Lincoln started to tell them that he did not when his eyes drifted down ... then nearly bugged out of his head.
He was crushing his large stainless steel pot in his bare hands!
The act itself wouldn’t be particularly stunning anymore, except that he’d had no idea at all that he was doing it. He quickly eased the pressure and shrugged as casually as he could manage.
"It’s nothing," he said over his shoulder, afraid to let them see his face. "The water pipes do it from time to time. See? It’s already gone."
Carl and Deak accepted that at face value and dismissed it. Ben continued to stare at his young friend’s tense shoulders for a moment longer, then he, too, let it go.
"Hey, Deak, are you sure that Acuna went paranormal and didn’t just buy a toupe or somethin’?"
"Shut up, Carl."
Why? Lincoln thought as he stared down at the crushed pot in his traitorous hands. Why did this have to happen to me?
The pot offered no answer.
Lincoln slipped it underneath the sink, then forced a nonchalant expression onto his face and returned to the table.
VORTEX
Steve underwent surgery for his initial implants later that week. Alan made sure that every staff member involved in the procedure signed contracts of confidentiality, and the core team of "surgeons" mainly consisted of bio-technicians from Davison Electronics’ cybernetics division — Steve’s optical nerves were in relatively good shape and his visual cortex was completely unscathed, so the procedure’s purely medical demands where not as precipitous as they could have been.
Even so, Alan saw to it that only a trusted few knew the patient’s name.
Steve then spent the next week in recovery, with a full compliment of antibiotics and anti-inflammatories. In that time, his mechanical eyes remained covered, inert. He roused every morning with the same anxieties: What if they didn’t work? Was he to reach so high, only to stay blind? Alan was risking it all in order to keep things quiet, to give him privacy until he presented himself to the PCA. Could he handle the responsibility he was taking on? How could he, when he hadn’t even let himself feel the true pain of his loss yet?
To his credit, Alan spent at least an hour with Steve every single day. The two of them talked about whatever crossed Steve’s mind, and Alan soon became a comforting voice in the darkness. He never pressured Steve to talk about his feelings, but Steve knew that he could if he so desired. He just ... wasn’t ready.
PCA
A click, a beep, and a ticklish whirl behind Steve’s temples, and Alan pulled the device — whatever it was — away from the bridge of his nose. "All right, Steve," he whispered, "open your eyes."
NO I can’t I can’t open my eyes if I open my eyes and I’m BLIND I don’t know what I’ll do I don’t want to be blind
Slowly ... very slowly ... Steve opened his eyes. At first his breath caught and his heart stopped at the confused, blurred images, but before the panic set in, his vision snapped into focus.
"Weird," he whispered.
"I’m sorry?"
Steve turned to him. It felt strange to see Alan again — somehow, Steve had come to associate him with just his voice, like some sort of omnidirectional spirit. Hell, he’d even forgotten how much Alan looked like the actor Charles Grodin.
Steve stared at both Alan and the Davison bio-technician, absorbing the images before him.
"It’s like ..." he grasped for the correct words to describe what he was seeing, "it’s incredibly clear and sharp, but I can tell ... it, it’s ... I guess it’s sort of like I’m looking at computer generated images, like in the movies. I mean, everything’s three-D, and the color and resolution are fantastic ... but it’s still not ... quite ... real." He squinted, then crossed his eyes. Now that the picture had cleared, he found he couldn’t force it out of focus even when he tried.
"Interesting," Alan mumbled, absently running his fingers through his thinning hair. "I’d never thought about that. When we tested them, we were looking at digital images on a computer monitor. If it bothers you—"
"It’s fine," Steve interrupted. He gazed at every object in the room, examining his surroundings to the smallest detail. He was already growing accustomed to the difference. In fact, everything he looked at now leaped out at him with a clear definition far superior to his old eyesight, and he’d always had 20/20 vision. "Can I get up?"
"Certainly." Alan nodded at the med-tech, who lowered the safety bars on the side of the bed. Mindful this time of the IV still attached to his left hand, Steve swung his legs around and stood. He stretched, arching his back, then bending at the waist until his face rested against his legs.
"Wow," the tech commented. "You’re pretty limber."
Steve grinned as he straightened, unaware of how intently he stared into the man’s face. "I assume there’s a mirror in the bathroom?"
The tech nodded.
Pulling the IV stand with him, Steve moved around the corner, stepped close to his reflection, and inspected his new eyes. Funny, but he never asked what they would look like. He discovered they were a striking steel-blue, with pure whites without a hint of bloodshot. To his mild surprise, he liked the blue better than his former hazel.
"Steve," Alan called, "we need to run a few tests."
"Be there in a second," Steve said, still marveling at the company’s work, not to mention the surgeons’, who left no scars he could see.
By the time he returned, Alan had dismissed the technician.
I guess his security rating only goes so far, he thought. Better get used to that kind of thing, Davison, if you’re going to follow up on this cloak-and-dagger stuff.
"What do I do?" he asked.
