Sleeping Giants

by Sylvain Neuvel

  Vincent had to learn everything from scratch. Seeing the legs move on my hologram helped a little, but we still had to call out every movement. It was…

  —Discouraging.

  —You got that right. It took Ryan and me close to six months to get the hang of it, and we had to do it all over again with someone who ran out of breath after five minutes.

  Ryan was very…gentlemanly about the whole thing. He took Vincent under his wing and taught him every move a thousand times over. Vincent also went into this with the best of attitudes, considering…He knew he was taking Ryan’s place, and he was reminded of it every day having him as a coach. He knew he was slowing us down as well. He hit the gym real hard, lifting weights every night after we left; but you can’t make up for years of military training in a few weeks.

  Ryan had them build a replica of the leg controls. For three months, he worked side by side with Vincent, having him shadow every movement he made. Slowly, but surely, Vincent began to get it right, for only a step or two at first, then for minutes at a time. After a while, Ryan was mostly encouraging him, pointing out a few mistakes here and there. I could tell he was beginning to feel useless. I became much tougher on Vincent, doing my best to make him look as bad as I could so Ryan would have something to work on.

  But that was only the half of it. Vincent and I couldn’t help but get along. We always made each other laugh and this was no different. Working in the sphere, it does something to people. Ryan looks like an underwear model, but Vincent and I, we have chemistry. Soon, Ryan began to feel like a fifth wheel. It was horrible to watch. He was losing the most exciting job of his life, and losing me at the same time. He had front-row seats to watch me grow closer to Vincent. What’s worse is he was asked to play a part in it.

  Vincent’s not a good man by any standard definition. He’s not evil or anything, but he’s self-absorbed. He has an ego the size of New England and he’s not particularly nice to people. He actually says he doesn’t like people. He’s a genius, but he’s a bad person. I know, because I was attracted to him, and it was obvious it ran both ways. After a while, you had to cut through the sexual tension in the room. Maybe it was because we both knew it was the worst thing we could do; maybe having Ryan in the room made it all the more forbidden. All I can tell you is that it was palpable. I did my best to ignore it. I even asked Ryan out a few more times. He wouldn’t sleep with me. He couldn’t stand the idea it might have been out of pity.

  —Was it?

  —Ryan began leaving the sphere early. Dr. Franklin eventually found him some work in the lab to keep his mind at ease. I don’t think he could stand being in the same room with me anymore. I feel terrible for saying it, but I was beginning to resent him for giving up. It’s awful, I know, since I didn’t think we had a future together, but part of me wanted him to fight, for his job, for me, for anything.

  One night, Vincent and I were working late. Ryan had left early and we had just heard Dr. Franklin close the door on her way out. We listened to the silence for a few moments, waiting for the inevitable. Vincent got out of his station and climbed up to mine. He smiled and slowly moved in front of me. I was still braced in, my arms stretched out in the control suit. He undid my belt, took off my pants and wrapped my legs around him. He didn’t say anything, not a single word; he just stared at me the whole time. It was…Never mind.

  We locked the lab behind us and walked out through the exit in the maintenance building. I followed Vincent outside; two blinding lights appeared out of nowhere. I was still covering my eyes when Vincent shoved me back inside as hard as he could. I hit the ground pretty hard and knocked my head on the stairwell ramp. There was a loud bang that shook the whole building. When I got out to see what had happened, Ryan was still in his truck, both hands on the wheel. The front end had embedded itself about a foot into the cement wall. Vincent was lying facedown on the hood of the truck, his legs crushed into the wall.

  FILE NO. 120

  INTERVIEW WITH VINCENT COUTURE, SENIOR INTELLIGENCE ADVISOR (DCIPS)

  Location: Hospital for Special Surgery (HSS), New York, NY

  —I remember going to the zoo with my father. I must have been five or six years old. It was a good hour from Montreal and my dad didn’t like to drive. He also didn’t like crowds. But I had been begging my parents since the middle of winter and my mom finally convinced my dad to take me. I was so excited. It’s all I could talk about. Will there be lions? Will there be zebras? “I don’t know, son, you’ll just have to wait and see.”

