Revolution 19

by Gregg Rosenblum

  Cass jerked her arm away, but then after a moment she relaxed and said, “Thank you.”

  “So,” Farryn said hesitantly, “are we still on with the chips?”

  “We didn’t show up just to say hello,” said Lexi.

  “Actually, you didn’t say hello at all,” said Farryn, leading them to the garage.

  He turned to them as they stood outside the entrance. “Listen, don’t worry about Doc. He may seem a bit off, but he really does know what he’s doing, I promise. And he hates the bots as much as I do.”

  They went inside. Doc was waiting for them, sitting sideways on a scoot. He stood up and clapped his hands. “Finally, my victims!”

  To Cass he looked like a fat middle-aged former weightlifter, short and squat, with a huge chest and big belly and thick forearms covered with black hair. He was bald, but had a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a white smock that came down to just above his knees, and his lower legs were bare and covered with the same thatch of thick curly black hair as his arms. He pointed at a wooden worktable, draped with a white tablecloth. At the far end of the table, on a towel, gleamed a few instruments—a scalpel, two small square objects that must have been the dummy chips, a cup, and several other items whose purpose wasn’t readily apparent.

  “Who’s first?” he said. He picked up the cup, took a long sip, and grimaced. “Whoo, good stuff,” he said.

  “My finest homebrew,” said Farryn.

  “Um, sorry, uh, Mr. Doc …” began Cass.

  “Just Doc,” he said.

  “Doc,” said Cass, “are you drinking?”

  “Yup,” he said. “Steadies the hands.” He held his hands out in front of him, and they did, in fact, seem perfectly still. “Come on now, someone needs to get on my table.”

  Cass looked at Farryn dubiously. “Don’t worry,” he said.

  “Right, what’s there possibly to worry about?” she said. “Just some surgery in the garage with a drunk doctor.”

  “Little miss,” said Doc, pointing a finger at Cass, “I’m drinking. I’m not drunk. There’s a difference.” He took another sip from the cup. “But in another ten minutes or so, that might change, so you should stop stalling.”

  “Okay, fine, let’s get this over with,” said Cass. She walked toward the table, but Kevin grabbed her shoulder and stopped her.

  “No,” he said. “Let me go first. I’ll find out if it’s safe.”

  Cass bit back an annoyed retort. After seeing Nick taken away, he needed to feel brave, she realized. So even though the last thing she would normally put up with was her little brother trying to take care of her, she just nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be right here. Good luck.”

  Doc set his drink down on the floor under the table. He held up one of his tools, a small black canister. “Topical anesthetic. You won’t feel a thing. Shirt off, and lie down face first on the table, please.”

  Kevin slipped off his shirt, handed it to Cass, then lay down on the table.

  “Any last words?” said Doc. “Joking. All right, here we go.” He laid a towel on each side of Kevin’s neck and draped a third across his shoulders. “First, disinfectant. This’ll be cold.” He swabbed Kevin’s neck with a clear liquid. Kevin winced then gritted his teeth and laid still.

  “Now, the anesthetic.” Doc held another towel between Kevin’s neck and face, then sprayed a thin mist from the black canister. He waited a moment, then touched Kevin’s neck with the bottom of the canister. “Feel anything?” he said.

  “No,” said Kevin.

  “Few more seconds and we can get started,” said Doc. “Need to let the anesthetic dissipate from the skin surface a bit more, otherwise I’ll be chopping away at you with numb fingers.” He bent down and took another sip of his drink. “Okay, now listen up, before I begin,” he said. “This’ll be quick, but once I start you DO NOT MOVE OR TALK until I say it’s okay, you got that?”

  “Got it,” said Kevin.

  “I’m not going in deep, just under the fat layer, but I’m right at the cervical spine, and not far from some important blood vessels, so any movement could be very bad, understand?”

  “Yes, okay,” said Kevin.

  “This garage could be on fire, and if I don’t say it’s okay, you don’t move.”

  “All right, I get it! I won’t move.”

  Something began beeping loudly, and Kevin turned his head to see what it was.

  “I said don’t move!” said Doc.

  “Sorry,” said Kevin. “What is that?”