"Sit on the bed." Steve sat, and Alan again placed the eye-band device against the bridge of his nose. Steve felt that light, ticklish feeling return, and he assumed correctly that contact had been established. Alan adjusted a dial, then said, "Now, I want you to think ‘thermal.’ Don’t just think the word, really concentrate on the concept. Push the idea of ‘heat’ in your mind."
Steve did as he was told, his brow furrowing as he struggled to master this first step. He pictured how he’d always seen thermal vision in the movies — "Predator" in particular leaped to his mind. Heat traces, glowing in the dark ... After a few seconds, the eye-band beeped, and Alan pulled it away.
"Now keep your eyes on me," Alan said as he walked over to the door, then grinned and added, "no pun intended." Steve smirked at that and allowed a slight groan to escape his throat, which made Alan grin even bigger. He flipped the light switch, then stepped over and drew heavy drapes across the windows, plunging the room into darkness.
"You can still see me?"
"Somewhat. My eyes adjusted immediately, but I really can’t see you that much better than I would have before."
"For the moment," Alan said. "Think ‘thermal’ again. Don’t just say it in your head, push it, like before. Thermal."
Steve focused.
Thermal ... thermal ...
At first, nothing happened ... then, suddenly, his vision sort of pulsed, and he could clearly see the different heat sources in the room — Alan shone like a bonfire.
"Oh, wow," he chuckled. "I can see you now."
"Excellent."
Steve was really grinning for the first time since his accident. For the moment, his woes were far from his mind. He gazed at the incredible light show, then laughed and mimicked a punctuated sound effect.
"What are you doing?" Alan asked, chuckling himself in confusion.
"Oh, come on, Alan." He repeated the sound effect. "Didn’t you ever watch ‘The Six Million Dollar Man?’ "
Alan gave one of his half-grunts. "Believe you me, young sir, those eyes cost a lot more than six million dollars." He reached for the light switch. "Think ‘standard’ to return to the normal spectrum. You’ll find that a bit easier than switching to thermal; it’ll also work if you think ‘default,’ ‘regular’ ... whatever you prefer. Whatever means ‘n
ormal vision’ to you — your eyes will find a broad, basic concept like that fairly simple to read. It’s the specials that require more specific programming."
Steve complied as Alan turned the lights back on and reopened the windows. "How exactly are they programmed?"
"Your eyes are controlled cybernetically, but they cannot, of course, read your actual thoughts. What we did earlier was train them to recognize the impulses of your brain for your concept of ‘thermal.’ You could just as easily have chosen ‘ice’ as your trigger and pictured a snowy day, if that’s what you’d wanted — I had them set to your infrared bandwidth, so the implants would have thought that was how you saw the concept." He grinned. "For simplicity, I’d recommend you keep the training as literal as possible."
"So they now recognize what I think of as ‘thermal,’ and respond accordingly."
"That’s correct. The process isn’t really all that different from how a polygraph test works ... although much, much more sophisticated. Some of the implants’ abilities don’t need to be trained, such as the glare protection." Alan chuckled as he seated himself in the guest chair. "You’re the only person alive who could look straight into a nuclear explosion without being blinded."
Steve grunted at the irony. He was looking at his hands, clicking his thermal vision on and off. He could even see the cooler temperatures where the IV fluid first entered his hand. "What other tests do we need to run?"
"That’s all for the time being — I merely wanted to confirm the implants were properly aligned before we proceed any further. You’re being released into our care tomorrow. Once we’re safely on Davison Electronics property, we’ll initiate and test some of those weapons we discussed." He hesitated a moment, then said, "It’s your company now, Steve."
Steve turned his attention to the older man. "What?"
"It’s in your parents’ will," Alan said gently. "Joseph told me once. You’re still subject to the rules and regulations of the PCA merger, but otherwise, it’s yours. It was originally intended to be split between you and your brother fifty-fifty, but ..." He cleared his throat. "The will hasn’t been read without you, of course, but I thought you’d want to know. Everything is yours."
His family had died, but now he was rich.
For a crucial moment, Steve thought he was going to vomit.
PCA
A couple of hours after Alan left, Steve grew restless. Now that he could see again, his hospital room suddenly made him feel claustrophobic in a way that even his temporary blindness hadn’t, and he decided to go for a walk.
Pulling his IV stand along with him, he stepped into the hallway. Although he’d been transported via bed and wheelchair through here several times, this was the first time he’d actually seen the place. When he first noticed the nurses’ station to his left, his impulse was to saunter in the opposite direction so as not to be noticed. Then he realized that he wasn’t under any orders to stay put, so he headed that way after all. Maybe he could strike up a conversation with his evening duty nurse — and find out what she looked like at the same time.
As he made his way down the stretch of corridor, he slowly became aware of a fairly animated conversation already taking place.
"... be so proud of him, Maggie!"
"Oh, I am, believe me! Why do you think I brought this in today?"
"Does he realize how important this is, or is he just glad he got out of all that extra homework?"
Three women, all huddled around something below the counter level. As Steve drew closer, one nurse — "Maggie" — glanced up.
