Welcome to the Madhouse

by S. E. Sasaki

  “Ask him about the mating habits,” Dr. Cech said, suggestively, with a sly grin. “He’s actually dying to tell you.”

  Dr. Al-Fadi shot the anesthetist a withering look and then returned his attention to Grace. “It’s like all the animals in a zoo deciding to have sex with each other and not necessarily playing nice.”

  Grace sat back and shuddered, trying to suppress the visual images.

  “We just try and put the patients back together as quickly as possible, keep them as far away from each other as possible, and ship them back out to their planets as soon as possible, before they kill or maim anybody here on the medical station. Once the animal-adapts are back out in the field again, they can vent their psychotic aggressions on their supposed enemies, who might actually have been the poor schmucks lying in the beds next to them, just the week before. The Conglomerate and the Union of Solar Systems, with their ridiculous politics, or lack thereof, are to blame.

  “Sometimes, Dr. Grace, if we are lucky, everything actually goes to plan,” the small surgeon said with a deep sigh, “and people get fixed up and shipped back out, with nothing untoward happening. But it is not often.” He sat there shaking his bald head, a forlorn expression on his expressive face.

  Grace narrowed her eyes at the Chief of Staff. She could not tell if the man was serious, or not.

  “Surely it’s not as bad as you describe, Dr. Al-Fadi,” Grace ventured.

  Dr. Al-Fadi’s eyebrows shot upwards like they wanted to jump off his face.

  “Dr. Grace,” the bald, diminutive surgeon said, leaning towards her, his expressive eyes enormous in his round face. “I am trying to ‘sugar-coat’ the situation. I am giving you the ‘smiley face’ version. It is actually far worse than you could ever possibly imagine.”

  The surgeon spread his arms wide, like a showman, and declared, “Welcome to the Madhouse, Dr. Grace.”

  “ . . . Hmm. And are you, by any chance, the chief nut?” Grace asked, leaning back on the couch, with her arms crossed, and a mischievous glint in her eye.

  ‘All Macadamian parts of him,” Dr. Cech said, nodding seriously.

  Dr. Al-Fadi guffawed again and slapped his knee.

  “Careful, Dr. Grace. I think I could very easily fall in love with you and I am a very devoted, married man.”

  “Please, just call me Grace,” she said.

  “Oh, no, you siren. I will continue to call you Dr. Grace, to keep it professional. I do not need any more rumors flying around about me than there already are.”

  “He starts them all himself,” Dr. Cech whispered to Grace. “He really does.”

  “Of course, I know I am not only unbelievably handsome and a magnificent surgeon, but I am also incredibly irresistible,” Dr. Al-Fadi continued, without missing a beat. “I know this. And so, if you have problems dealing with your attraction to me, Dr. Grace, I can suggest a good therapist for you.”

  “Or a lobotomy,” interjected Dr. Cech to Grace, with a wink.

  Grace smiled. “I believe I can control myself, Dr. Al-Fadi. It will be hard, I must admit, but I am certain I am up to the challenge.”

  “Good girl,” Dr. Al-Fadi said, with an exaggerated sigh of relief. Dr. Cech was making a gagging motion, outside of the small surgeon’s line of sight.

  “I have one question, Doctor Al-Fadi,” Grace said.

  Dr. Al-Fadi raised his eyebrows, expectantly.

  “You said your SAMM-E 777 was experimental. Other than its very obvious human appearance, in what other way is it experimental?” Grace asked.

  “Oh no,” moaned Dr. Cech, theatrically dropping his head into both hands. “Perhaps we should cancel the next case, as now we are going to be sitting here for the next two hours, at least, while the Al-Fadi drones on and on and on.”

  “Nonsense, Dr. Cech. You exaggerate, as usual. I will be brief. What you should ask, Dr. Grace, is in what other ways is ‘he’ experimental?”

  Grace felt her cheeks flush at the correction.

  “SAMM-E 777 has had several interesting and innovative upgrades, based on my own designs. First of all, as you so succinctly pointed out, he looks exactly like a human man from top to bottom and trust me, it is all there, if you understand my meaning. But SAMM-E 777 is completely synthetic, with a state-of-the-art liquid crystal data matrix for massive memory storage . . . and when I say massive, I mean massive.

