Twin Effect

by Ann Somerville

  Twin Effect

  Ann Somerville

  ‘Twin Effect’ Copyright © 2013 by Ann Somerville

  Cover image © Coka - Fotolia.com.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. While real products such as the awesome i-LIMB and the bebionic3 were researched during the writing of this story, there is no connection between it or any other product and the artificial limb described in this work, nor to any real individual, company or academic institution.

  The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  For more information please visit my website at http://annsomerville.net

  Smashwords Edition 1, April 2013

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Published by Ann Somerville

  Chapter 1

  Dylan looked around while the barman poured his pint, and decided he’d chosen pretty well for a spur-of-the-moment decision. He’d walked into this pub purely because it was on his way home, looked clean, well-lit, and not too naff, and most importantly, had a good selection of real ales available. He hadn’t paid much attention to the crowd because he wasn’t interested in company. Only now, as he waited for his beer, did he notice the unusual lack of women and the well-groomed appearance of the men sitting mostly in pairs around the small tables.

  Ah. Well, a gay pub was as good as any other, and they did have his favourite bitter on tap. The barman was easy enough on the eye too.

  “There you go. Two pounds ninety, thanks.”

  “Cheers,” Dylan said, handing over exact money. He turned his right hand and set it into grasping mode to pick up his pint. Once the glass was in hand, he turned away, intending to find a quiet nook to mope in.

  “New in town?”

  Dylan paused and turned back to smile at the barman. “Yeah, as a matter of fact. About to start work at the university as a lecturer.”

  “Oh, what in? I’m a student there.”

  “Engineering.”

  “I’m reading Law. We get a lot of uni people in here. Very tolerant, mostly.”

  Dylan, long enough out of the dating game to be unsure if the guy was flirting with him or not, just smiled. “That’s good. I’m only here for the bitter, though.”

  The young barman’s face lost none of its cheer. “Enjoy.”

  Dylan lifted his drink a little to show no hard feelings, and made his way as quickly as he gracefully could to an empty table near the back door. It was a warm evening, and the beer garden through the exit looked busy and cheerful, but his mood demanded shadows and solitude.

  The pint was excellent, and so he could count on at least one local where he would find a drop worth drinking. The social possibilities didn’t matter just now, but he could file it away in case his libido ever woke up and decided to give him a hard time. As it were.

  He could have drunk his pint using his left hand, but he consciously chose his right. The hand was in testing, so he needed to use it anyway, but it had taken him a long time to get used to having a prosthetic hand. He didn’t want to fall back into the habit of keeping it in his pocket because the stares bothered him, or it was more hassle than it was worth. People still looked—the guy to his left with the soul patch and the yellow-checked Ben Sherman shirt was eyeing the hand’s visible wires and electronics with a curiously raised eyebrow—but Dylan had learned not to resent the curiosity. If he’d wanted the hand to be less conspicuous, he could have chosen the realistic cover. And the mode changing had become easier and more automatic, even if there were tasks it was still actually easier to do with his left hand.

  “Wow, that is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!”

  Dylan looked up, startled out of his reverie. He found a gangly young man with wild curly brown hair and bright eyes, smiling at him like they were long-lost friends. “Er?”

  “Your hand. Are you in costume? That looks like something from Terminator. Don’t recognise the character, though. Can I touch it?”

  The enthusiastic stranger didn’t actually reach over and touch his hand, though it looked as if he was holding himself back with a tremendous effort. Dylan nodded, as much amused as confused, and the kid stroked the back of the hand with respect, his eyes widening in surprise as most people’s did at finding the surface was not as slippery as it looked. “That’s creepy. You put a lot of work into it.”

  “Not me, personally.”

  “Well, it’s still cool. Are you going to a party later?”

  It was nearly ten, and Dylan, at thirty-four, was a tad past the age of partying past midnight. “No. It’s not a costume. It’s a prosthetic hand.”

  The guy smiled uncertainly. He didn’t get it.

  Dylan held up both hands. “Real,” he said, waggling his left hand. “Electronic,” he added, slowly opening the myoelectric right one, the servos whirring quietly.

  The kid’s face coloured immediately. “Oh. My. God. I’m so sorry. Bloody hell, I’m such an idiot.”

  He started to back away, but Dylan waved him closer. “It’s fine, honestly. Most people have never seen this kind of prosthetic before. I’m not offended.”

  But the kid had his hand over his mouth as if something he regretted might fall out of it.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Dylan would probably regret the impulse but years of teaching had left him with an incurable urge to spread knowledge and allay the fear of the unknown.

  “I....”

  “Come on. Unless you’re disgusted by amputees?”

  A cheap shot, but effective. The kid flushed again, but grabbed the other chair. “No, of course not. I’m just a prat.”

  “No, you aren’t.” Dylan reached over with his right hand. “Dylan Gallaher.”

  The kid’s only hesitation was in working out how to grab the prosthesis. He shook it carefully. “Max. Max Symonds. You must think I’m an idiot.”

