Letters to the Cyborgs

by Judyth Baker

  “Listen, Mary,” he began, shoving his personal tablet in front of her face. “Just take a look at all those medical bills. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, what with Myra leaving me, and I want us to get along. I’m under treatment now, and my medical problem is under control. But I have to use that damned oil twice a day. So – please be reasonable.”

  “I’m trying to be reasonable,” she replied. “But – I’ve never – I’ve never seen a penis quite like yours before!” she blurted out.

  Rage filled him at her words. ”How dare you!” he snarled at her. “Here I’ve got to finish these assignments for the Old Man before he gets back – it’s priority number one – and what do you gripe about? What my penis looks like!”

  “Your penis has barbs all over it!”6

  “Do you think I am happy with that?” he snarled. “The damned things just popped up overnight!”

  “You had them last week. They hurt me!”

  “I’m sorry!”

  “But now, they’re even bigger! I’ll never have sex with you again!”

  “Shut up!”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Jackson,” she replied. “I’ll shut up!” She threw down her phone-plugs. “And I’m never speaking to you again, either!”

  “Good!” he growled, as she stomped into the old Man’s office. Again a slammed door, and he was alone. At the same time, he heard the chimes of her phone plugs ringing. Maybe Willard, in the other office, was calling her, for it was after hours. With all the international business they now had, Willard took the night shift. Willard wasn’t in a great mood these days himself. He was having a lot of trouble with the Old Man. The boss was gone a lot, opening up a new distribution center somewhere in the world every month. The two legal services sales managers used to eat dinner together on a regular basis, but Jackson couldn’t eat meals with anyone anymore. He had to have his privacy. By the time he decided to answer the phone-plug, it was too late. Clawing down into his pocket, Jackson retrieved his little black book. Almost no one used an address book made of paper anymore, so it was the most secure means to keep a private schedule. Paging through, Jackson opened the little book to Dr. Throckmorton’s appointment block. He wasn’t supposed to see Throckmorton for another two days, but Jackson grit his teeth, then made a call.

  “Doctor!” he said, into the phone, “I know it’s after hours, but I’ve got to see you! Something has happened to my, uh, my…” he couldn’t bring himself to say the rest, just begged the doctor to meet him in the Emergency Room. No matter what the price, he was willing to pay it.

  The Emergency Room was packed to the doorways, but Jackson had credit. Lots of it. In no time, Dr. Throckmorton arrived, looking haggard and irritated. The first thing he did was listen to Jackson’s heart. Throckmorton scratched his red, white and blue locks, listened to Jackson’s heart again, and muttered, “45 beats per minute … that’s a little slow. No wonder you’re having trouble getting up in the morning.”7 He then delicately agreed to view Jackson’s barbed penis. “Well, well!” he commented. “It’s quite a penis you’ve got there!”

  “Not funny, doctor,” Jackson grumbled.

  “And it’s quite a beard you’ve been growing, I might add.” Throckmorton passed a gloved hand over his breath shield. “Just remember, you’re still feeling good. In fact, as the disease progresses, you’ll start feeling stronger, not weaker. The virus is changing your metabolism. You’re going to notice hair growth…”

  “I know!” Jackson retorted. “I read the brochure. But what do you mean, ‘as the disease progresses’? Won’t the Snake Oil keep it under control?”

  Most of the doctor’s face was inscrutable behind the breath shield, but Jackson sensed that no amount of money was going to keep the man at his side much longer. “Understand,” Throckmorton said slowly, “I’m being exposed continually, myself, to this virus. In fact, I’m not accepting new patients. I’m overwhelmed. As for your leprosy…” The doctor’s voice went to a low whisper … “even H.S.O. can’t cure it overnight. What it will do is make your transition to a final equilibrium as uneventful as possible. Above all, the itching will stop and the hair growth will finally slow down.” Throckmorton jabbed a long stylus directly into Jackson’s bearded chin. “See? You didn’t flinch, because you can’t feel much. Your ability to take pain has grown exponentially. That’s because this form of leprosy can destroy nerves that might have told your brain that pain was being felt. I can prescribe corticosteroids, sulfones, those almost-forgotten, old-fashioned remedies, but nothing is going to help you as much as H.S.O. And thank the stars, your own company has been stockpiling it.”