  “SAMM-E 777 is equipped with synthetic skin that bears all the senses we have—touch, pain, pressure, temperature, and vibration sense—but much more acutely, and he has extremely accurate sensors designed to detect the other senses of taste, smell, hearing, and of course, vision. He has been programmed with other senses that we humans do not have, as he has extremely acute hearing into ranges we could never dream of detecting. He can see far into the infrared and ultraviolet. He can see electromagnetic fields. He can detect abnormal levels of radiation and he can echolocate. His senses are so much more acute than ours by orders of magnitude. He can communicate via electromagnetic frequencies we can’t hear. He has the enormous strength of a full military combat robot, combined with the dexterity of a spider.

  “But inside, is where the true difference lies, Dr. Grace. Within his brain is enough memory crystal for a full artificial intelligence. Because of improvements in liquid crystal data matrix design, he has more memory storage in his small brain case than the station AI, Nelson Mandela, has. My hope is that my SAMM-E will become a fully independent, fully conscious, intuitive-thinking android surgeon. SAMM-E triple 7 is hopefully the prototype that may one day replace all of us. He spends every hour in the operating room with me, so you will be seeing a lot of him, Dr. Grace.”

  “That poor android,” Dr. Cech said, sympathetically. “How he must have sinned terribly in his previous life.”

  “You are just jealous, Dr. Cech, because you do not get to operate with the Great One on every shift.”

  “I try and get in with her as much as I can,” declared Dr. Cech, grinning at Dr. Al-Fadi. The small man sniffed at the anesthetist.

  “Dr. Grace, let’s go see what’s taking these nurses so long. I want to get the annoying Dr. Cech back to work. I hate seeing him sit around like a sloth, when I am waiting to operate. I suggest you avoid him, Dr Grace. He is such a degenerate slacker.”

  “Oh, Hiro, you always say the nicest things,” Dr. Cech said, sweetly.

  The Chief of Staff hopped up and gestured for Grace to follow him, as he stalked towards the door. Jumping up, Grace caught up to Dr. Al-Fadi’s heels only to just about run the small man over, when he stopped, spun around in the doorway, and looked up at her with shocked eyes. Dr. Al-Fadi glanced over at the still-seated Dr. Cech, with a disapproving expression. The small surgeon placed his fists on his hips, with his feet spread wide apart.

  “Stay away from Dr. Cech, Dr. Grace,” Dr. Al-Fadi ordered, his chin pointed upwards.

  “He’s married and a pervert, besides.”

  SAMM-E 777, who referred to himself as ‘Bud’, watched as the three doctors filed out of the operating room with the patient, who was lying swathed in nu-skin on the anti-gravity stretcher. He wanted to follow them, but his mandate was to stay in the operating room and assist in the preparation of the next case. He really wanted to follow the intriguing new surgical fellow, Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord . . . yet he didn’t quite know why.

  Perhaps it was because this exciting Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord had had the courage and audacity to challenge his creator, the Great Dr. Hiro Al-Fadi, himself. Bud had never seen anyone do that before . . . except Dr. Cech, who most of the time did it under his breath. When the beautiful Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord had gotten angry, her blue eyes had flashed with pupils dilated, her cheeks had blushed an interesting shade of rose, and her aura! Her glorious aura had glittered and glowed and fizzled and flared in a dazzling, multi-wavelength array that Bud had never before witnessed and could never, in a million human lifetimes, ever hope to describe. The visible wavelengths! The ultraviolet wavelengths! The e
xplosion of colors! The mesmerizing dance of patterns!

  The android had actually felt a shiver race through his entire being, just standing there, observing the fantastic luminosity of Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord. What Bud had registered through his visual receptors had seemed nothing less than otherworldly. No other human he had encountered to date, had ever been so fantastical.

  Dr. Al-Fadi always called him ‘SAMM-E 777’ and had never asked Bud his name. If his creator had, the android would have told Dr. Al-Fadi that his name was actually ‘Bud’. Yet Bud did not feel that it was his place to ‘tell’ his creator his name, so he waited patiently, hoping that one day, Dr. Al-Fadi would ask him that question.