  Farryn picked up his tracking device and frowned. He tapped on it a few times and the beeping stopped. “Rust,” he said. “Bad news. My father’s on the move. Heading home.”

  “How much time do we have?” said Cass.

  “Maybe fifteen minutes,” said Farryn. “You’d better go.”

  “Doc, is that enough time for two chips?” said Cass.

  “Probably,” said Doc. “But I’ve never done this before, so who knows?”

  “You should leave,” said Farryn. “We can do this another time.”

  “Start cutting,” said Cass to Doc. She turned to Farryn. “We don’t have time to waste.”

  Doc looked at Cass, then Farryn.

  “Go on!” said Cass.

  Doc shrugged. “Okeydokey, then. Here we go.” He picked up the scalpel and carefully made a small incision in the middle of Kevin’s neck. Blood seeped out, down both sides of his neck onto the towels. Cass winced. Farryn looked away, suddenly interested in the far wall.

  Doc picked up one of the chips with a small pair of tongs, lifted the neck skin up away from the incision with another tong, and began slowly sliding the chip into place. “You’ll be feeling a bit of jostling,” he said. “No moving, no talking.” He nudged the chip in a bit further. “Needs to be sitting just right,” he muttered. “There we go.”

  He released the chip, let the skin flap settle back down onto the neck, and then ran another tool—it looked like a thick pencil, with a blunt square tip—over the incision. He dabbed away the blood with a towel, and the incision was closed. Only a faint pink scar line was visible.

  “Done,” he said, clapping his hands together. He picked up his drink. Kevin didn’t move. “You can get up now, kid,” he said, then took a sip.

  “ETA ten minutes,” said Farryn, watching his tracker. “Keep it moving.”

  Kevin sat up, and Cass handed him his shirt. “You okay?” she said.

  “Yeah, no problem,” he said. He began to reach back to his neck, but Doc leaned over and slapped his hand away.

  “Give it a few minutes,” he said. “It should be seated fine, but we don’t need you pushing it out of alignment. Ten minutes, and the tissue should be fully resealed around the chip.”

  He turned to Cass. “All right, shirt off, on the table.”

  Cass glanced at Farryn and hated herself for it. She was wearing a bra; there’d be nothing to see …

  “Farryn, turn around,” said Lexi.

  Farryn held his hands up. “We’re all mature, here, right? I’ve seen a girl’s back before.”

  “Turn around,” repeated Lexi. “Doing you a favor, anyway. You almost passed out with the first drop of Kevin’s blood.”

  Farryn frowned. “Okay, okay,” he said. He turned and faced the wall. “Good luck, Cass.”

  Cass took off her shirt and handed it to Lexi, whispered “Thank you,” then laid on the table. She received the same lecture—no moving, no talking—and up close to the Doc now, she could smell the alcohol on his breath.

  Doc repeated the procedure, and five minutes later he was done. Cass sat up and reflexively reached for her neck, and just like with Kevin, he swatted her hand away. “Sorry,” she said. “Forgot.”

  Doc lifted his cup and saluted them. “Congratulations,” he said. “You’re chipped. Dummy chipped, at least.” He finished his drink and set it down hard on the table.

  “Rust!” said Farryn, holding up his tracker. “He’s here.” H
e tapped his comm, and the garage door slid open silently. “Everyone out, now.” He looked at Cass and pulled the piece of paper with her stick figure on it from his pocket. “Don’t forget our I.O.U.”

  They heard the front door open, then slam closed. Farryn went inside, and they all hurried out into the night.

  CHAPTER 19

  NICK OPENED HIS EYES AND STARED AT A WHITE CEILING. HE COULDN’T move, couldn’t even look to his left or right; he was dizzy and nauseated, and every inch of his body hurt. It felt like he had been run over by a wagon—his muscles ached and throbbed, and he doubted he could even lift his hand he was so weak. His shoulder, where the Petey had touched him, burned like it was on fire. After a few minutes his head cleared a bit, and it suddenly registered that he was naked, and cold, and lying on a metal table with nothing but a thin pillow under his neck.

