does.
Encouraged, I try to bend my thumb, and the robotic digit complies. I have to haul in some deep breaths after that, or risk hyperventilating. When I’ve calmed down a little, I take the major step of lifting my arm completely off the stretcher. The appendage obeys this command too. It feels light as air, and makes no sound at all. Then I bend my elbow... and it all goes off the rails.
Physically, nothing bad happens. The prosthetic's forearm swings outward, and stops abruptly when I command it to. But the angle is one that no human elbow could achieve. It ruins the illusion that this is a real limb, and almost cooks my brain in the process. Every instinct I have is convinced that my arm is horribly broken. The absence of pain only makes the sensation more alien. With a huge effort, I pull back from the precipice. Maybe it’s better to think of the prosthetic as a tool, one that I can learn to use with unconscious skill. Not a part of my body, but an extension of it.
This seems to help. Within a few minutes, my horror has turned into squeamish fascination. I turn the prosthetic this way and that, gauging its full range of movement. Some time later, Bruin is wheeled in next to me. He lived far longer without hands, and so his acclimatization process is slower than mine. But I talk him through it, taking things step by step. And somehow, helping him is good for me too. Within a few hours, both of us are feeling relatively confident on our new tools.
Which isn’t to say that we couldn’t use a few weeks (or months) to let everything sink in. But we are not given that opportunity. A bearded man appears at the foot of our beds, and taps our feet impatiently.
“Get up. I’m taking you to meet your new supervisor.”
I swing my legs over the stretcher and sit up. Bruin does the same, and we stand gingerly. The prosthetic still has no sense of weight to me. But it must be similar to a flesh and blood arm, because I can feel my posture reverting to normal. My hips align, my back straightens, and I shake off a stoop that I hadn’t been consciously aware of.
I hate that I’m already coming to rely on something given to me by an enemy. Also disturbing is the progressive loss of my humanity. But like Delez once told me, human is an arbitrary term. Plus I kind of missed being a super soldier, so fuck it. Raising my prosthetic fist, I bring it crashing down onto the stretcher. The steel frame crumples like cheap plastic. The bearded man looks mildly impressed and fairly annoyed.
“They will add that to your quota, you know.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Now let’s get moving. The supervisor doesn't like to be kept waiting.”
“It would be weird if he did.”
CHAPTER 18
The bearded man leads us through a stretch of blank hallways, and then back onto the main factory floor. Welding sparks fall like stars as we skirt the panel production zone. The supervisor’s office has a window looking out onto the floor. A second window opposite it overlooks a smaller production facility. The bearded man opens the door, and shuts it behind us without entering himself.
The supervisor is a lean wisp of a man. Gray eyed, with skin like old film negative, he seems to float above his seat, like he’s waiting for his paperwork to clear before traveling to the afterlife.
“My name is Simons.” The man says. “I am told that you both received new prosthetics recently. How are you adjusting?”
“Pretty well, thanks.” Bruin replies.
“I’m glad to hear that.” He says, sounding nothing of the kind. Turning in his chair, he surveys the smaller production facility through the window. “Do you know what my team does here?”
“No sir.”
“We manufacture rovers. They are exploration vehicles, designed to endure the harshest of environments. Our clients hire us because they need the best that money can buy. My job is to ensure that we meet - no, exceed - those high standards.”
What the hell. If the Hawks really are building the Null an orbital space station, why would they be making them all-terrain vehicles too? Space stations don't need moon buggies.
“That sounds good, sir.” Bruin says. “I don’t have much experience with that sort of thing, though.”
“I would be surprised if you did. Don’t worry though, your teammates will be responsible for your training. And your quotas will be folded into theirs for the first month, so they will be incentivized to ensure you succeed.”
“And what will my quota be?”
“Your name is Bruin, yes? In your first month, you will be expected to produce work equal to 2,450 rounds in value. He turns to me. “I am told that you broke a stretcher in the recovery ward. That brings your monthly quota to 2,675 rounds.”
“What happens if I don’t meet it?”
“Disciplinary measures will be taken.”
“And if those don’t work?”
“Three consecutive months below quota will result in your termination.” This statement needs no clarification, but Simons provides it anyway. “That means we kill you.”
“Right, got it.”
.
The bearded man is waiting for us outside.
“How did you like the supervisor?” He asks, hiding a smirk.
“A delightful gentleman, robust and full of life.” I reply. “He impressed the benefits of hard work upon us, if you know what I mean. So I'd be keen to get started as soon as possible.”
