Guardian's Rise

by Matthew Renard

  ‘Gotcha.’ I tapped the middle of the belt, and my feet, along with my legs up to my knees, vanished. Sammy smiled and shook his head. ‘I wish we’d have had this thing for Halloween.’

  ‘What’re you talking about, Sammy? Halloween’s still...’ I wracked my brain, trying to remember the last time I’d seen a calendar. We’d arrived on the 18th of September... so...

  ‘Boy, you’re totally out of it. It’s November 4th today.’ Sammy cackled. ‘So, what’re you going to get me for Christmas, Mr Gazillionaire?’

  I pondered that. ‘How about a nice big foot up your backside?’

  The laughter died, and Sammy regarded me seriously. ‘Deal.’ He looked at Michael. ‘Hear that? Jay will be walking and able to kick me by Christmas.’

  ‘Sounds like a good goal. Seven weeks recovery and physio is certainly possible.’ Michael nodded. ‘But from what I understand, you may be pushing yourself.’

  Seven weeks. I mused to myself, trying to push thoughts of Christmas out of my mind, and think about what it would be like to walk on robotic legs, or have a robotic arm. As I thought about it, a little dark tickle entered the back of my mind, skipping through my thoughts and becoming bigger and darker all the time.

  Thoughts of revenge.

  Chapter Eight

  Post-Op

  As I went under, I couldn’t help but be a little perturbed. I couldn’t remember ever falling asleep looking over to my left and seeing my own legs. Especially since my legs looked only slightly like they had in the video I had seen, and I was now distinctly worried about setting off metal detectors when I flew back home. I had mentioned that worry to Sammy as I was pushed to the OR, and he had smiled and said, “I wouldn’t worry about that.” At the time, I had no idea what he meant.

  The bastard.

  I dreamt when I was under. I remembered a Christmas when I was younger, and we went on a trip to Switzerland, and the alps. I had never been skiing before but wanted to make a good impression on the Roarke family, who came with us. Sammy tagged along too, since he had no family of his own that he wanted to spend time with, but I wasn’t too bothered about impressing him. I fell in love with the crisp air and the endless expanses of white - so foreign to my urban eyes, like something out of a children’s book on winter. I could see why Emily loved coming skiing so much. I wanted to impress her (of course) and it was fairly early on in our relationship, and so we set off to find...

  ‘Not a red run, Jay.’

  ‘Come on! It’ll be fun.’

  Emily looked at me speculatively. ‘And you’re saying you’ve never been on skis before?’

  ‘Yeah, but you have, and-’

  Sammy clapped an arm on my shoulder. ‘And my boy Jay here wants to impress you. So whilst he should really be on the green slopes, he’s jumping right up to red to show off just how broken his leg can get!’

  I glared at my friend and shrugged his hand away.

  ‘Look, Jay, it’s sweet and all, but I don’t mind going on the green slopes. I mean, it’s been ages since I’ve skied myself, so a refresher wouldn’t be that...’

  She trailed off as a snowboarder hit a jump not too far from us and pointed. ‘Look at that!’

  All I could see as the glare from the sun threatened to blind me was the red balaclava completely covering the boarder’s face, along with his reflective goggles. I got a shiver which I couldn’t entirely attribute to the chill of the mountains, although I didn’t know why. I watched as the snowboarder performed a spin in mid-air; something I’d never seen outside of video games and later learned was called a 360, for obvious reasons.

  ‘Now that was cool.’ Emily breathed, and I noticed her staring in admiration.

  ‘Hmm.’ I tried to make myself seem non-committal about the spectacle.

  ‘Oh, come on, Jay.’ Sammy shook his head. ‘That was awesome. And you’d never be able to pull that off in a million years.’

  ‘Well,’ I stumbled. ‘Maybe half a million?’

  They laughed, and we headed up a slope to ski. Sammy was naturally athletic and took to the slopes like he had lived there; Emily was as graceful as ever, dancing effortlessly over the snow as she glided downhill. As for myself, I managed to not break or strain or pull anything... but I all too quickly learned that skiing would not be a sport I could manage. I’d always preferred Kendo and fencing anyway. The laughter and fun of the day, as well as the image of the snowboarder in the red balaclava, stayed with me long after everything else had faded.

