by Bryan Hall
Had he known what would happen, though, he was certain he would not have been one of them. This was too jarring, too unfamiliar; the polar opposite to all that he had made his life become. Peter did not like change. That was why he was here today.
Remarkable as they were, the eyes had to go.
With that conviction burning inside his mind to provide something to focus on, he rose to his feet and strode toward the door that Emerald indicated. His heart was thudding; an indicator of the nerves that he unaccustomed to feeling. He didn’t know how the surgeon would receive what he had to say. But, after another sleepless night tossing and turning, he realized he would have to confide the truth to his surgeon, to explain why he wanted the revolutionary eyes removed despite the dazzling optical improvements they possessed. Most likely, the enhancement was a side effect they had simply neglected to mention, and once he explained that he was uncomfortable with it, the clinic would make no difficulties about removing them. A brief mention of medical negligence would smooth over any reservations, no doubt.
The surgeon sat behind his desk. His aura steadily pulsed, dominated by tones of the same bright green his receptionist possessed. The cool, soft blues connoted an innate confidence that Peter could not help but admire. Soothed by the notice on the wall concerning doctor-patient confidentiality, something the medical profession held sacred, Peter pushed the door closed behind him and took the seat that the younger man indicated.
“What can I do for you today, Mr. Smith?”
Peter did not believe in small talk. “I want the eyes removed,” he said bluntly. “I don’t like what they’ve done to me. It isn’t right, and I want them out.”
The surgeon’s easy smile faded. “To have a part of your body replaced by bionics is a lot to get your head around, Mr. Smith. If you want to talk about it—”
“I don’t want to talk. I simply want to have the eyes removed.” Peter absently touched his nose before realizing that his spectacles were no longer there to be pushed back up. He missed them. He sighed under his breath before forcing a calm and implacable smile as he met the surgeon’s narrowed eyes. “I’ll pay. That isn’t a problem. I understand that you have operating costs, so if you could tell me how much it will be to have them removed, I’ll transfer the money to your account now and we can schedule the operation.”
“But why do you want them out, Mr. Smith? Surely you’ve seen by now how vastly superior they are to your original eyes.” Dark streaks of muddied pink shot through the surgeon’s aura and Peter tensed.
“That’s the problem. I ... I see too much. I don’t know why your clinic didn’t mention it before, but I can see far too much. I see people, I see what they truly are, and I don’t like it. Some might say that knowledge is power, but to me it’s a curse.”
“I don’t understand, sir. Knowledge of what?”
The surgeon seemed to be genuinely at a loss to comprehend what Peter was talking about. His worst fear was perilously near to being confirmed—perhaps this was not normal, this new insight the bionic eyes had given him. For the space of a pounding heartbeat, he hesitated, but he had come too far to stop now. “I see what they can’t hide. I see their souls,” he said, so quietly that the sharp-suited surgeon leaned forward to hear him. Saying the words out loud for the first time was the final, incontrovertible acceptance of what had happened to him. The words were like a leaden weight, descending upon his chest and threatening to steal away his breath.
Even more oppressive, though, was the younger man’s reaction. A tiny, disdainful smile played at the corners of his thin lips. He clearly struggled to suppress the faint note of rebuke in his voice when he finally replied. “Perhaps you would benefit from a complimentary session with our clinic’s psychologist, Mr. Smith.”
Peter recoiled in horror. He had never been affiliated with anyone who worked in mental health, and he didn’t intend to start now. It wasn’t that he had anything against those who needed their help, but the disorders they treated were the very definition of abnormality. His bionic eyes darted resentfully from side to side, seeing with a painful clarity the amusement upon the surgeon’s face as he pushed back in his high-backed chair.
“Mr. Smith?”
“No!” Peter said, surprising even himself with the new venom in his voice. “I don’t want to talk to your quacks, doctor. I just want the damned eyes out!”