  We finally left on a sunny Sunday morning. My father gave me a present for the ride. It was one of those wooden puzzles; just a cube made of small indented pieces of wood that only fit in a particular way. I remember thinking it was really pretty. My father, of course, insisted I take it apart and put it back together on our way to the zoo. “You have an hour,” he said. “That should be plenty of time.” Well, it wasn’t. I was still working on it when I saw the giant Zoo sign. Of course, I immediately put the puzzle back into the box it came in and I started naming every animal I could see on the signs. Look Dad, a zebra! He said: “Great! Finish your puzzle, then we’ll go.” I said I didn’t want to but he reminded me that, in our family, when we start something, we see it through to the end.

  I worked on that thing for another two hours while he read a book. I could almost make the whole cube, but in the end, I would inevitably end up with one or two pieces that didn’t fit. I knew I must have put a couple of pieces in the wrong place, but there were just too many and I couldn’t remember what I did the next time around. I kept doing the same thing over and over again. By noon, frustration had turned to despair. I started crying. My father just kept on reading. I couldn’t think anymore. I was shaking, frantically jamming pieces together. By two o’clock, I was just hysterical. My father put his book away. He started the car and drove straight home.

  We didn’t talk for the rest of the day. After my mother tucked me in, he came into my room and told me I had learned a valuable lesson that day, much more valuable than seeing some caged animals.

  —What was the lesson you learned?

  —I suppose he meant that emotions get in the way of judgment, that I might have succeeded had I not been so eager to do something else.

  —You must have been an exceptionally smart child. This would seem difficult to grasp for a five-year-old.

  —Oh, I’m saying this now. I had absolutely no idea what he meant at the time. I just wanted to see the zebras. My father was a philosopher. Literally, I mean. He was a philosophy professor. We didn’t always get along once I got older but I worshipped him when I was a kid.

  —What did your mother do?

  —She was a teacher too, until she met my father. She gave up her career when I was born. She was a really smart woman, but her heart was bigger than anything else. She wanted me to play sports, to spend some time with other kids my age, but my dad thought it was a waste of time. He said I was born with a brain that worked better than most, that it would be a shame not to use my gift. He didn’t think I could do that throwing a ball with a bunch of half-wits.

  My mother insisted, but I told her I didn’t want to. I loved my dad. I did everything I could to make him proud. It must have driven my mother crazy. She left us, eventually. We were both crushed. I don’t know why it came as such a surprise. It wasn’t hard to see that one coming. Any woman in her right mind would have dropped that selfish egotistic man in a heartbeat. She probably just found some half-decent guy who paid a modicum of attention to her every now and then. I know she didn’t leave because of me, but I think she might have stayed had I not ignored her as much as my father did. I was so bent on pleasing him. At times, she must have felt like she didn’t even exist. She wasn’t a cynical woman, not for a second. This would probably just make her really sad, but you can bet the irony wouldn’t be lost on my dad.

  —The irony?

  —Oh yes. I worked all my life at being the smartest I could be. My dad alw
ays told me I could make a real difference someday. Most people don’t really have a purpose, a sense of purpose anyway, beyond their immediate surroundings. They’re important to their family but it doesn’t go much beyond that. Everyone is replaceable at work, friendships come and go.

  I had the chance to be a part of something much larger than me, but it’s not because of how much I learned, or how smart I am. The one thing that made me special, what made me truly useful, turned out to be my legs. And now I’m about to lose them both.

  —What makes you think you will lose your legs?

  —The doctor left a few minutes before you walked in. He said there’s no choice but to amputate. Both legs.

  —I do not wish to appear insensitive, but you seem to be handling the news fairly well.