  As I awoke, I realised my legs and arm were itchy. Not the itch I had become accustomed to after I had awoken in the hospital - this was a more concrete and all too annoying scratchiness that wouldn’t abate. Sitting up slightly, I looked around to see a nurse peering down at me, a smile which I could only label as “perky” plastered onto her face.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Anson.’ She chirruped.

  Although this time I knew I would be waking up in a hospital bed, I really wished to be waking up in my own... hey! Hang on...

  ‘Do I live here?’ I inquired, my thoughts falling out of my mouth before I could stop them.

  ‘Oh, dear.’ The nurse put on an overly consternated face. ‘Do you not know where you are, Mr Anson?’

  ‘Yes, I’m in Cape Hill for my reconstructive surgery. I only meant-’

  ‘And do you know the date?’ The nurse got a little pen light and shone it into my eyes. I didn’t know what artificial eyes were supposed to do with this, but I’m guessing they reacted normally.

  ‘It was the fourth of November when I went under, so unless there was another explosion, I’d say... 16th of December 1773?’

  Her eyes narrowed in what seemed to be the first genuine reaction I had elicited. ‘Nobody likes a smart ass, Mr Anson.’

  ‘Sorry. We are still part of the Empire, right?’

  She sighed. ‘Well, you appear to be all better. Would you like anything to drink?’

  ‘I’m guessing there isn’t any tea.’

  She shook her head and left. Immensely amused with myself, I ran my fingers through my hair, then paused.

  Something wasn’t right. By which I mean it was normal, and that was wrong.

  I looked over at my left arm, with the fingers from my left hand still entwined in my hair.

  I tapped my head.

  ‘Huh.’

  I pulled my hand away and stared at it. It was a little paler than normal and there was no arm hair on the back of it, but it looked sort of like my hand. Kind of.

  Look at your dominant hand. Go on, I won’t go anywhere. Really study it intently. Look at the front and the back, the palm and the fingertips. Look at your fingernails. See that little scar on the back of your hand when you burnt it against the oven? That’s a part of you. That’s your history; as much as it hurt at the time, that will forever remain a small portion of your identity. Now imagine losing not just that hand but the entire arm, and just coming to terms with the idea that you’ll never be able to sign your name properly again, when you’re given a whole new arm. It feels wrong, in the same sense that wearing a perfectly fitting pair of shoes feels, when they belong to somebody else. Or, if you’ve ever played that game where you sit on your hand for several minutes, until it goes numb? My new arm felt like that.

  I flexed my fingers experimentally. They wiggled, but not to the extent I had hoped. Maybe running my fingers through my hair just now was a fluke? I sighed, and caught myself scratching the bridge of my nose with my left forefinger.

  ‘Oh, come on!’

  The hand froze.

  The door opened, and the nurse came back in with a paper cup. I switched to thermal vision and saw that the drink she was carrying was hot, at least. Switching back, I peered into the cup as she got closer. It was an off-white concoction which looked as if someone had poured milk into a brown plastic cup and added a hint of something which could have conceivably given the milk the barest fraction of colour.

  ‘There you are Mr Anson.’

&
nbsp; ‘What’s that?’ I sniffed at it experimentally.

  ‘It’s tea.’

  ‘That is most certainly not tea.’

  She looked at me archly. ‘I do apologise if it appears weaker than you may be used to. It seems we’ve thrown most of the tea leaves into the harbour to retaliate against our oppressive British masters.’

  I grinned at her slowly. ‘I like you.’

  She smiled back, and this time it seemed to be genuine. ‘Thank you, Mr Anson. Now, shall we continue with our questions?’

  I gave her a thumbs up, then gestured towards my hand with my head. ‘Okay, seriously. When I try to get my hand to do something, it won’t - but it’ll do things I need doing without having to think about it.’

  ‘Right?’

  ‘What’s wrong with my hand?’

  She frowned. ‘Nothing. It’s a hand.’

  ‘I don’t think you get me.’