  He rolled onto his side, slowly, groaning. He put his hand on the table, took a deep breath, braced himself, then with a grunt of pain and effort managed to push himself upright into a sitting position. The room he was in was small, ten feet by ten feet. The walls and ceiling were blinding white, the floor a gray metallic tile. There were no windows, just a door with no visible handle. Nick felt a momentary rise of panic.

  “It’s all part of the plan,” he said out loud. “Just keep it together.” Wonderful, he thought. I’ve been locked up for five minutes and I’m already talking to myself.

  The only furnishings in the room were the freezing cold table, a small gray chair, an empty shelf, a toilet in the corner, and a black vid screen on the wall next to the door. On the chair was a gray jumpsuit and a pair of sandals. He felt a rush of satisfaction—it was the same type of jumpsuit he had seen the prisoners wearing the other day.

  Nick stood gingerly, keeping his hand on the table a few moments to make sure he wasn’t going to pass out or throw up, and then shuffled like an old man to the chair. With his bad wrist on one arm and the blistered shoulder on the other, he could barely even pick up the clothing. He sat down in the chair and slowly, carefully, managed to step into the jumpsuit, zip it up, and slip on the sandals. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily from the effort.

  He heard a soft click, then felt a gentle whir of air, and he opened his eyes and scrambled painfully to his feet. The doorway was open, and in the entrance stood a bot, different from any Nick had seen. It was shaped like a small person, about five feet tall, with slender limbs that seemed too long for the small torso. The fingers were elongated and graceful. The surface of the bot wasn’t metal—it seemed softer—but it wasn’t quite flesh either. More like a dull plastic. It was a too-pale white, the same color as the walls, like the belly of a fish. Atop a long neck, again, almost humanlike but just a bit too long, rested the bot’s head. It was the same pale plastic-flesh as the rest of the body, but colored black on the top and sides, almost like crew-cut hair. And the face—Nick forced himself not to shudder as he and the bot looked at each other. The bot had eyes, strikingly human, with deep green irises, but no eyelashes or eyebrows. Two small slits approximated nostrils, and for a mouth the bot had two thin gray lips locked in place. The face was smooth, frozen.

  The bot raised its slender arm and pointed at the wall vid. “Watch,” it said, in a calm male voice. The sound came from the bot’s mouth, but nothing on the face moved. “Pay careful attention.”

  Nick bit back a sarcastic reply. Now was not the time. Like Mrs. Tanner had said, you had to choose your battles wisely in re-education. He had to focus if he wanted any chance of freeing his parents—and making it out himself.

  The screen flashed white and then a figure appeared, sitting at a wood desk, hands clasped together in front of him. A disturbingly human-looking bot, but still, a bot. The face looked so nearly normal, with proper musculature and cheekbones, proper eyes, mouth, nose, ears, but the features were just a touch too symmetrical and just a bit undefined—like a statue done by a sculptor who didn’t quite have the skill to finish the features realistically. It was bald, and the skin was the same unnatural shade of fish-belly white as the bot in the doorway.

  “Greetings, future Citizen,” the bot said in a smooth tenor voice, the face moving in a perfectly human way when it spoke. “I am the Senior Advisor, responsible for the management of the ongoing Great Intervention designed to protect humankind from itself. You have been selected to participate in an educational program to help you properly acclimate to the new cooperative societal structure.” The bot held its hands, body, and head perfectly still as it spoke; only its lips moved. “The machine Citizen with you is one of the Lecturers whose design purpose is to manage your education. Listen carefully to every lesson presented by the Lecturers. Cooperate fully. Most students are allowed to leave this facility and join our new society as useful, contributing members. We sincerely desire this outcome for every participant in our educational program; however, the ultimate responsibility for a positive outcome is in your hands. Cooperate and learn, and you will succeed.” The screen went black.

  “Student,” said the Lecturer, “what two things, according to the Senior Advisor, are required of you in order to succeed?”

  Nick wasn’t expecting to be quizzed and found himself flustered. “Uh …”

  “Student,” said the Lecturer again, “the Senior Advisor’s message will now be repeated. Watch. Pay careful attention. The message will not be repeated a third time.”

  The screen came back on, and the exact same message repeated. After the screen went blank again, the bot again said, “Student, what two things, according to the Senior Advisor, are required of you in order to succeed?”