  —I spend most of my time sitting down thinking, really. That’s what I’m good at: sitting and thinking. I figure, so long as I can do that…I never paid much attention to my body. Didn’t eat that well, didn’t exercise much, didn’t play sports. I do think I’ll miss walking. Walking was good.

  —Is that all you are feeling?

  —What do you want me to say? Life is unfair. I didn’t deserve this. In the grand scheme of things, I don’t think what I’m feeling is all that important. If you can’t get the controls to work for someone else, then it’s all over for everybody. Putting that helmet on was a really stupid idea.

  —Guilt is a normal feeling. Some form of resentment would also seem appropriate.

  —I’m heartbroken about losing all of this, if that’s what you wanna hear. I mean, who wouldn’t be? I don’t know why, but I keep thinking of that astronaut who got grounded seventy-two hours before liftoff because he was exposed to the…How do you say rougeole?

  —The measles. You are referring to Thomas Kenneth Mattingly, II.

  —That’s him. I can never remember his name. I’m sure he was pissed. I’m sorry if I’m not devastated enough for you. To be honest, I was pretty sure it was all over when I saw that truck coming. Everything just went…dark. How’s Kara, by the way? She must be pretty shook up.

  —She is doing fine. She feels responsible, but she will be OK. She would have come but…

  —No, she wouldn’t have.

  —Perhaps, but she is genuinely grateful. You might have saved her life. She said to tell you to hurry up and get back home.

  —Ryan?

  —There is not much I can tell you. He has been reluctant to speak, at all. He is being held at Fort Carson. Have no fear, Mr. Couture. He will pay for what he did to you.

  —What good would that do? I’m many things, vindictive isn’t one of them. I can’t imagine how he must feel.

  —Love makes people do some crazy things.

  —Nah. Love makes you get really drunk and punch through a wall. That man had everything he cared about taken away from him, everything. I did that. I didn’t do it on purpose, but I’m the one who turned his world upside down. Not so Captain America after all, I guess. I didn’t think he had it in him…I’m sorry, I’m not laughing because of that.

  —You find it humorous that Mr. Mitchell is losing his mind?

  —No. That it’s you sitting by my bed. Not my family, not my friends—not that I have many—not Kara or Rose, you. Mr. Warm and Fuzzy. It’s like waking up from a coma and having the cashier at the grocery store at your bedside. No offence.

  —None taken.

  —I guess that’s what they meant when they said to be nice to people. No tears for the narcissistic Québécois.

  —I doubt that people would be lining up by the hundreds but, in the interest of fairness, no one knows where you are.

  —You know, I get that you don’t want to tell people your name, but wouldn’t it be easier to make one up? Something cool, Charlie, M., anything. Then again, maybe you’re better off without one. “What’s in a name?” he said.

  —So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title…

  —An educated man? Somehow, you didn’t strike me as the literary type.

  —English literature. Magna cum laude.

  —Oh! Please, do tell!

  —I think not. But if it makes you feel special, the president does not know this much about me. Did you know we are only missing three pieces? We found both of the small thigh pieces in China, about ten miles from each other. We should have the other parts soon. We have covered about 80 percent of the globe.

  —Good for you. I just hope they’re on land.

  —What do you mean?

  —Well, 70 percent of the planet is covered by water. When you’re done surveying every continent, you’ll have gone through about 30 percent of the Earth’s surface.

  —Dr. Franklin believes that…

  —I know what Rose said. She thinks they desperately want us to find these things. But did you notice we keep finding them in the middle of nowhere? We got almost half of them in the United States. Do you know what was in the U.S. three thousand years ago? Not much. The Arctic isn’t the most convenient place to look for things either.

  —If I did not know you better, I would be tempted to call you a pessimist, Mr. Couture. Let us worry about that. You concentrate on getting back on two feet.

