the prosthesis on?”
“So who sleeps?” I follow directions well. They teach you that in the army, too.
He has the decency to chuckle. “Not me. I’ve gotten hooked on online role-playing games. Raise your right arm.”
I do it. He watches the monitors over my shoulder. They are arranged so I can see, too: the electrical activity reads normal. More or less. One of the long-term problems with my cyberware is that it can’t match the delicacy of normal bioelectricity.
“Lower it. Now the left.”
The prosthesis straightens ceilingward.
“Hmmm.”
“Stop that, Simon.”
“Stop what?”
“Hmmm-ing.”
“Sorry.” He walks around in front of me and taps one of the monitors—flat screens, set in the office wall at eye level. “This dip here—damn, Jenny.” He interrupts himself, finger tracing a red line farther down the graph. “How much pain are you having?”
“Some,” I admit, lowering the metal arm.
“You want something for that?”
“I can’t,” I remind him. “No narcotics. Nothing else works.”
Except the booze.
“Ah. Yeah. I’ve got some different anti-inflammatories I want you to try. How’s the arthritis?”
“It’s arthritis. How’s the tendinitis?”
“It only hurts when I laugh, so it doesn’t bother me much.” We share, for a moment, an old-friends grin. He turns back to the monitors after a moment. His finger moves back over to the sudden dip on the readout. “This concerns me.”
“Is that a loss of functionality?”
“It’s a minor degradation. So far.”
“Big problem?” I find myself leaning forward, frowning.
He shakes his head. “Not yet. But—you’re a freak, Jenny. You know that as well as I do. That you’ve survived this long, with the quality of life you have …”
“Don’t tell me it’s a miracle.”
He shakes his head with a rueful sigh. “I was going to say, enigma.” A long pause. “If you notice any pins and needles, let me know, okay? I’m going to test your reflexes now.” He touches an icon, and my left hand rises as if of its own volition, clenching into a fist.
“Damn, Simon. Now that’s creepy.”
“Yeah,” he says, making adjustments. “I think so, too.”
Afterward, he makes me lie facedown while he pulls the wires out of the processors. He pauses and takes his hands off me. “You’re drinking too much, aren’t you?”
“Fuck it, Simon.” He steps away and I sit up, yanking my shirt over the lumpy contours of the machinery snuggling my spine. “I’m still off the damned speed. There’s only so much you can expect of a girl in one lifetime. Do I need batteries yet?”
“No, you’re good.” He looks at me sadly while I button my shirt. “Want to do a bloodborne test? Cholesterol? Any of that?”
“When do you suppose was the last time I had sex?”
“Ah.” He turns away to strip off his gloves before leaving the examining room. By the time he knocks and returns, I’ve buckled my sidearm to my thigh and am stamping into my boots.
Simon moves abruptly, untelegraphed, only a few feet away. Something flashes toward my head. In that microsecond
the sensed world drifts to a crawl
my heartbeat decelerating in my ears
Simon transformed into a statue as
my left hand comes up to intercept and
my right hand drops
slaps leather
comes up with a nine-millimeter leveled
at Simon’s head
the left hand closing on a round red
object strikes metal with a wet
thwap
and I
almost
pull
the trigger.
By the time Simon’s wide eyes finally focus on the barrel of the pistol, I’m already drawing a deep breath to steady my shaking hand, lowering it by inches. A stream of juice drips over metal fingers, spattering the speckled white tile floor. The sharp scent of crushed apple fills the room.
I swallow hard and holster my gun. “Fuckall, Simon. I could have shot you.”
White behind the rich olive of his complexion, he manages a shaky smile. “Damn, Jenny.”
“You know what I am.” I turn away, buckling the
“So who sleeps?” I follow directions well. They teach you that in the army, too.
He has the decency to chuckle. “Not me. I’ve gotten hooked on online role-playing games. Raise your right arm.”
I do it. He watches the monitors over my shoulder. They are arranged so I can see, too: the electrical activity reads normal. More or less. One of the long-term problems with my cyberware is that it can’t match the delicacy of normal bioelectricity.
“Lower it. Now the left.”
The prosthesis straightens ceilingward.
“Hmmm.”
“Stop that, Simon.”
“Stop what?”
“Hmmm-ing.”
“Sorry.” He walks around in front of me and taps one of the monitors—flat screens, set in the office wall at eye level. “This dip here—damn, Jenny.” He interrupts himself, finger tracing a red line farther down the graph. “How much pain are you having?”
“Some,” I admit, lowering the metal arm.
“You want something for that?”
“I can’t,” I remind him. “No narcotics. Nothing else works.”
Except the booze.
“Ah. Yeah. I’ve got some different anti-inflammatories I want you to try. How’s the arthritis?”
“It’s arthritis. How’s the tendinitis?”
“It only hurts when I laugh, so it doesn’t bother me much.” We share, for a moment, an old-friends grin. He turns back to the monitors after a moment. His finger moves back over to the sudden dip on the readout. “This concerns me.”
“Is that a loss of functionality?”
“It’s a minor degradation. So far.”
“Big problem?” I find myself leaning forward, frowning.
He shakes his head. “Not yet. But—you’re a freak, Jenny. You know that as well as I do. That you’ve survived this long, with the quality of life you have …”
“Don’t tell me it’s a miracle.”
He shakes his head with a rueful sigh. “I was going to say, enigma.” A long pause. “If you notice any pins and needles, let me know, okay? I’m going to test your reflexes now.” He touches an icon, and my left hand rises as if of its own volition, clenching into a fist.
“Damn, Simon. Now that’s creepy.”
“Yeah,” he says, making adjustments. “I think so, too.”
Afterward, he makes me lie facedown while he pulls the wires out of the processors. He pauses and takes his hands off me. “You’re drinking too much, aren’t you?”
“Fuck it, Simon.” He steps away and I sit up, yanking my shirt over the lumpy contours of the machinery snuggling my spine. “I’m still off the damned speed. There’s only so much you can expect of a girl in one lifetime. Do I need batteries yet?”
“No, you’re good.” He looks at me sadly while I button my shirt. “Want to do a bloodborne test? Cholesterol? Any of that?”
“When do you suppose was the last time I had sex?”
“Ah.” He turns away to strip off his gloves before leaving the examining room. By the time he knocks and returns, I’ve buckled my sidearm to my thigh and am stamping into my boots.
Simon moves abruptly, untelegraphed, only a few feet away. Something flashes toward my head. In that microsecond
the sensed world drifts to a crawl
my heartbeat decelerating in my ears
Simon transformed into a statue as
my left hand comes up to intercept and
my right hand drops
slaps leather
comes up with a nine-millimeter leveled
at Simon’s head
the left hand closing on a round red
object strikes metal with a wet
thwap
and I
almost
pull
the trigger.
By the time Simon’s wide eyes finally focus on the barrel of the pistol, I’m already drawing a deep breath to steady my shaking hand, lowering it by inches. A stream of juice drips over metal fingers, spattering the speckled white tile floor. The sharp scent of crushed apple fills the room.
I swallow hard and holster my gun. “Fuckall, Simon. I could have shot you.”
White behind the rich olive of his complexion, he manages a shaky smile. “Damn, Jenny.”
“You know what I am.” I turn away, buckling the
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