  “I knew the Old Man was onto something big, when he changed our name,” Jackson agreed.

  “The pharmacy is jammed with people trying to get H.S.O.,” Throckmorton went on. “And since they’ve just now raised the price sky-high, I brought you a liter of it. It’s free, because I’m counting on you to help me get some more. People are willing to pay almost anything to get their hands on this, so whatever you do, don’t let anybody see this…” The doctor opened his white coat and slipped a liter marked “wine” into Jackson’s hands. Jackson grabbed the “wine” gratefully. He knew his time was up, but at the last moment, Throckmorton made a final comment. “Your food cravings are going to intensify. If I were you, I’d buy myself a load of meat on the way home. Even synthetic meat is going to get pretty scarce, these next few weeks.”

  That night, as Jackson chewed on some real red meat, realizing that it might be the last he’d be able to buy for a while, he watched the newscasts on his wall with special concern. There were riots in the meat markets, worldwide. A craving for meat was taking over the planet, and whole herds of sheep and dairy cows were vanishing. Cattle rustling had become an epidemic. Suddenly, his brain automatically tuned in to a Special Report: the Police demanded the attention of all citizens. As he scratched at a lesion that was thickening his nose, he clawed open his original bottle of H.S.O. and started rubbing it over his face. The relief was instantaneous; he was able once more to concentrate on the Report.

  What Jackson saw made him tremble. When all the prison ships filled up, the ancient leprosaria were reopened across the world to hold millions more in quarantine. Since these havens were already filling up fast, anyone diagnosed with the disease was now ordered to stay off the streets. The New World President himself was afflicted and had gone into hiding. But not to worry: the riots were coming under control, and an emergency council of apparently immune vegetarians was forming.

  Riots! Who had ever heard of riots anymore? All citizens had been conditioned to use other means of protest, such as writing subversive poetry or singing protest songs, which could easily be edited and made harmless. Riots were events of the past: the human brain had been domesticated. Violence was over. That is, it had been. The twelve billions that populated the earth had sent every wild animal into extinction long ago, though of course their descendants still subsisted in zoos and in large aquariums. Artificial islands had been pumped up out of the high seas and desalinization plants kept everyone supplied with plenty of water, but the sea itself was now so acidic and salty that most ocean life was extinct. It was the price Cymanity8 had to pay to get everything it wanted.

  The Report added that until more leprosaria were built, those with the disease must stay indoors. “Pay attention!” Jackson’s Report Monitor shouted into his ear. “You are required by Law to Pay Attention, or you will be fined 100 credits. This is a matter of New World security. Do not turn off your receptor.”

  The next morning, Jackson made a trip to a remote meat market, covering himself with a trench coat. Jackson was grateful that he was wealthy enough to afford such a garment. He also owned a vehicle that could be independently driven if he plugged in the proper codes. It was an old model: newer ones had no such features. Of course, Jackson had some H.S.O. with him. It was now necessary to use it at least three times a day to slow down the progression of the disease. Above all, he y
earned for meat.

  He was astounded at how many people were standing in line at the meat market. Though it was a hot, muggy day, the men were wearing hats and long coats, and the women were wearing veils. They couldn’t possibly be Muslims, because this market sold pork. He suspected that the only reason this market hadn’t been looted during last night’s riots was because it had recently been fined for selling rat meat, removing it from the public list of meat markets.

  Today, that didn’t matter, and word of mouth had spread the news. Jackson, fearful that the market would run out of meat before he could purchase any, began handing out credit bribes to those in line and soon found himself just inside the plate glass doors. Some fifteen people were still standing in front of him, waiting for what was the last load of meat to get unpacked. It was a desperate time: with an extravagance that would have made an Aga Khan look cheap, Jackson bribed his way to third-in-line. He came away with the last real meat the market had to offer.

