by Cliff Hedley
That got a laugh from Carlton. “One thing I did realise losing both my arms is that there’s some things that you really want to be able to do yourself and it sucks not being able to do them.”
“Like brushing your teeth and wiping your ass?”
Carlton laughed again. “Like brushing your teeth and wiping your ass,” he echoed.
His smile faded and he took on a more serious expression. His forehead creased into a frown. “Funnily enough, that’s why I’m here with you today. I had just graduated from MIT and robotics was the field I wanted to work in. I didn’t really have a clue exactly where or how, though NASA appealed. But that night, that experience and the effect it had on my life — that’s what set me on this path. Then, during the recovery period, I figured I’d do another doctorate and working with the doctors and nurses and therapists who put me back together, I knew I wanted to give back somehow. So I went to Med School. I thought one day I might even find a way to get myself to walk again.”
“Whoa. You have two doctorates?! You’re an MIT grad and an MD?”
“Yes. Child prodigy, I’m afraid. Though I never did a medical residency. I found a way for my work to take me straight here. I kind of bypassed the system by specialising right away.” He laughed but Chase sat in stunned silence. He knew that Carlton was highly regarded but now it was apparent as to why.
“Well, I feel pretty dumb right now. I mean, I’ve got a bunch of electrical engineering certificates but MIT . . . Holy shit!”
“No need for the humility. Doing what you did every day, as your profession, took guts and nerves of steel. You’re exactly the kind of person I wanted to help; to give back to. So I’m honoured to be able to help you. If we make some real progress with the work you’re helping us with, we’ll all get to help a lot more people.”
“But why are you working with me? With arms in particular, I mean? Wouldn’t you rather be trying to build technology to help you walk again?”
Carlton thought about that for a moment. “That was the plan, yes. Long-term, it still is. But I got inspired. I had the idea for this new interface and it simply works better with amputations. It’s not so effective with a severed spinal cord. But you know what? There’s a bunch of smart people out there working on that problem too, with their own ideas.”
“Well, I’m grateful that you were inspired. Thank you… and thanks for the coffee. I haven’t had anything that good in a long time.”
Chapter 8
The next day, Chase was seated back in his usual spot in Carlton’s office. He was curious that Harris hadn’t started hooking him up with electrodes as she normally would. Instead she had busied herself at a computer across the room after helping him out of his prosthetic arm. To add to his curiosity, Carlton came over from his desk with what looked like a woman’s stocking. Harris seemed to be either oblivious to the process or, more likely, was ignoring it. The stocking had tiny threads that shimmered as they caught the light but otherwise it was basically a beige sock. It was possibly even made out of actual nylon stocking material. Chase raised a sceptical eyebrow.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Carlton, “and yes, it is made out of more or less the same material as stockings. It’s useful to give us the one-size-fits-all we need before we fit something customised to you. It has one crucial difference, though.”
He held it up and stretched the fabric, so that Chase could see the criss-cross of tiny embedded wires running through it. They formed an intricate grid pattern, closely aligned to each other but not touching.
“This is for testing purposes only. Once we have your functioning arms ready, the same kind of fabric will line the inside of your prosthetic — but it will be made of a slightly softer material. This is just for testing without the prosthetic on.”
“I have to admit, it’s not that impressive to look at on the first glance. But that wiring is fairly interesting.”
“Thank you. That’s our secret sauce, so to speak. That’s what we are replacing the electrodes with, which means we can detect significantly more nerve impulses and therefore accurately map them and turn them into fine motor commands. The grid picks up the impulses and we get a vector off it. That’s how we get you using the next generation of prosthetic.”
“I suppose you’ve built that too.”
“Of course. That was the easy part. The robotics were fun to put together. It’s the interface that’s the pain in the ass. Now give me your arm.”
Chase dutifully lifted his left arm, which was closest to Carlton, who in turn gently fitted the stocking. It came up past his elbow and fitted snugly. At the end was a small plug, which Carlton connected to the same nerve-impulse machine that was used for the electrodes.
“Now clench your fist for me. Like last time — imagine your hand is still there and you are telling it to move.”
Chase did as he was asked and the graph on the monitor showed a series of spikes, some bigger than others.
“Now, open your fingers, one at a time.”
Chase concentrated on moving his fingers and again the monitor showed a much busier range of spikes than he had seen with the electrodes on. Carlton was grinning from ear to ear.
“Is that good?” Chase asked.
“It’s very good. We’re getting a lot of nerve impulses. Some clearer than others but then certain areas spike when certain nerves fire. So we’re getting variances in activity and the potential for fine control showing up.”
“Well, I’d high-five you but y’know . . .” Chase lifted his arms.
“You might get to later. Let’s park that for now. Next, I’m going to see if we can map the signals in your arm to certain commands.” Carlton removed the plug from the machine and inserted it into a new wire harness. The signals went to a flat line. “I’m plugging you in to a virtual hand. You can see it on the screen here.” He swung a monitor over so Chase could see. On it was a 3D rendering of a left hand.