  Then Dr. Al-Fadi would understand that Bud was already a fully independent, thinking, reasoning human being—albeit a synthetic one—but no different from any of the other doctors, except for some of the inhibitory programming that prevented Bud from following the very interesting Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord to the doctors’ lounge. Bud was already perfectly capable of doing these surgeries that Dr. Al-Fadi was doing and at much faster speeds. He had been assisting the great surgeon for many weeks now and could remember every case, every procedure, every injury, every solution, every report in the literature, every documented complication and its resolution, and was at the point of suggesting alternative solutions to some of the more complicated cases, if the great Dr. Al-Fadi would only ask.

  Bud did not feel it was his place to question the actions or decisions of his creator, or to interfere, but he was willing and anxious to offer any assistance, if the good doctor needed any - which, unfortunately, he never seemed to. Then, to Bud’s astonishment, this surprising Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord arrives and challenges his creator on her first day on the medical station. It was liquid crystal data matrix numbing. Bud felt that weird shiver run through his entire body again, just re-processing it.

  Bud sighed, even though physiologically he did not need to sigh. He had seen enough of the doctors sigh, to know it was a means of expressing frustration and futility mixed with acceptance and Bud so wanted to be seen as human. He was surprised at how disturbed he had felt, when Dr. Al-Fadi had told the very fascinating Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord that Bud was an android.

  Bud wondered whether the way he was feeling could be labelled ‘upset’ or ‘ashamed’ or ‘embarrassed’? For some reason that he could not quite understand, he had not wanted the very absorbing Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord to know that he was not a real human being. It was the first time he had ever felt uncomfortable(?) about being ‘just’ an android.

  Had Bud truly felt ‘anger,’ when Dr. Al-Fadi had revealed this fact to the very special Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord? He should never have felt that way towards his creator, should he? But was that why he had discovered a little tiny ball of surgisteel crumpled in the palm of his left hand, instead of a fine surgical clamp? Bud had felt very badly about ruining the instrument and had immediately repaired it to pristine condition. He would have to be much more careful about how he handled the surgical instruments.

  Bud began the sterilization process in the operating room, spraying everything down with antiseptic solution and then emitting intense ultraviolet rays from his visual apparatus, scouring everything within the room. Then he began unwrapping the necessary instruments for the next case. His thoughts, however, would not leave the very captivating Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord, and her delightful laugh and her fiery temper. Bud could not understand what was happening to himself. It felt (?)unsettling, yet also . . .‘exciting’?

  . . . Perhaps he needed a reboot?

  Bud wondered what the stimulating Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord was doing right now. If he turned up the sensors on his auditory equipment, he could zero in on her voice, the patterns of which he had now stored in a very special place within his memory. He could monitor her conversation anywhere on the station . . . but Bud knew that would be wrong. Humans seemed to value their privacy, although it was quite obvious to Bud that, on the Nelson Mandela, the concept of privacy was essentially nonexistent. He wondered why this fact was not apparent to all of the humans.

  By connecting to the medical station’s central computer, Bud could locate the enthralling Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord’s position, anywhere within the station, via her wrist-comp. That would not be so wrong, would it? After all, the innocent Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord was new to the medical station and it was possible she did not know how to use the locator in her wrist-comp. She could get turned around and lost within the Nelson Mandela Medical Space Station very easily. Many other new staff to the medical station had done so, on many other occasions.

  If the compelling Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord became lost and did not know where she was, Bud could come to the rescue. Bud could offer to help her with many things, since she was new to the station.

  This thought filled Bud with an unusual feeling that he could not quite label, but felt it might be ‘hopeful’ or ‘optimistic’ or . . . ‘desperate’?

  Bud thought he should always keep one eye and/or one ear (figuratively speaking, as Dr. Al-Fadi was wont to say) on the thrilling Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord, just in case she needed anything.

  Anything at all . . .

  Chapter Five: Scored

  Grace woke up the next ‘morning’, or actually ‘next shift’, disoriented and groggy. The previous day had been grueling in terms of hours in the operating room and she barely recalled shooing that sweet corporal away, so that she could stumble into the nearest vacant call room. She had collapsed onto the pallet, still in her scrubs, and was probably asleep before her head had hit the pillow.

