them anymore, I’ll sell them as Akimura originals. They’re screenbrains. Haven’t you ever seen them before? I fix them. When I’m not riding my cycle.”
“Really?” Her eyes were bright. “They’re truly singular. Post-rad. You should really show these to my mother. I know she’d be inspired.”
He grinned indulgently. “Next time she visits. I promise.”
Alanna reached for the nearest screenbrain. But the jellbed shifted under her and she toppled out of it, hitting the shelf hard and knocking it loose from its mooring. The entire row of screenbrains slid down toward her, half a ton of metal circuitry.
No.
Rick wasn’t certain if he had said it or thought it.
Then he was next to Alanna with his arm around her, and the brains were piled neatly on the floor, blue lights blinking.
“Are you okay?” he said. “Nothing to be afraid of. You’ve got those good old telekinetic powers. Strong enough to hold off a ton of brains.”
Alanna shivered in his arms for a moment. Then she looked up at him.
“Rick, I didn’t catch those brains,” she said. “You did.”
He stared at her. “Don’t joke around with me,” he said angrily. “You know I’m a null.”
.
******************
4
A good-luck crane lifted green, arching wings as it traversed the walls of the recovery room in a graceful dance. Each feather was exquisitely rendered in holorelief. Hawkins focused on those feathers as the last effects of the anesthesia faded.
He looked around for a wall clock or screen. How long had he been out? The tasteful, anonymous furnishings of the room gave him no clue. He felt as though he had been in hibernation. Every muscle complained at even the simplest request: turn, move the head, swing eyeballs from right to left. Ouch.
A wallscreen whirred to life, image emerging from opaque wall. The head nurse of intensive care at Tokyo General Hospital surveyed him approvingly. “You are awake. Good. How do you feel?”
“Stiff.”
“Of course. That will pass.”
He felt the prick of a needle and watched a wallmech retreat into its cubbyhole next to the bed.
“Rest now.”
He was already feeling more comfortable. Almost jolly. “What about the arm?” he said.
“Oh, the arm is perfect. You’ll see.”
Her image wavered before him, melted. When he opened his eyes again, he was looking at Mr. Lee Oniburi.
“Feels good?” Oniburi stood by the door, grinning his eternal grin. His black patent-leather hair floated up in little feathers each time he nodded. “I requested that a special development team work on your arm. There’s no other like it.”
Hawkins sat up. Flexed his brave new arm. The pinching, stinging pain was gone. The prosthesis was smooth, covered in a convincing dark skin-toned plastic that felt warm to the touch: 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Guaranteed by the best surgeons in Tokyo. And Mr. Lee Oniburi.
“Wonderful.”
Hawkins flexed again, balling his fist against imagined danger. Five fingers covered with plasflesh coiled in readiness. Nice. Very nice.
“Try it out,” Oniburi said.
Hawkins uncurled his fist and reached for a glass on the bedside table. Grasped it. Lifted it. Had it halfway to the bed when it shattered into a hundred fragments. For once, he was grateful that his hand was not flesh: a normal hand would require stitches now. Of course, a normal hand would never have shattered that glass.
Oniburi’s cheeks were crimson. “I forgot to warn you that this arm is twice as strong as the last,” Oniburi said. “Terribly sorry.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” Hawkins said. A panel in the ceiling slid open and a many-legged, round-bellied mech descended on a transparent string. Red lights blinking, the mech marched up and down the bed, vacuuming the glass shards while an aria from Madame Butterfly poured out of a speaker on its back. Mission accomplished, it gave a high-pitched whistle and ascended on its cord, disappearing into the ceiling once
“Really?” Her eyes were bright. “They’re truly singular. Post-rad. You should really show these to my mother. I know she’d be inspired.”
He grinned indulgently. “Next time she visits. I promise.”
Alanna reached for the nearest screenbrain. But the jellbed shifted under her and she toppled out of it, hitting the shelf hard and knocking it loose from its mooring. The entire row of screenbrains slid down toward her, half a ton of metal circuitry.
No.
Rick wasn’t certain if he had said it or thought it.
Then he was next to Alanna with his arm around her, and the brains were piled neatly on the floor, blue lights blinking.
“Are you okay?” he said. “Nothing to be afraid of. You’ve got those good old telekinetic powers. Strong enough to hold off a ton of brains.”
Alanna shivered in his arms for a moment. Then she looked up at him.
“Rick, I didn’t catch those brains,” she said. “You did.”
He stared at her. “Don’t joke around with me,” he said angrily. “You know I’m a null.”
.
******************
4
A good-luck crane lifted green, arching wings as it traversed the walls of the recovery room in a graceful dance. Each feather was exquisitely rendered in holorelief. Hawkins focused on those feathers as the last effects of the anesthesia faded.
He looked around for a wall clock or screen. How long had he been out? The tasteful, anonymous furnishings of the room gave him no clue. He felt as though he had been in hibernation. Every muscle complained at even the simplest request: turn, move the head, swing eyeballs from right to left. Ouch.
A wallscreen whirred to life, image emerging from opaque wall. The head nurse of intensive care at Tokyo General Hospital surveyed him approvingly. “You are awake. Good. How do you feel?”
“Stiff.”
“Of course. That will pass.”
He felt the prick of a needle and watched a wallmech retreat into its cubbyhole next to the bed.
“Rest now.”
He was already feeling more comfortable. Almost jolly. “What about the arm?” he said.
“Oh, the arm is perfect. You’ll see.”
Her image wavered before him, melted. When he opened his eyes again, he was looking at Mr. Lee Oniburi.
“Feels good?” Oniburi stood by the door, grinning his eternal grin. His black patent-leather hair floated up in little feathers each time he nodded. “I requested that a special development team work on your arm. There’s no other like it.”
Hawkins sat up. Flexed his brave new arm. The pinching, stinging pain was gone. The prosthesis was smooth, covered in a convincing dark skin-toned plastic that felt warm to the touch: 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Guaranteed by the best surgeons in Tokyo. And Mr. Lee Oniburi.
“Wonderful.”
Hawkins flexed again, balling his fist against imagined danger. Five fingers covered with plasflesh coiled in readiness. Nice. Very nice.
“Try it out,” Oniburi said.
Hawkins uncurled his fist and reached for a glass on the bedside table. Grasped it. Lifted it. Had it halfway to the bed when it shattered into a hundred fragments. For once, he was grateful that his hand was not flesh: a normal hand would require stitches now. Of course, a normal hand would never have shattered that glass.
Oniburi’s cheeks were crimson. “I forgot to warn you that this arm is twice as strong as the last,” Oniburi said. “Terribly sorry.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” Hawkins said. A panel in the ceiling slid open and a many-legged, round-bellied mech descended on a transparent string. Red lights blinking, the mech marched up and down the bed, vacuuming the glass shards while an aria from Madame Butterfly poured out of a speaker on its back. Mission accomplished, it gave a high-pitched whistle and ascended on its cord, disappearing into the ceiling once
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