“No problem. I'm taking you to meet your new line boss now.” He winks. “Just try not to stare too obviously.”
“Got it. So hey, there's something I've been wondering...”
“You want to know if I'm a slave or not?”
“Er, yes?”
“I am, and a damn good one, too. I'd suggest you try to do the same.”
Bruin is making shushing motions at me (he's turning into a real brown noser). But I'm not interested in being a good boy, so I ignore him.
“And what's in it for us if we do?”
“Aside from avoiding the firing squad?”
“Skilled work, private rooms, good food, trips to the entertainment quarter - although those have been suspended while they wait for the slaver crews to come and sort the place out. Should I go on?”
“No, I get the picture thanks. What's your name?”
“You don’t need to know that, because this'll be the last you see of me. I'm a staff liaison between factories. I arrange worker exchanges to meet shifting production demand, stuff like that. Simons just asked me to collect you guys as a favor.”
“Your master asks you for favors?”
“That's right.”
“And what would happen if you said no to him?”
The man rounds on me.
“Listen up, smart guy. I know you're still buzzing from getting your arm back - and try to remember who gave it to you, by the way - but I would reign my tongue in if I was you. I worked hard to earn the life I have, and I'm not going to let some newbie talk down to me because of it.”
“Alright, alright.” I say, holding my hands (both of them!) up in the air. “I'm still getting used to this whole slavery thing, that's all.”
The liaison leaves me alone after that, but I certainly haven’t endeared myself to him. We continue on to a doublewide door, which he pushes open.
“Welcome to your new home.” He says to us. “You'll find your line boss in bunk 285-A.”
We step into a long, high-ceilinged dormitory. The bunks are set widely apart and stacked five high. The bottom beds have the letter A stenciled on them, with B above that and so on. I'm still taking it all in when Bruin grabs my arm. But he doesn't know his own strength yet, and applies far more pressure than necessary. Luckily, he's grabbed my prosthetic and it does no damage.
“Let's get something straight.” He says angrily. “If you can't stop pulling stunts like that, we're going to have to part ways.”
I turn to face him.
“Bruin, we've already been through this. I refuse to accept that slaves should just be happy with their lot. And hell, a few days ago you were almost ready to help me.”
“I know that. But there's refusing to accept slavery, and then there's shitting on the slaves themselves. Which is what you did to that liaison back there.”
“How do you figure?”
“That guy is just trying to take a little dignity where he can find it. If you steal it from him, he'll have nothing left.”
“But it's counterfeit dignity, doled out by Simons in tiny portions. And deep down, I think the liaison knows it.”
“Of course he does! But you're not helping anyone by pointing that out.”
“I disagree. If I have to shame all of you into fighting for yourselves, I will. But like I said, we've already had this conversation, and I think I know what’s causing your sudden change of tune. You've got your hands back now, and all of a sudden revolution doesn't sound so appealing. Tell me I'm wrong.”
“Listen to you, always on about right and wrong. You religious or something?”
“No. But the Hawks are, which proves that you can wrap an ideology around anything. Anyway, I don't feel like doing this with you every few days. So feel free to pretend I don't exist - keeping in mind that we're going to be bunk mates on the same work crew.”
He passes a composite hand over his eyes. “So I'm stuck with you?”
“And vice versa.”
I walk away before he can reply. The bunk numbers rise through the double digits and into the hundreds. About a third of the beds are occupied; everyone else must be out on shift. There is nothing fancy about this place, but it is air conditioned, dry and clean. Maybe Alan was right about the Sun being better than the other factories.
I'm up into the two hundreds now. If this was Opacity, I would be passing movie sets and celebrity homes. A group of people have gathered around stack 285. As I draw closer, my palm starts to sweat. And then I'm rushing forward, prosthetic swinging naturally now that I'm not thinking about it. One of the women in the group turns. I can hear Bruin chasing after me - probably because he thinks I'm about to start a fight. But Tikal is laughing now, and the others are too. They're all here: Francis and Amy and Lucy and Peace. I crash into my girlfriend like a ton of bricks, and we go down together. My friends pile on top of us in a giggling heap. Things get a bit muffled after that, but I distinctly hear Bruin say, “Anex, are you okay under there?”
This makes me laugh even harder. Then I start to squirm. Bodies slew off me until I'm able to sit up.
“Bruin, these are my friends. Friends, this is Bruin. He doesn't like me very much.”
“We completely understand.” Francis says solemnly. “Has he been moping around doubting himself, and telling you what a terrible person he is? Because that's kind of his specialty.”