  Her wrist-comp had woken her from a deep sleep, leaving her a grand total of thirty minutes to shower, change, eat breakfast, and do her patient rounds, before having to be in the operating theater again: M5 OR2 this time. Luckily, she only had two patients to look in on, so hopefully it would not take her too long. She could always skip breakfast.

  Grace showered and changed into clean operating room scrubs in record time, despite all of her aches and pains from her arrival, and she charged out of the call room, almost barreling into a SAMM-E android.

  “Oh! Are you SAMM-E 777? If you are, please let Dr. Al-Fadi know I will meet him in the OR in half a bell. Just rounding on our patients from yesterday,” Grace said, and she rushed off, not waiting for a reply.

  Grace keyed in the patients’ names into her wrist-comp and the locator directed her to their intensive care suites. Thank goodness she had slept in one of the call rooms. If she had gone to the quarters initially assigned to her, she would never have had time to see the patients before surgery.

  Dr. Al-Fadi would, of course, want to know how they were doing this morning, and would have expected her to have checked on them, before showing up at the OR. The M7 Surgical Intensive Care Unit was mere steps away from the call room she had used.

  The first patient on whom she had assisted in surgery, the tiger soldier, Captain Damien Lamont, was sleeping quietly in an intensive care room just in front of the nurses’ station. The room was relatively dark, indirect light coming in from the doorway and through the observational glass wall that faced the nurses’ work area. Small lights blinked from the monitors above the patient’s bed. Astonishingly, the tiger soldier was off of the ventilator already, breathing on his own. Grace could hardly believe it. She would never have expected anyone so badly damaged to have survived not only the bomb blast, but also the reconstructive surgery. This tiger soldier was almost more genetically-engineered replacement parts and bio-prosthetic equipment, than original human material. It had taken nine hours of operating time to piece this man back together. After that, they had then gone on to replace one lung and both upper limbs on a jaguar soldier. Grace could not remember what she had actually said to Corporal McMullen, when she had emerged from the operating room and had encountered him, dutifully waiting at the nurses’ station to show her to her quarters. She hoped it had been polite or, at least, relatively coherent. The conversation was a complete bla
nk. She had probably been sleepwalking at that point.

  Grace stared down at the peaceful face of her patient, Captain Damian Lamont. She had never operated on a genetically-modified tiger human before. His face was lightly furred with the orange, black, and white coloration of a real tiger, but his features were handsome and totally human except for the fine, silvery whiskers and long, white fangs whose tips just showed between his closed lips. His body, which had huge, powerful musculature, had slightly denser, short, tiger-striped fur on his back, neck, and limbs but finer, soft white downy fur on his chest, abdomen, inner thighs and groin region. His hands, which were massive, were also lightly furred in tiger pattern on the backs and his thick, powerful fingers possessed razor-sharp, retractable claws, which were indrawn at the moment.

  Encircling his wrists and ankles were thick titanium manacles with chains which were attached to the bed frame. Grace was standing beside the left hand side of the tigerman’s bed, facing towards the observation glass. The manacles made it very difficult for Grace to palpate the captain’s pulse on his left wrist, the only original human limb he still possessed. As she pushed the manacle as far up the arm as it would go, she touched the luxuriant, down-like fur of the captain’s forearm. The texture was velvety soft, overlying his radial pulse.

  To Grace’s surprise, Captain Damien Lamont did not smell of animal at all, but more of what Grace could only describe as pure masculinity. Even wrapped up in bandages and hooked to a myriad number of intravenous lines and monitors, he was an amazing example of the male species and, to Grace’s personal dismay, alluringly attractive as a male tiger. He purred gently as he slept.

  Beneath her trembling fingers, the captain’s radial pulse was regular and bounding. Grace shook her head in astonishment. After all this man’s trauma and reconstruction work, she would never have expected him to be looking so good, one day post-operatively. Yet here he was, faring remarkably well. It was truly a miracle and Dr. Al-Fadi and Dr. Cech were the miracle workers.