“What I want you to do now is try the same exercises. That will give us a baseline, and from there we can map the impulses from your nerves and start to control the hand.”
Chase formed a fist, knowing it was what Carlton would likely ask for first.
“Good. Again please.”
Chase did it again and the hand on the screen started to move.
“And again. Nice and slow.”
This time, the hand started to move more and was almost curled into a fist.
“Keep going. That’s it.”
Chase slowly opened and closed his hand and after a few more movements, he was amazed to see that the virtual hand on screen was beginning to match his movements exactly.
“Holy shit. That’s cool!”
“Yes, it is. Let’s try the fingers now, shall we? Like before, open them one at a time, then close them one at a time again.”
Chase slowly started working through the routine. After a half dozen attempts, the fingers were starting to respond accurately. He couldn’t hide his grin. “I’m amazed. It really works!”
“Well, guinea pig, it’s starting to look that way. I’ve got a lot of data to go over from today’s session but I think that’s all I’ll need from you for now. That said, I feel the need for fresh air and caffeine before I stare at a screen for another few hours. You up for another offsite meeting?”
Chase could almost taste the espresso. “Hell, yes.” He hoped that the coffee outings would start to become a regular part of their routine.
As if on cue, Harris came over and helped Chase into his prosthetic. Once his right arm extension was back in place, she busied herself with shutting down the machines and tidying away the cables.
“Thanks, Jane. Can I get you anything?” Carlton asked.
“No thanks. You boys have fun,” she replied, flashing a brief smile before bustling her way back to her workstation.
Chase followed C
arlton out of the side entrance and as he stepped outside, raised his right arm to shield his eyes. It was an overcast day, with the kind of bright white light that he’d heard made for good photos. Clouds raced overhead but at street level there was just a gentle breeze. Chase chuckled as he realised that the hooks at the end of his prosthetic weren’t very effective at shielding him from the glare. He had raised his hand so many times in the desert to shield his eyes, even with sunglasses on, that it was an automatic reaction — until it suddenly didn’t work. He dropped his arm to his side and instead squinted as he paced alongside Carlton.
They rounded the corner towards the diner and this time Chase pushed the door open, leaning into it and holding it for Carlton with his foot. Carlton rolled in after him and nodded towards the counter. “Hey, Dennis. Two of the usual please.”
They took the same table as the day before and Dennis brought them over two coffees, one with a straw for Chase. Chase took a welcome sip. As he raised his head, a man in his early twenties pushed through the door. He wore a hoody, which was pulled up to partially obscure his face, though Chase could still make out his pale complexion and close-cropped blonde hair with a matching goatee. He moved with purpose to the counter, checking to both sides as he went. Something about him bothered Chase and he felt a tingle down the back of his neck. It was the same sensation he used to get when he first noticed a hidden IED.
The man walked over to Dennis, who started to ask “What can I get—” before he was cut short by a “snick” sound. Chase recognised it immediately. Metal on metal. A switchblade.
“Give me all your money!”
It wasn’t a shout, more of a command but it held the kind of urgency that told Dennis the man meant business. It was enough for the old couple in the booth along the wall to stop eating and look over. Carlton whipped his head over his left shoulder to try and see what was going on.
Dennis fumbled with his cash register as the man swept his gaze around the diner. Chase could imagine what he was thinking — a threat assessment. Mostly empty, only old people and cripples. The man grabbed Dennis by his collar as he fumbled to dump the meagre contents of his cash drawer on the counter. The money didn’t seem to impress him.
“Is that it?” He held the knife blade against Dennis’s throat. “You better not be holding out on me!”
While his attention was turned to Dennis, Chase took his chance. “Hey!” he yelled.
The man turned his head, still gripping Dennis with his left hand but opening his body up in an aggressive stance to face Chase, who was now standing a few feet away from him, carefully out of range of the knife. There was a look of uncertainty. He was staring at Chase, at the arms, which Chase was holding up. The stump of Chase’s left arm and the prosthetic on his right were clear to see. He held the knife aloft in Chase’s direction. The uncertainty was what Chase was hoping would buy him some room. Then the guy sneered, “Sit down, cripple.”
He jabbed the knife towards Chase. It was all Chase needed. Still just out of range, he moved quickly in towards the man. His arms were still raised but as the man tried to withdraw and thrust the knife back towards him, more aggressively this time, Chase was already very much inside his personal space. He managed to deflect the man’s knife hand downwards with his left arm. At the same time, he struck him hard on the side of the neck, across the carotid artery, with the prosthetic on his right arm.
It stunned him just long enough to let Chase take another step closer, this time wrapping his left arm around his attacker’s knife hand. He snaked around the wrist, tucking it tightly up into his armpit, preventing the man from yanking his knife hand backwards. He squeezed as hard as he could to hold the knife hand in place, knowing his technique and strength would not be as good without the full length of his forearm — but they were just good enough. He swept his right foot backwards, turning his whole body away. It forced the man’s right arm to straighten, fully and painfully extended at the elbow. Then Chase spun back inwards, reversing direction and dropping his body weight as he did so. He brought his prosthetic-clad right arm down onto the bone of the man’s right forearm, with the full force of his body weight and momentum crashing down onto it. He heard a sickening crunch as the bone in the man’s wrist cracked.