  Five days later, Jackson was reduced to eating only synthetic meat, and he was miserable. Atop that, his H.S.O. was now all but worthless: there were simply too many lesions and tufts of hair growing all over his body. The elixir just couldn’t reach every square inch of his itching skin. It was maddening. As the lesions thickened everywhere, his arms and legs were becoming muscular and furry. The Old Man had finally returned (Mary was at his side, damn her!). Seeing Jackson in such a state, after his absence of a mere week, a tear glittered in the Old Man’s eye.

  “I’m so sorry!” he told him. He advised Jackson not to worry: the Old Man had seen this coming and had created “Vat Dip Services, HSO.” Whereas others had to spend fortunes for full body dips into the company’s vats of H.S.O., Jackson, whose entire body was now covered with golden fur, would get a daily dip, free of charge. The company had been renamed “Hansen’s S.O.” and Jackson was still able to work a few hours, despite his growing list of impediments, which included claws on the ends of his thickening hands and feet. The Old Man was impressed with Jackson’s efforts.

  “I’m surprised you can still talk, son,” he told Jackson.

  “Ifff you can stillll callll this talllllking,” Jackson somehow managed to say. “I stillll want meat. Get me meat! MEAT!”

  The Old Man was bald: he told Jackson he was of the opinion that somehow this had helped him resist contamination.

  “You know, you’ve been like the son I never had,” the Old Man told Jackson. “That’s why I have arranged for you to get Vat Dips for free. It’s a special strength of H.S.O. You deserve some consideration, after all you’ve done for me these past six years.”

  Jackson knew that the Old Man felt sorry for him. He resented that, but was deeply moved by the offer of the Vat Dip. His hands were becoming stiff, and it was difficult for him to sit because his spine had been elongating, right at the base. He was trying to hide the tailbone that kept protruding there, but a tail was now growing there apace.

  There’s no hope, he thought to himself. I’m hardly human anymore.“Go on over to the Vat Facility,” the Old Man told him. “Take my personal car. I’ve been told that some people who take this Dip are getting cured. If I have to send you there a dozen times, I will.”

  Once again hiding his deformities under his trench coat, Jackson clambered into the Old Man’s private car and let it whiz him through the streets, which were now almost deserted. Most people were forced to stay inside their homes now. As he went deeper into the city, he could see vans being filled with victims who were forced inside by punishing jolts of electricity administered by old-fashioned Robobots. Well, he had a special clearance, thanks to the Old Man! Perhaps the Dip would work. If it did, by tomorrow, or the next day, the symptoms, the Old Man said, would start to reverse. When his car stopped briefly at a makeshift ID Station, he saw a woman, her face half-covered with a veil, who turned her head to look at him as her car was impounded. He’d forgotten to cover his face, and when she spotted him, she screamed. Not a good sign: he had stopped looking into mirrors days ago.

  As Jackson strained to drown out her scream from his thoughts, he could sense the fear that filled that helpless heap of human flesh… he shook his head and drew the trench coat closer. He now had two pairs of long fangs in his jaws.

  All the better to eat them with … he thought to himself. With some effort, Jack (that’s what he called himself now) managed to get into the Dip Station. Two robots were waiting for him: they guided him to the huge vat of Hansen’s Snake Oil, where he was given a priority dip ahead of the line. Immediately, the itching between his toes and fingers stopped, and the tail he’d been growing the last few days literally dropped off.

  The Dip in the Vat had been successful, from some standpoints. Jack emerged from the Dip with a new-found desire for women as a source of sex, not just a source of food. That was some improvement, even if rape might be necessary to achieve his goals. But before Jack could decide whether to hunt what he wished to eat or rape, a tawny, powerful blonde with a fierce face and green eyes had come to him, asking for his protection against smaller, less impressive males. She said very little, preferring to rub up against him. Unlike that weak little cow, Myra, she looked up to him! If Myra could see him now! (Unfortunately, Myra had died in a Meat Riot.)