  “Listen carefully to every lesson and cooperate fully,” said Nick.

  “Correct,” said the Lecturer. “Now stand and follow me. Do you need assistance to stand or walk?”

  “No,” said Nick, pushing himself painfully to his feet. No way would he let a bot help him walk, not even if his leg had been chewed off by a bear. “I’m fine.”

  Nick studied the hallway as they walked, ready to collect any details, any information that might become useful, but there was very little to see—just the same bright white walls and ceiling and gray metallic floor as his cell. Every twenty feet or so were two doorways, facing each other on opposite sides of the hallway, with no visible door handles. Nick watched the bot; unlike the Peteys, it moved with an almost natural stride, one leg in front of the other, knees bending. After a few minutes the hallway turned at a right angle. The bot disappeared around the corner, and Nick had a reflexive urge to run, which he ignored. Where would he go? How far would he get when he could barely walk and didn’t know anything yet about the layout of the facility? And the whole damned point of letting himself get caught, he reminded himself angrily, was to stay caught until he found a way to help his parents.

  Nick turned the corner, and the bot was waiting at an open doorway. “Enter,” it said, pointing. The room was empty except for a large cylindrical tube in the center, with a metal table jutting out of the opening of the tube. “Lie down.”

  His heart pounding, Nick lay down on the metal slab. He rested his hands on his stomach, careful with his bad wrist, and fought for calm.

  “Arms on the table, at your sides,” said the bot.

  As soon as he set his arms down, cold metal restraints clamped down on his wrists and ankles. “Hey, what the hell!” he yelled, struggling to move. His injured wrist, when he struggled against the metal bracelet, hurt so bad his vision narrowed and he almost passed out. He felt a prick on his left forearm and realized a needle had entered his vein, and he grunted in pain and surprise but didn’t struggle. They don’t want to kill me, he told himself. They want me re-educated, not dead. He turned his head enough to see a thin tube, red with blood, snaking down to the floor. The needle pulled out, and then the table began sliding into the tank. His head slipped inside, leaving only a few inches between his nose and the ceiling. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

  “What is this?” he yelle
d, fighting uselessly against the restraints. His voice, in the tight cylinder, echoed painfully in his ears. “What’s going on?” The bot said nothing, and Nick continued to struggle. “Get me out of here!”

  The tube began to hum, softly at first, then louder, and began to slowly spin. The tube felt warm, then hot, and Nick began to sweat, and the heat suddenly became almost unbearable. The tube flared with bright light, painful even with Nick’s eyes tightly shut, and then suddenly, like a lightstrip turned off, the light was gone, the heat gone, the noise gone. He opened his eyes and found himself back in his cell, naked again, back on the metal table with the thin pillow under his neck.

  “What the hell!” He sat up, dizzy. He ran his hands through his hair; it was soaked with sweat.

  A Lecturer stood in the doorway. “You have been through a minor rejuvenation process, to mitigate the effects of your initial detainment and to heal other injuries as well.”

  Nick looked at his wrist and flexed it back and forth. It was healed. He stood. He felt tired and weak, like he had just finished a long run—but the crippling pain from before was gone. He felt a rumbling in his stomach and realized something else—he was starving. Ravenous.

  “You will need more time to fully recover from the rejuvenation, and you will be hungry and thirsty. Fresh clothing has been supplied”—the bot gestured at the chair, where a jumpsuit rested—“as well as food.” It pointed at the shelf above the chair, upon which sat a tray of food: bread with butter and jam, a piece of meat that looked like ham, some sort of yellowish soup, a pitcher of water.

  “Eat now,” said the bot. “Clothe yourself. Relieve yourself if you need to defecate or urinate. Lessons will begin in a half hour. And be advised that your new eye will be functional in three to five minutes. Now that you are conscious, the circuitry will be able to complete its integration with your optic nerve.” The bot left the cell, and the door slid shut.

  Nick felt his left cheek. The scar was gone. He stood and slowly walked over to the blank wall vid. He closed his eyes, then opened them and looked at his reflection. “Oh, God,” he whispered. His cloudy left eye was gone, and in its place was a green-irised eye, identical to the Lecturer’s.