The knife immediately fell to the floor with a clatter as he howled in pain. He had clearly already forgotten about Dennis, because he had let go of his collar with his left hand and tried to lash out at Chase with it. It was a clumsy attempt and Chase was expecting it. He was already wound up low and to his left from the strike, so he uncoiled and released a sickening left-leg roundhouse kick to the attacker’s right knee. He felt a little unnatural give in the guy’s ligaments, where his shinbone drove through them. The man stumbled forward, screaming again but wild with rage. Before the guy could get anywhere near him, Chase had already used his momentum to step close in again. The guy was doubling over, stumbling off-balance under his collapsing knee. Seizing the opportunity, Chase uncoiled back the other way. He drove his right elbow hard into the man’s chin, which was presented nicely and completely unprotected as he fought for balance.
It hit him with a sickening crunch. Chase found his target, driving into him with the full force of his body, from his legs all the way up through his hips and into the swinging elbow. He released so much force that the plastic in the forearm of the prosthetic completely splintered as it drove home. The man sank to the floor like a sack of bricks and Chase realised he was screaming himself — or, more accurately, finishing with a kiai, the shout often accompanied by the most energetic blows a martial artist makes.
He stepped back, looking around the diner. First to the door. Nobody else had come in. Then he scanned around from the old couple, to Dennis, to Carlton. Satisfied that there were no more threats, he took a breath and stepped back, watching the crumpled and unconscious form on the floor in front of him. The guy was not moving. “Call the cops, Dennis.”
Dennis hurried away to pick a phone up off the wall and was soon talking to the police.
Carlton was behind him, keeping a careful distance from the man on the floor. “Holy shit! Are you OK?”
Chase tried to slow his breathing. He could feel the adrenalin rushing through his body; he was shaking. The prosthetichung awkwardly at a right angle around his lower forearm, the metallic hooks hanging loosely off it. There were a couple of pieces of tan-brown plastic from it on the floor in front of him.
“Yeah, I think so. Sorry about the prosthetic.”
“Are you kidding?” Carlton was shaking his head. “Fuck the prosthetic. That was awesome!”
Dennis yelled, “They aren’t far away!”
The man lay still. Chase walked over to the knife and kicked it behind him. Satisfied that everything was as secure as it could be until the police arrived, he slowly started to ease his breathing back to normal. He started to relax when he heard sirens wailing in the distance, then growing closer. Nobody moved until a car pulled up right outside, lights flashing and two uniformed NYPD officers burst through the door.
They looked ready to take on an armed assailant, moving inside expertly with their weapons raised. They were careful to cover the entire room, staying out of each other’s line of fire. One was a short, muscular Hispanic man and the other a tall, lean fresh-faced white kid, who was probably the rookie of the pair.
Dennis spoke first. “Take it easy, officers. That’s your guy on the ground there.”
“Was it you that called this in?” the older one asked.
“Yes, sir.”
The man in the hoody was still lying face down and not making a sound. At least he’s still breathing. Chase was worried more about having charges brought against him for unnecessary use of force than about the man himself. It had been self-defence after all but it was a fine line.
Once the two officers realised there was no immediate threat, other than the crumpled and unconscious b
ody in the middle of the floor, they relaxed and holstered their weapons. Their expressions quickly turned from tension to bewilderment as Chase raised his arms and stood back from his spot in the middle of the room. The prosthetic on his right was barely hanging on, swinging by its wires and a few remaining pieces of plastic.
“He might need an ambulance officers,” Chase offered.
The younger cop moved forward and checked the man’s pulse. He spoke into the radio mic clipped to his shoulder and ordered one.
Chase nodded to the knife on the floor. “You might want to bag that.”
The older officer looked at him quizzically. “You did this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who are you?” Implying he knew Chase had more than a little training to pull it off.
“Master Sergeant William Chase, US Army. Retired,” he added, holding his arms out.
“Hell of a job, Master Sergeant. I’m Hernandez, this is my partner Wilson.” The kid nodded in Chase’s direction but kept close to the guy on the floor.
“You want to run me through what happened here?” Hernandez queried.
Chase recounted his story, after which Hernandez moved to Dennis, Carlton and the elderly couple in the booth. Chase took a seat back at the table with Carlton as the officers moved around. His coffee was still pretty hot. He took another grateful sip. It probably wasn’t the best idea to mix adrenalin and caffeine but he didn’t care. It was good and he was going to finish it.
It wasn’t long before more flashing lights blazed through the diner and a pair of paramedics rolled a gurney inside. They stopped to check the guy’s pulse and breathing, dropped the gurney so that it was low to the ground, then moved him onto the bed. They spoke briefly to the officers, exchanging details as Hernandez cuffed one wrist to the gurney. With that done, they were gone. Wilson disappeared momentarily to the patrol car and returned with a pair of rubber gloves and a ziplock bag. He picked up the knife and returned it to the car, whose lights were still flashing.