  —Funny. An hour from now, I won’t have any feet to get back on. I just need to figure out how to work a wheelchair. It can’t be that hard. I’ve seen some really stupid people in wheelchairs. And I’ll worry about whatever I want. I think I have plenty of time to do that. I always wanted to learn Cantonese. I just never found the time.

  —I want you to listen to me very carefully. No one will take your legs. You may not believe in fate, but there is a reason the robot chose you. It is what you were meant to do. It will take some time, but you will get back into that sphere and make that robot walk. You will make us all proud. And you need to get back to Chief Resnik.

  —Where do you get this stuff? They’ll still take my legs, but that was a nice speech. And you know as well as I do Kara and I are over.

  —I do not think she is the type of person who would abandon you because of a handicap.

  —I know that. She’s loyal as a dog…that doesn’t sound so nice when you say it out loud. Anyway, that’s my point. She’d be with me for all the wrong reasons. She’d be unhappy, but she’d stick around out of some twisted, misplaced sense of duty.

  —What makes you think she would be unhappy?

  —They’re cutting my legs. I won’t be able to walk. I won’t be able to stand, to get food out of the top shelf. I’ll need help taking a bath. I’ll probably soil myself. I’m already cynical, I don’t think this will suddenly turn me into a ray of sunshine. I wouldn’t wanna live with me. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, especially Kara. She should be with someone she can be proud of. Last thing she needs is changing diapers.

  —Did you know that Ken Mattingly never contracted the measles? He did fly to the moon on Apollo XVI, and later took part in two space-shuttle missions. No one will take your legs, Mr. Couture. I give you my word.

  FILE NO. 121

  INTERVIEW WITH DR. PAVEL HAAS, CHIEF OF SURGERY

  Location: Hospital for Special Surgery (HSS), New York, NY

  —How is Mr. Couture doing?

  —His femur, tibia, and fibula are broken in several places on both legs. He has no patella to speak of, on either leg. His knees have just been obliterated. There’s nothing but small fragments piercing through his flesh like shrapnel. To put it mildly, his legs are gone.

  —He is under the impression that you will cut them away.

  —He’s right. They’re prepping the OR as we speak. We’ll take him upstairs as soon as we’re done here. We’ll cut his legs about midway to the knee. There should be enough left to attach prosthetics if we’re lucky. It will take some time, but most patients in his situation eventually learn to walk again. I know it sounds terrible right now, but you have to believe me when I tell you, this is what’s best for him.

&nbs
p; —That is more or less what he told me. I am sorry to tell you that an amputation is out of the question.

  —I don’t want to be rude, but this really isn’t up to you.

  —How I wish that were true. Unfortunately, there are a great many things that fall under my responsibility and this happens to be one of them.

  I can see your mouth opening slightly, which would suggest that you are waiting for the first opportunity to interrupt me, so I will save you the time and give you the only justification you are going to get.

  That man is in a unique position to do something remarkably important for this country, if not for mankind. More to the point, he is the only one who can, and he needs his legs to do it. I apologize if this is more succinct than what you were hoping for, but it will have to do under the circumstances.

  —You can’t…

  —Please do not interrupt. I understand you are in a position of authority and the nature of your work probably makes you unaccustomed to being contradicted. But if what I have been told is true, we do not have a lot of time before sepsis sets in, so I hope you will forgive me for being blunt.

  If you insist on pursuing this course of action, these two men will escort you out of the building and drive you away. I do not want you to think I am threatening you. You will not be killed, and no one will inflict physical pain upon you. You will, however, wake up in a strange room and never see the outside of it for the remainder of your life.

  I just want you to have all the facts so you can make an informed decision. Unfortunately, you will need to make that decision in the next thirty seconds.

  —I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer that.

  —You do not have to answer. You just have to do exactly as I say. I was told you are the best at what you do. That is why we flew him here. That is why we chose you. It will take me about ten minutes to get someone almost as good to replace you, but I really hate having to settle for second best.