“You don’t need the eyes removed, Mr. Smith,” the surgeon said firmly. “I assure you, I have fitted near a hundred pairs and they have all been flawless—as are yours, whatever you think you’re seeing. What you need is a nice quiet talk with our psychologist. She’s a lovely lady, and I’m sure you’ll get on well with her—”
But Peter had already leapt up from his seat and was backing toward the door. He would not get the help he sought here, that much was plain. He certainly did not need the censure and derision that he saw on the other’s man clinically enhanced features.
His chest was tight and it was a battle to catch his breath, but he let nothing hold him back from rushing through the clinic’s glass doors and out onto the bustling London street. His eyes, far superior to those of near everyone else around him, easily picked out a path for him and guided him to his destination, to the tube train that would take him back to the one place that was his own—home. Once there, he could gather his jumbled thoughts and try to see a way forward. He knew he could no longer live with this.
All around him was a dizzying blur of color that wove and spun around each soul streaming past him. Peter blinked furiously and clung to the rails of the escalator as it descended to the platform. The world around him no longer made sense. It was a mercy that he had travelled the route from central London so many times before, for he lacked entirely the clarity of thought to navigate unfamiliar streets where the auras of everyone he passed dazzled and tormented him. As it was, though, he stole every chance he could to close his eyes and defend himself against the world until, finally, he found his feet traveling down the familiar path of the street where he lived with Marie.
Sanctuary was so near, and with a loud, agonized cry, he opened his eyes long enough to thrust the key into the lock and turn it with fumbling fingers. Glorious, unbound relief exploded inside him as he burst through the front door and slumped against the wall. Marie froze in the doorway to the kitchen with two empty, red-stained wineglasses in her hands.
“You’re back already, Pete? I ... I thought you were going back to work after your appointment!”
She had changed. When Peter had given her a mechanical kiss good-bye that morning, her aura had been a bright, crimson red, far more vibrant than he had seen it before and centered around her core. Now, though, the red had faded to a murky pink overlaid by a gray storm cloud that seemed to battle to close the truth of all she was away from him.
Though he had only his woefully underused senses to rely on, some primal instinct told him with an unerring certainty that Marie was consumed by deceit—a deceit that, given the two used glasses in her hands, could have only one cause.
All his life, Peter had sought to control everything around him. Now it was all spiraling out of control. He could withstand it no longer. His stomach churned as he staggered past her into the kitchen, his eyes tightly shut to block out all that he could not bear to see. He didn’t need his vision to find what he sought. Nothing had changed position in their house since the day they had moved in and studiously unpacked every neatly labeled box.
The cutlery drawer was six paces in front of him. With unerring certainty, he reached out and seized the handle to wrench the drawer open.
“Pete! Pete, what are you doing? It’s not what you think!”
Yet neither her pleas nor the shattering crash of the twin wineglasses as they hit the tiled floor could penetrate the fugue of Peter’s mind. The emotions he had kept repressed for half a century erupted as violently and uncontrollably as if Pandora’s Box had opened inside him. With his path laid out clearly in front of him, he spun t
oward the sound of his wife’s scream and lunged.
He slashed the knife through the air in a clean, precise movement borne of a lifetime spent practicing and honing his self-control. Even with his uncontrollable rage surging through his body, he still retained the presence of mind to draw the blade across Marie’s throat. He issued the ultimate punishment for the infidelity that his eyes had witnessed.
In unseeing bliss, he dropped to his knees. She crumpled to the floor at his side. Her blood gushed from her throat to stain the once-pristine tiles. The blood ran around his feet, soaking his trousers, but Peter only smiled in grim and rueful acknowledgment of the truth he had spoken to the surgeon.
Knowledge truly was a curse.
As Marie’s gurgling, shallow breaths finally ceased, he opened his eyes again and held the bloodstained knife in front of him. Sunlight bounced off the gleaming contours of the serrated blade, its reflection far more brilliant when seen by the bionic eyes. It was unnatural, and he no longer wanted any part of it.