  A few moments later, several other golden bitches surrounded him.

  These brawny, powerful women were very much like him. They had been adjusting to the Bacterium’s infection and now felt much better.

  “Stay away from the Snake Oil!” one of the women hissed. “We like you the way you are!”

  These magnificent she-beasts were getting tired of trying to hide their new condition. He understood. As did they, Jack now viewed the weak, pale humans still available in the city as potential prey. They were a mere trembling source of protein on the hoof. As for Jack, strutting along in the center of his ring of female admirers, he longed for his tail to start growing again: that dip in the Vat was a mistake he would not make again. Once an inferior male came close, but at the very sight of Jack, it turned and fled.

  That’s how grand he was now. His hair flowed in a gorgeous mass of gold and black around his neck, and he was marvelously muscular and mandibular. 9Those nervous little folk drew back from their windows as he stalked past. When they did, his instinct was to smash through the windows, grab them by the neck, and devour them, leaving the bones for his bitches.

  A faint recollection that murder was wrong stirred into his conscious thoughts. But who had taught him that catching one’s meat and devouring it was wrong? Hadn’t he eaten meat all his years? Hadn’t he been responsible for the deaths of those who carried all that red meat on those tasty little bones? One thing for sure – get in his way, and if you dared stand your ground, be afraid. Be very afraid.

  A whole day went by before Jack thought about returning to the office, the Old Man, to Willard, and to Mary.

  When he did, Mary timidly stuck her head out of the old Man’s office, looked at him, then slammed the door and locked it. She was a blonde again, and that made him pause: he decided not to pounce on her. At least, not yet.

  Her hair was no longer Red, White and Blue. It was now a pleasing gold, tightly curled around her face. It was hot and muggy in the office: the air conditioning was no longer working. In fact, not much was now working anywhere. The lights were out. The water taps released no water. The cars that had once rippled endlessly from street to street were haphazardly stalled. Somewhere in the distance, with the big windows slung open, the sounds of screams and gunshots could be heard. Guns had been banned for a hundred and fifty years, but now they had been resurrected from museums, collections and hidden closets.

  As Jack stood there, undecided about what he intended to do next, Willard innocently opened the door to his office. Willard, himself now clothed in yellow fur, still had a human face. Though he put up a struggle, Willard’s jaws and teeth were no match for Jack’s … with a roar, Jack told Willard exactly what would become of him.

&n
bsp; “He actually came back!” Mary told the Old Man. “How he managed to do it, I don’t know.”

  “He was always dedicated to us to an extraordinary degree,” the Old Man replied, with a tired sigh. The Old Man scratched his bald head, perplexed. “I may have to shoot him,” he said. “You heard all the racket he made in Willard’s office.”

  The old Man had a penchant for antique American chewing gum and was chewing on it thoughtfully as he considered the options. When he leaned back in his office chair and blew a bubble, Mary smiled. He had made his decision. As the old man pulled out a stun gun, and set it on ‘kill,’ she started to relax. After all, they were about to be rescued from the office building where they had been stranded the past three days. Only Jackson stood in their way.

  “Well, should I do it, Mary?”

  “Shoot him,” she said.

  She saw that he was reluctant to kill the most dangerous animal they had ever seen.

  “He actually came back,”: the Old Man echoed. “How extraordinary of him! He managed to make it up all those stairs, with no elevator, in his mental state! How he managed, I just can’t fathom, but he did it!”

  “He was probably hungry,” she replied.

  He opened their office door cautiously, stun gun in hand, scanning the reception hall. The doors for Jackson and Willard were both closed, but they paused when Mary pointed to Willard’s office door. Dark blood was slowly emerging from under the door. As they tiptoed toward it, Mary pointed to the trash bin near Jackson’s door. It was filled with empty liters of Hansen’s Snake Oil, heap upon heap. “Look how much he used,” Mary whispered. She felt saddened. “He tried so hard to get well!”

  “Shhhh, he’ll hear you,” the Old Man warned. “While his eyesight has deteriorated, he has very keen hearing now.”