"Oh, Mister Davison!" The others backed off and spontaneously became interested in various other paperwork.
"At ease, ladies," Steve soothed with a grin. "I won’t tell."
All three relaxed and returned his smile. "Can we get you anything, Mister Davison?"
Steve now recognized Maggie’s voice — she was his PM duty nurse. Until now, he’d only known her as "Nurse Lawrence," a title labeled to a disembodied voice. He now saw that she was a very real, not unattractive woman perhaps ten years older than himself. Staring into her dark brown eyes, he shrugged. "No, not really. I’m just stretching my legs, fending off a little boredom ..." All of the sudden, Steve realized why he’d headed in this direction after all, and the words flowed right out of his mouth without any further consideration. "I, uh ... I wanted to apologize for my behavior the past couple of weeks. I know that I’ve been a little ... cranky."
"Oh, Mister Davison," she said with deep empathy, and he saw her eyes moisten. "Please, don’t think anything of it. You’ve suffered a terrible loss. I wouldn’t have expected anything different. You have nothing to apologize for, Mister Davison."
"Steve," he insisted.
She smiled. "Steve, then. I’ll bet you’re happy to get the bandages off. And you must be so relieved."
It took Steve a moment to remember the story that Alan had deliberately circulated through the regular staff: Upon further examination from a series of specialists, the wounds to the tissue of his eyes had been far less severe than originally thought — the surgery a week ago had merely been to insure there were no complications along the natural healing process.
"Very relieved," Steve assured her, allowing his heartfelt comfort that the mechanical implants had actually worked to seep into his voice. "It sounded like you were pretty pleased about something before you noticed me."
"Oh! Oh, yes!" Her abashed chuckle seemed both embarrassed and proud. "My son, Jeffrey, wrote an essay for his fifth grade class near the end of the school year. He’d had the chickenpox, and his teacher let him do it for extra credit. His teacher praised it then, but I just received notice that they’re going to have a special PTA meeting when school starts again, just to discuss the issues my son wrote about!"
She was so proud. For a brief moment, Steve remembered how his mother would take his and John’s report cards to the beauty salon ... but he pushed the thought from his mind, lest his gloom return just after he’d made amends for it.
"That’s very impressive," he told her. "What did he write about?"
"The paranormals," she said. She then hesitated before adding, "I have a photocopy ... well, several photocopies of his essay here with me. Are you seeing well enough to read?"
Steve started to pretend that he wasn’t, but then he realized that he was honestly curious about what little Jeffrey had to say. "Sure. Can I have a copy?"
"Of course!" Maggie beamed as she produced the stapled pages from the stack in front of her. Steve accepted it with a smile, thanked her, and returned to his room.
Situating himself on the bed, Steve turned his brand-new eyes to their first task of reading. " ‘The Paranormals,’ " he mumbled aloud, " ‘by Jeffrey Lawrence, fifth grade — Miss Wallis ...’ "
When he finished, Steve lay his head back, closed his mechanical eyes ... and seriously contemplated little Jeffrey’s words.
TAKAYASU AND SHOCKWAVE
An awed, almost comical hush fell over the whole office when Ensign Takayasu entered with Shockwave in tow — Michael had to bite the inside of his cheek to hold his neutral expression.
Westmore, predictably, waltzed in only a few yards before acknowledging their audience. "What, you’ve never seen a half-Jap and his wacko partner before?" He clapped his hands sharply. "Back to work, people, back to work!"
With an equally amusing stutter, the PCA regional headquarters resumed its normal bustle. Michael led his associate to their double desk near the back.
"What’s this?" Shockwave grumbled. "No private office, secretaries? You’re an officer! Ain’t that good enough to get your own—"
"Park it, Mark."
"Whatever." But he did sit down.
Only strict discipline prevented Michael from gloating at the watchful eyes around him. Upon calling one of his Academy roommates over the weekend before he first met Westmore, Michael discovered that a betting pool had begun that they were talking about in every district in the region. Accor
ding to Jamie, his new co-workers were predicting all kinds of results for his first day with the infamous Shockwave. Prompt-request-for-transfer and resignation led the gauntlet — there was even a small table offering odds on a fight ending in his death. Every outcome imaginable ... except success.
So Michael — never one to back down from a challenge, behind his back or otherwise — sat down and thought long and hard about how to make things work. He was an amiable guy, and reasonably sure that he could get along with any difficult personality with time and effort, but that wouldn’t cut it now. He wanted to prove himself, in every possible way, and how better to start than by taming the rebel without a cause?
But that was a good question — how? After all, striking superior officers wasn’t exactly on the resume of your run-of-the-mill jerks. So what did that say about Mister Westmore? Problems with authority. Loner. Renegade. Probably wouldn’t take to patronizing psychology, and sure as hell no pulling of rank. He liked attention, though, or he wouldn’t have been able to reign himself in for the PCA this long. And there was also the notable fact that Westmore had not gone rogue, even when rogue was in vogue.
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