  “Not at all. I’m glad the hand looks cool.”

  “It does! I mean, it doesn’t look like any fake hand I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve seen that many, but aren’t they usually covered with fake skin or something?”

  “Yes. There’s an option of a realistic skin, an all black one, or this clear one. The designers liked the idea of all the inner tech showing, and so do I. People always look at my hand, so I figured, why not give them something interesting to see.”

  “You helped design it?”

  “I’m one of their testers as well as one of their lead engineers. Rather I was a lead engineer. They’re based in Durham, but they’re looking to expand down south. I’m setting up a lab here at the university to carry out more research and development, with sponsorship from them and their business partners.”

  “And you made this hand?”

  “There’s a team of people. I’m just one. This is the latest version of a series they’ve had out for a while. It’s not on the market yet.”

  Max stared at Dylan’s hand, apparently mesmerised. But then he shook himself. “Can I buy yo
u a drink as an apology?”

  “No need—”

  “Please?”

  Dylan smiled. “Sure. Just half a pint of the Speckled Hen.”

  “Back in a minute.”

  Dylan watched him leave, and wondered how a decent solitary mope had turned into a drink with a puppyish young man. ‘Puppyish’ was a bit unkind. Young and enthusiastic, speaking without thinking it through. Typical student, in fact. Oh God, Max wasn’t one of his future students, was he?

  When Max returned and put their drinks on the table, Dylan asked him directly, and got a direct answer. “No, I never went to university. I’m a woodcarver. Sort of a sculptor.”

  “Oh.”

  “My brother’s the smart one. He’s studying maths. You’ll know him if you see him. He’s my twin. Identical.” Max smiled fondly.

  “Being a twin must be nice.”

  “Yeah, it is. So...what’s the story?” Max gestured at Dylan’s right hand.

  “Motorbike accident. Seven years ago. Lorry, road, fence, much pain and general mangling.”

  “Ouch. But still, this looks almost as good as the real thing. Is it? How does it work?”

  Dylan ran the hand through its paces, putting it into the various positions and demonstrating grips. Max watched politely, eyes avid, as if he envied Dylan his prosthetic.

  “Can you feel anything with it?”

  “No. That side of prosthetics is still very much in its experimental phase. We’re looking at improving feedback from the sensors to give a better illusion of touch and feel, but it’s complicated.”

  “So...not really as good as the real thing.”

  “Not really.” Unbidden memories of being on his motorbike flashed into Dylan’s head as they did far too often. He’d always minded losing the ability to ride his bike more than he did losing his career as an electrical engineer. Mind you, he had a better career now, but nothing could replace the feeling of being on a powerful machine, ripping down the motorway, the wind and the engine vibrating through his body like living things.

  “I’ve put my foot in it again, haven’t I?”

  Dylan came back to himself. “No, not at all. Unless you use prosthetics, you would have no reason to know what the technology is capable of. Some people think the hands are no better than unmoving models of the original, and others think we’re at Star Wars level. The truth is in between.”

  “I don’t know how I would cope. I mean, with my woodworking. You need two hands.”

  “You’d adapt. You just have to. I’m nothing special.”

  “You’re so cheerful about it though.”

  Dylan groaned theatrically. “Please. I’ve had a long time to adapt. It’s a fact of life. You’d be the same.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Well, I hope you never find out. Is this your local? I mean, is it close to where you live?”

  Max gave him a wide grin. “No. But it’s friendlier than my local, if you know what I mean.”

  Dylan nearly choked on his beer. His gaydar was rusty as hell. “I’m just here for the bitter.”

  “Is it your local?”

  “More or less. I saw it while I was exploring, and thought it was worth trying. Only just moved here from up north.”

  “Oh. So you didn’t...like, choose it specially?”

  Was Max was flirting with him? Dylan couldn’t tell, but he wasn’t in the mood even if he was. “Sorry, no. I mean, I might do some other time. Just not tonight.”

  “I understand. I’ll leave you alone then.”

  “You don’t have to. I wasn’t looking for company when I came in, but you’re not bothering me.”

  “Are you sure? Toby says I can be a bit much.”

  Max’s boyfriend, maybe? “Who’s Toby?”

  “My twin. He’s the quiet one. He says I make enough noise for two.”

  Max’s wide grin forced a smile out of Dylan. “Funny how often twins split out that way.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve noticed. He loves me to death though.”

  That led, quite naturally, into a discussion about twins and their oddities. Dylan didn’t mention his own family. He didn’t feel like talking about Kieran and Rachel. He’d come out tonight to try and ease the ache, not sharpen it.

  The barman calling “Time, gentlemen, please” came as a shock. An hour had passed so quickly, and Dylan could have sworn that half-pint glass had been full just a minute ago.

  Max sat up with a jerk. “Damn, I need to get home.”

  “Someone waiting up for you?”

  “No...I just need to go. Um, will you be back here again?”

