Machine Man - Max Barry [22]
MY ASSISTANTS arrived in the Glass Room holding coffees and talking about something they seemed to find funny. They saw me and froze.
“Dr. Neumann?” said Katherine. I inferred this from her lip movements. I was on the other side of the polymer glass and she hadn’t toggled the intercom. I waited for her to realize this. “Dr. Neumann … what’s in the syringe?”
“Morphine.” This came out muffled because I was holding my shirtsleeve in my teeth. But I think she understood. I completed the injection and let my sleeve drop. “For the pain.”
Katherine and Jason shared a glance. Jason leaned toward the microphone. “What pain is that, Dr. Neumann?”
I felt disappointed. These guys were supposed to be the brightest minds of their generation. Yet here I was in the Clamp with a syringe of morphine and they couldn’t figure it out. “I think that will become obvious.”
On one wall of the Glass Room was the Big Red Button. If you flipped up its clear plastic panel and pressed it, everything lost power. A sign said EMERGENCIES ONLY. A while ago somebody had taped beside it: DO! NOT!!! PUSH!, because lab assistants are curious. Jason’s eyes flicked at the button.
“Please call Medical,” I said.
To his credit, Jason made it look like he was going for the phone. He leaned in that direction and picked up the handset. Then lunged at the Big Red Button.
But my button was closer. It was in my hand. The Clamp was powered up, humming on standby. Its steel plates were positioned about—well, a foot apart. I was sitting on one edge. My left leg, the biological one, dangled.
It was just as well I took care of this in advance, because the morphine was already seeping into my neurons, fogging my synapses. If I hadn’t been prepared, Jason would have reached the Big Red Button before I could activate the Clamp and crush my leg. But I was, and he didn’t, and I did.
I WOKE but not in the hospital. It took me a while to figure this out because I couldn’t focus my eyes and because I really, really should have been in the hospital.
“… on its way,” said someone. It sounded like that guy. My boss. D. Peters. “Two minutes, or thereabouts.”
“Everyone’s off this level?” This was a woman, familiar but hard to place.
“Except Medical, yes.”
I felt sensations. Hands on my body: firm and professional. They did not belong to the voices. The voices were farther away. They were observing while the hands worked. The woman sighed. “This is disgusting.”
“You don’t have to be here.”
“It’s a mess. I’m a mess cleaner. I’m here.”
D. Peters cleared his throat. “Not an accident this time, I’m guessing.”
“No.”
“Well … that’s good. Isn’t it?”
“It’s great. We have a suicidal employee.”
“I mean—”
“Do you know what our workplace injury rate is like before we add people who deliberately throw themselves into the equipment?”
“I just—”
“Maybe you should front the investigators, Dick. See how you do. Because there will be investigators.”
“Cassandra, I’m not trying to—”
“When it’s an accident, you show the investigators who screwed up, how they did it, and the initiatives you’re putting in place to ensure it never happens again. Initiatives solve the problem. Everybody likes initiatives,” said Cassandra Cautery, the crisis manager. “What’s our initiative for this? Who screwed up?”
“I guess he did.”
“That answer gets us a tribunal. Did we pressure him to return to work too soon? Did we provide enough counseling? What was our process for monitoring his mental state? Did he feel we provided a welcoming workplace?”
“I see.”
“Honestly, it’d be easier if he bled out.”
The hands hesitated. I tried to raise my head, but only managed to half open one eye. A sun hung over my face, angry and brilliant. It looked familiar. A lab light.
“He moved,” said D. Peters. “Did you see that?”
Another sigh. “I hate mess. I hate it.”
“But you’re so good with it.”
“I know,” she said.
I DRIFTED in and out. I’m not sure for how long. I felt content. Warm.