  ‘No, I don’t think you get hands.’ She pulled up a stool and sat down. ‘Your right hand is your original one, correct?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Okay. Tell it to do something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know...’ She looked around. ‘Ah. Tell it to pick up the cup.’

  I reached out and picked up the cup, wondering what she was getting at.

  ‘No. You didn’t tell you hand to pick up the cup. You picked it up.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  She took the cup away from me and set it down on my bedside table. ‘Watch: okay hand,’ she looked at her right hand. ‘Pick up the cup.’

  Her hand did nothing.

  ‘Go on!’ She coaxed it. Still nothing. ‘Pick it up. Who’s a good hand? Who is it? That’s right, it’s you. Now pick it up!’

  Still, her hand did nothing. She looked up at me. ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I looked at her as if she were stupid. ‘That’s not how hands work.’

  She maintained silent eye contact with me for a long moment.

  ‘Oh.’ I leaned over and gingerly, experimentally, picked up the cup with my left hand. ‘So, I shouldn’t overthink the hand? Just use it as normal?’

  ‘Well, there are certain factors to having a prosthetic hand with the synth-skin which will take some getting used to, but fundamentally, yes.’ She smiled slightly. ‘And with that, congratulations, you’ve just managed to skip the first two weeks of hand therapy.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’

  I mock-glared at her, her green eyes sparkling in amusement. ‘I take back what I said about liking you.’

  ‘Good.’

  I looked over at my hand, and carefully set the cup back down. ‘Hand,’ I instructed. ‘Show the nurse just what I think about her.’

  I moved my hand to show her the back of it, and slowly lowered all but one finger.

  ‘Cute.’ She shook her head. ‘Having said that, it’s impressive that you’re able to do that so soon.’

  I reached back over to the cup, and picked it up again, taking a slow swig of what must have been the absolute worst tasting cup of tea in my life. Fighting back a gag, I squeezed the cup too hard, and it crumpled in my hands, spilling tea all down my fingers and front.

  ‘Oh, damn that’s hot!’ I shook my hand and flung the bed sheet away from me, before I realised what I’d said. ‘Wait. That was hot. I could feel that!’

  She nodded patiently. ‘You’ll be able to feel temperature changes, yes. I’ll go and get you a fresh bed sheet.’ Bundling up the tea-stained one, she left before I could thank her. As she went, I looked down at my legs.

  Again, totally hairless, which looked weird. Bulkier than my real legs had been, but not so much I couldn’t pass for completely natural. I decided to sit up on the edge of the bed, and got as far as sitting upright, but I couldn’t move my legs at all. In fact, it felt like they weighed a ton.

  ‘C’mon,’ I pleaded gently, ignoring everything the nurse had just said. ‘Just wiggle your... oh.’

  It was at that point I noticed that I didn’t have toes.

  ‘That’s... oh, wow.’ I suddenly came over quite woozy, and the nurse came back just in time to grab a wastebin for me to vomit in, and to pass me some water when I had finished.

  ‘Was it the toes?’

  ‘How’d you guess?’ I croaked, wiping my face with a proffered tissue.

  ‘It’s always the toes.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘It’s like Mark Twain once wrote: of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my toes the most.’

  ‘Wasn’t it “mind”?’

  ‘Well, it would have been toes if he’d been around today and given artificial legs!’

  I smiled despite myself. ‘So. Tell me about them.’

  ‘Mark Twain’s toes?’

  ‘Those, or my legs. Either, really.’

  A few hours later, Michelle had answered all of my questions patiently, kindly, and with not a small amount of humour. I asked her if she was like this with all her patients.

  ‘No,’ was the response. ‘Some want to just hear the plain facts, others need constant reassurance, and others can just be... a little out of it. We specialise in reconstructive surgery for veterans here, and they can be suffering from emotional and psychological problems as well as the physical.’ She shrugged. ‘We do what we can for them. Your Foundation has been a real benefit in that regards. We’re much better equipped now, and the prosthetic corporations have been real good to us.’

  I nodded slowly. ‘So, you help the Auggies?’

  ‘I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mr Anson - they hate being called that.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Yes.’ She affixed me with a significant look. ‘You do.’