The terrified, racking sobs of his wife’s best friend, who had only dropped by for a glass of wine and some gossip, receded through the still open front door.
Peter lifted the knife to his face. He steadied his hand to begin the task that the surgeon had refused.
PROSTHETICS
BY DANIEL I. RUSSELL
Dr. Bowman met Jim’s eyes. He seemed nervous, but remained smiling.
“You ready?” she asked, taking his hand. She sat next to him on a plush sofa.
“I ... I guess so,” he said.
“Good. Don’t try too hard. This should come naturally. Now ... squeeze!”
Fingers clamped down on the doctor’s hand, and she cried out, pulling back. Jim held on, staring down.
“Jesus,” Bowman moaned and squirmed her fingers. She worked them free from the iron grip. Pain blazed in her hand, like she’d trapped it in a door.
She slid free and massaged the skin, smoothing out the agony.
“Any harder and it would be me that needs a new one!”
“I’m sorry,” blurted Jim.
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Bowman. “It’s a new technology and needs a little fine-tuning. Let me take another look.”
She held the prosthetic, now a tight fist, and ripped a Velcro strap free. The gloved hand fell away, revealing the fleshy stump beneath. She swallowed and pulled the glove off.
Jim snorted. “You must see this kind of thing every day, yet this,” he held up the deformed hand, “this disgusts even you.”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “It’s the prosthetic I’m disgusted with.”
Jim’s injured hand turned her stomach. He’d been on the receiving end of a meat slicer accident. The machine had taken most of his right hand, cutting from the base of the thumb up to the knuckle of his little finger. The injury itself didn’t sicken her, but the puckered pink flesh at the trauma site did. She knew she had a bad attitude, especially for someone in her position, but the disgust remained. She preferred nice, tidy stumps, not blood and scars.
“You don’t have to worry much longer,” she said. “Once I get this fixed, it’ll be like having your old hand back.”
Jim sighed. “I appreciate your ... enthusiasm, doctor. But you can’t understand what this feels like to just ... well, lose a part of you in a split second.”
Bowman pried the fingers of the hand open.
“Really?”
She reached down to her ankle and hiked up her trousers a few inches. Beneath, the silver head of a bolt glinted, embedded in pink plastic. She lifted her foot from the floor, and the hinge moved.
“Whoa,” said Jim, clutching his injured hand.
“Car crash,” said Bowman. “Twelve years ago. My leg was crushed, and they amputated below the knee.” She tapped her shin. It sounded hollow. “Why I got into this area of medicine.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jim.
Bowman smiled. “No problem.”
“But you don’t even have a limp!”
She winked. “That’s how good we are here at Bloom Memorial.” She studied the hand. “Ah, I see what happened. A fuse has blown.” She reached into the inner workings and snapped the offending part free. “Our engineer is in today, so he should be able to fix this right up.”
“You don’t build them?”
“Steve builds them and I fit them. Our system works.” She stood. “Make yourself comfortable, Jim. I’ll just be a minute.”
“Right,” he said, looking a little more reassured. “Thank you, doctor.”
Bowman crossed the pastel-toned patient suite and through the door at the rear. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees on entering the workshop. The windowless room, from the thick carpet and views of the patient suite, was oppressive. Beneath the bare bulbs, various limbs hung from rows of shelves. Legs stood in racks, like umbrellas. Hands sat in rows, robot spiders waiting to be used. It reminded Bowman of a puppet maker’s workbench.
“Steve?” she called. Her voice echoed. “Steve are you back there? I need a new fuse for a TN500.”
Silence greeted her.
“Damn. You on your lunch?”
She headed deeper into the room, passing more body parts. She had no idea what the building had been used for previously. The hospital had seen their work, offered positions at the facility, and given them the use of the building, set within the hospital grounds. The workshop contained a small washing area and the remains of a ward. Various bits and pieces had been left behind, the larger objects covered by sheets. Bowman had nagged Steve about shifting it all.