  “I think it’s very likely.”

  Max grinned. “Then I’ll see you later, Dylan. Bye, clever hand.”

  He rushed off before Dylan could come back with a comment. Not that he had one. “Clever hand.” That was a new one.

  Had Dylan just made a new friend? Even if he hadn’t, Max had successfully blown away his mopiness for an entire hour, and for that, Dylan was grateful. Now he had to go back and deal with Rachel’s email.

  Tomorrow, he would deal with it. No point in ruining a perfectly good, almost cheerful mood.

  He picked up his cane, and levered himself to his feet, using his ‘clever hand’ to wave goodnight to the barman. The guy blinked a little, then nodded. Maybe he thought Dylan was off to a costume party too. Maybe he’d seen prosthetic hands before.

  Or maybe it just wasn’t a big deal to him.

  Dylan would find out soon enough. He’d be back at this pub. For the beer, of course.

  Chapter 2

  The following two weeks were full and exhausting. In between the tedium of sorting out his new digs, he had to prepare materials for his class schedule, attend a staff meeting with his new colleagues, as well as set up the R&D lab for the new partnership. It was his first post as a lecturer, so he was a little nervous, but his experience and knowledge of biomechatronics were solid, and his colleagues already treated him as something of a guru. Whether his undergraduate students would feel the same, he had no idea. He had two weeks before he’d meet them in person.

  He’d also found the courage to answer Rachel’s email and give his assent to her plan, however much it hurt to do it. She’d sworn up and down it wouldn’t make any difference to his relationship with Kieran, and Dylan believed her. But signing away his kid to a guy he’d never met didn’t sit well with him. Not that he had the right to say yay or nay to Rachel’s choices, of course. He just wished they still lived in the same country as he did.

  Max hadn’t reappeared at the pub, at least not on the four nights Dylan had been back there. No one else had approached him, though he now recognised enough of the regulars to give them friendly nods and receive them in return. He still wasn’t looking for company, and wasn’t surprised at not being offered it. The cane was usually more of a turn off than the hand, but he never had fitted the image of a modern, well-groomed bisexual. The bike had been more than enough to attract interest, before the accident.

  He did catch a fleeting glimpse of someone in the local Waitrose who looked remarkably like Max, although his hair was pulled back into a bun under a cap so the presence or absence of wild curls couldn’t be ascertained. For a moment, Dylan thought this might be Toby, Max’s twin, but discounted it. This guy looked older, although Dylan didn’t know for sure how old Max was. Twenty-three, twenty-four? Though his brother was studying, then he presumably was no more than twenty-one, twenty-two, unless the brother was doing post-grad work.

  Friday, after Dylan’s call to Kieran, was definitely a pub night. It was one thing for your not-a-girlfriend’s kid to sometimes call you “Dylan”, not “Dad”. That was how modern relationships worked. But when that not-a-girlfriend’s kid—your only child, and object of your deepest yearnings for a family—refers to the not-a-girlfriend’s newish husband as “Dad”, you could be forgiven for.... What? Jealousy? Grief? Anger? All three? None of the above, considering that you’d never been his mother�
�s partner?

  Reasonable or not, Kieran’s casual remark had put Dylan’s world off-kilter. He’d struggled after that to concentrate on Kieran’s chat about his school friends and the snake he’d found in the garden shed. (Snakes! What had Rachel got herself into, moving to Australia?) An hour later, Dylan still hadn’t been able to settle his confused emotions, and as he usually did when that happened, he decided there was nothing for it but a pint.

  The beer helped with the first sip, but when the second brought Max, grin in place, curls wild and unfettered as ever, the hard pain eased properly in Dylan’s chest, and his answering smile was genuine. “Where have you been? I thought you were a regular.”

  “Oh, just doing this and that. I didn’t know you were looking for me.”

  “I wasn’t, not really. Shall I buy the drink this time?”

  “If you like. I’m a bit short this week,” Max admitted with a rueful twist of his mouth.

  “Mind the table then. What are you having?”

  “Pint of cider, if that’s okay.”

  Dylan used the cane to get to his feet. Max’s mouth fell open in shock. “Oh hell. I didn’t...let me get it, Dylan.”

  “Sit down, kid. I can manage to buy a pint of apple juice without help.”

  Max frowned, appeared to process something, then grinned. “It’s not juice.”

  “Pffft. Cider. Real men drink real ale.”

  “Sure they do, Granddad.”

  Dylan shook the cane at him. “Watch it, kid.”

  Max’s grin grew wider. Embarrassment over.

  Dylan bought the cider and brought it back to the table. Setting it down, he asked, “Just how underage are you, anyway?”

  “Underage? I’m twenty.”

  “Time you learned to drink bitter then.”

  Max stuck out his tongue. Dylan grinned in response. Max’s youth was a bit of a surprise. Mind you, Dylan had grown hopeless at judging ages. Police officers had officially started looking too young to be wearing the uniform.