  I had to acknowledge the truth in that. I was now Augmented. ‘So, you must know some of the Supers that come in and out of this place.’

  ‘Not as many as you may think.’ She leaned back slightly on her stool. ‘You have to understand that there’s a hierarchy at work here.’

  ‘Huh?’

  Michelle managed a laugh, although it was devoid of humour. ‘You’ll find out for yourself, if you stay here long enough. But a lot of PIs don’t deign to talk to a “lowly” nurse like myself. They’re too good for that sort of thing, and a lot of them are wrapped up in this image of what a Super powered person should be like.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  She patted my hand in a reassuring manner, and the expression on her face was one that suggested she saw me as you would a child who had just discovered the truth about the Tooth Fairy. ‘That’s okay. As I say, you will.’ She removed her hand from mine. ‘Back when PIs started coming forward, they took on disguises to protect their families from any sort of reprisal. Just because Heroic Man is bullet proof, his wife and children probably aren’t. However, when it became clear that even the dullest criminal knew better to attack someone who could literally drop a house on them... coupled with the fact that quite a few of the more famous PIs have their identities out there in public, and get endorsement money, a lot of the PI community “live” their comic book fantasies out and never reveal their true identity.’ Her face and voice took on a tone of scorn. ‘They think it ruins the mystique.’

  ‘I see.’ I still didn’t, at the time. Not really. But I thought I did. ‘So PIs loved ones are absolutely safe?’

  ‘Oh, the famous ones, absolutely. But remember, some of the “powers” people got from the Danti attack weren’t wholly beneficial, nor wholly visible. Remember, even Gnarlers count as PIs, technically. Just less photogenic ones... although,’ she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Gnarlers are smarter than some of the PIs I’ve come across.’ Her voice went back to normal, and she smiled brightly, ‘And some of the lesser known, weaker PIs are seen as fair game - plus, they’re not well known enough to use their real identities. So they definitely rely on their disguises. Their anonymity protects their loved ones.’

  I nodded again, the tiny lit
tle seed of revenge firmly taking root. ‘So, something like one of those hologram belts Borleath makes would be ideal for a PI?’

  She looked confused. ‘Hologram belts?’

  ‘uhm... never mind.’ I shook my head, and she checked her watch.

  ‘I should get going, Mr Anson. I’m glad you’re on your way to being better. Your physiotherapist will be along tomorrow to get you started on your legs.’

  ‘Thanks, Michelle.’

  ‘Any time. And keep working on that hand! Don’t neglect it just because you’re re-learning to walk.’

  I barely noticed when she left. I was too deep in my own thoughts.

  Should I bore you with tales of my physiotherapy? It’s not particularly interesting and reliving it doesn’t generally put me in a good mood. It was not my finest hour, filled as it was with shouting, swearing, crying. Sammy was there nearly every day, and Emily came most days, although she was busy a lot.

  My physiotherapist was a man named Derek, and he was obsessed with getting me to do things I had never considered before. A devout martial artist, Derek would spend a lot of time demonstrating his own (not inconsiderable) skill, before trying to get me to do the same thing. Once I was able to stand, he wanted me to try what he called a “pinwheel kick”. It invariably ended up with me falling flat on my face and seemed ridiculous - I had gone 27 years without being able to perform any flashy kicks, and I didn’t see how getting new legs I could barely walk with would improve that. I suspect that he was showing off for Emily on the days she came to support me, in some weird Alpha Male-esque display of dominance. For her part, she ignored these attempts completely.

  Three long, gruelling, torturous weeks after the operation, I was able to walk four steps before wanting to collapse in a mixture of pain, exhaustion and embarrassment. But the next day, I was able to walk six. Then 10. Just as I had convinced myself that I would never go running again (something I quite enjoyed, mostly because it was solitary) I was able to walk - slowly, yes, and I didn’t want to venture far away from handrails, but I was walking.

  By the end of week four, I could walk slowly and unsurely away from handrails. By Friday on week five I could lightly jog, and it was halfway through the Saturday that Sammy told me why he liked my new legs so much.