She approached the washing area. Steve had emptied the cupboard under the sink, and a black leather bag stood next to the rusted metal sink. Bowman glanced at her reflection in the streaked mirror.
“Steve?”
Nothing.
She opened the bag and peered inside, catching a hint of metal. She reached in.
“Eugh!”
She pulled out a scalpel, studied it, and dropped it back. It emitted a small clink, striking other instruments.
“Steve! I told you to get rid of all this!”
She turned away.
“Guess I’ll have to find the fuse myself.”
She walked down the old ward, scanning the cluttered shelves and work areas. Saws, drills, hammers, and other vicious objects littered the place.
“Health and safety nightmare,” said Bowman, wishing for the comfort of the patient suite. She stopped. “And what the hell are you doing with this?”
A metal chair lay against the wall. Its seat, complete with head and foot rest, had been formed from a sheet of bent aluminum and polished to a dazzling finish. It sat on a short column, also fashioned from metal. An intricate pattern adorned its surface.
Looks like you’ve been renovating this. But why?
Something tapped her left foot. She looked down.
A fuse rolled and stopped.
Bowman picked it up.
Must have knocked it off something ... Bit of luck. And it hit my left foot and not my right!
The wet fuse slipped within her fingers, and she wiped it on her blouse. The tiny cylinder vibrated in her palm for a second.
“Odd.” She examined it closer. Nothing out of the ordinary. “Must just be me.”
She glanced at the chair and shivered. She’d never claimed to have any sixth sense, but the chair raised goosebumps on her arms and back. She wondered if anyone had died in it.
Right, Steve. As soon as your belly’s filled, you’re getting rid of this chair. That bag, too.
Turning her back on the piles of junk and the hideous chair, Bowman headed back through the workshop. She stopped, her heels scraping on the floor.
Something. Something behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder.
Nothing moved. The chair sat in the old ward, like a still life painted by Giger.
We need more lights in here. Place is getting to me.
Shaking her head, Bowman
strode through the workshop, thankful as she entered the patient suite.
“Here we are, Jim,” said Bowman, joining her patient back on the sofa. “Sorry about the delay. Steve’s on his lunch, but I managed to find a fuse.”
Jim shifted forward, perching on the edge. “We trying it again, then?”
“One more time, at least to check the fit. We’ll make an appointment for next week so we can start your rehab properly.” Bowman flipped the prosthetic hand over and clicked the fuse into place. The fingers twitched, and Bowman nearly dropped the attachment. “Must have some discharge,” she said, and ripped open the Velcro. “Don’t worry. You won’t get a shock!”
Jim offered a nervous smile and slowly held out what remained of his severed hand. Bowman slid the fixture over the torn skin and fastened it tight.
“There we go.”
Jim frowned. “It feels strange. All tingly.”
Tingly?
“That’s normal,” said Bowman, frowning. She looked at the clock. Aware of her next appointment, she decided to cut the chat. “Just like before. Try to make a fist.”
“Okay,” said Jim. He closed his eyes.
“Ready?” said Bowman. “One ... two ... three!”
Thin blades shot out of the metal fingertips with a sharp ping!
Bowman flinched.
What the—?
“Did it work?” asked Jim. He glanced down.
The hand shot up, fingers closing in a claw. The five blades punched through Jim’s throat, and blood shot across the sofa.
Bowman screamed and jumped to her feet.
Jim gurgled, wide-eyed and falling back. Crimson poured down his chest, blossoming on his white shirt. The fingers embedded in his flesh jerked and flicked, trying to dig deeper. Jim clutched it with his good hand.
“Oh god,” Bowman moaned, retreating. “Oh god!”
Jim pulled the hand away for a second, but, not to be denied, it surged forward in another frenzied attack. The force knocked Jim’s head back.