The big man looks flustered, but he musters a reply.
“Self-doubt? Not even close. The guy is like a bulldozer, flattening everything in his path.”
Francis strokes his chin. “His face does look kind of bulldozerish, now that you mention it.”
“What is this, a roast?” I say with a laugh. And then to Bruin, “Could you give us a few minutes? We have some serious catching up to do.”
“Sure. I'll just go and find our line boss.”
“What bunk were you supposed to report to?” Tikal asks him.
“285-A.”
“Then you've already found her.”
“You hear that?” I say. “My girlfriend’s your new boss! And she’s ordering you to stop being pissed off at me.”
“I gave no such order.” Tikal says smoothly. “But we really could use some time to talk. Bunk 286-C is free; you can crash out there until our shift starts.”
Bruin complies without argument, and we are left alone. Amy jumps up onto a B level bunk. Lucy takes the bed across from her. Peace and Francis sprawl out on the floor between them, and Tikal takes her A level bunk. She beckons me over, but I'm too emotional to join her just yet. If I were to lose them all tomorrow, this would be the thing I miss most. This casual co-existence, this easy trust, is worth more than any prosthetic arm.
“Are you okay?” Lucy asks. “You look a bit ill.”
“That's because he's trying not to cry.” Peace says (quite accurately).
“Only out of half my face, though. The other side has no tear ducts. But I definitely missed you guys.”
Lucy gives me a rare unguarded smile. “We missed you too, Anex. In fact, we were getting ready to break out of here and go looking for you, even though nobody had the slightest idea where to start. Where have you been this whole time?”
“Who cares where he's been?” Francis breaks in. “I want to see him smash something with that kickass new arm!”
“I already did that.” I tell him. “But they just added the repair costs to my quota.”
He winces. “Yeah, you've got to watch out for that sort of thing around here. These guys love to nickel and dime you to death.”
“I can imagine. Is it true they've got you working on all-terrain rovers, though?”
“Yup.”
“Damn it. When I first got here, I was convinced the Null had hired the Hawks to build them a space station.”
“Us too. And we still think the Null are bankrolling this project. But thanks to the rover thing, the jury is out on exactly what the project is.”
“So you don't think they're chasing world domination after all?”
“I wouldn’t say that, necessarily.” Lucy replies. “They might just want to conquer this planet and then some other ones too. Interstellar spaceships would need rovers.”
“But to build a long distance ship, they would need the engine blueprints stored on Balthazar's black box. Are you saying they've found it?”
“No.” Amy replies. “We think the Architect is hoping to locate the black box, and then build the engine herself. The Hawks are making the rest.”
“That all sounds plausible, but there's a lot of guesswork in there.”
Amy s
miles, and I'm struck by how much older she looks - probably 16 or so.
“That would be true, except that we know for a fact that Balthazar still has the black box.”
“How is that possible?”
“Let me back up a little. Did you know there was a spitfire attack on the barge that brought us here?”
“I am acutely aware of that, yes.”
“Okay, and do you know who else used to fly spitfires?”
“Opacity's Regional Defense Corps. But they were disbanded years ago.”
“That's true.” Tikal says, picking up the thread. “But a bunch of RDC pilots stole their planes and fucked off instead of handing them over to Korezon. Pilots like Arella Calendo.”
A puzzle piece snaps into place. “I saw her! At the Outpost, while we were waiting to board the barge. But I never connected her to the attack.”
“Neither did we, so don't feel too bad.”
“Then how did you figure all of this out?”
“Because Calendo has a contact here in the crater. She had him pass us a message, and get this: Balthazar hired her mercenary team to break us out of here! She tried once during the storm, but it didn't work. So now she's planning a second attempt.”
“Are you serious? How does Calendo even know Balthazar?”
“She doesn't. Or at least not before this. But thanks to your feed, Calendo knows that Amy and Balthazar are a couple. And when she saw you at the Outpost, she figured that Amy would be there too. So she went to Balthazar and offered to save the lot of us. For a price, of course.”
“But how did she find Balthazar in the first place?”
This time it's Francis who answers. “Because that woman knows this planet like you know the back of your hand. Your real hand, that is. Not the robot one.”
“Huh. So do you know when Calendo is coming for us?”
“She says that's our call.” He frowns. “You don't seem as happy about this as I thought you'd be.”
“I can't imagine why. Oh wait, maybe it's because Calendo double-crossed me and got me blown up. Or maybe it's because it was her mercenary crew that invaded the Underworld.”