Machine Man - Max Barry [74]
Dr. Angelica set a bag on the floorboards. This was one of those rare situations where the social rules were obvious: I should give Angelica a minute with her dogs before asking if that bag had painkillers in it. I waited silently at the end of the hall, not making anything of the fact that every organ in my body was weeping. Finally she looked up. “Meds?”
My teeth were chattering. “Yes, please.”
“YOU SHOULD have been tapering the drugs.” Dr. Angelica drew clear liquid from a vial. “There’s no reason to still be on such a high level. Who’s your doctor at the company?”
“I am.” I smiled at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I was high on anticipation. My body and I were in the roller-coaster car, ratcheting up the slope.
“That’s not right. These are addictive.”
“Addiction. That’s, what, low levels of dopamine in the brain? Fixable.”
“What?”
“I can fix my brain.” I trailed off, because Dr. Angelica was no longer looking like she was about to inject me. “Are you …”
She moved to the bathroom door and shut it. She stood there. My brain began to suggest ways of getting that syringe out of her hand without breaking it.
“You’re not done. You want to replace more parts with prostheses.”
I hesitated. “I don’t like the word prosthesis. It implies a poor substitute. I’m improving. Did you know I can just think of a destination and these legs will take me there?” I threw this in because Dr. Angelica, as a surgeon, was supposedly a woman of science. I didn’t expect everyone to be on board for a totally artificial body. But pathfinding legs, come on.
“Last night you woke screaming because you couldn’t sleep without your prosthesis. That’s not improvement. You’re getting worse.”
My legs stepped forward. Dr. Angelica’s eyes widened. So did mine, because I hadn’t quite intended that. I had just been thinking about getting that syringe.
“The biological part of me is having trouble adjusting,” I said. “That’s not an argument against the technology.” Dr. Angelica’s arm moved. I thought, Oh God, she is going to smash the syringe. “Wait! I appreciate your concern. But this is my body. I can make my own decisions.”
“I don’t care about you. You can dice yourself into bite-sized pieces, for all I care. I care about Lola.”
“Well, Lola’s fine. She’s safe now.”
“Is she?”
“Yes!” I was beginning to panic. That syringe was right there. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say that Lola’s perfect just the way she is.”
I hesitated. Is anyone really perfect? You can’t be mostly perfect. You can’t be perfect some of the time. You are either perfect or not. And I don’t think biology does perfect. Biology is about efficient approximation. It’s about good enough. A vacuum is perfect. Pi is perfect. Life is not.
But I saw this would be a tough sell to Angelica, who anyway was not really asking if I thought Lola was perfect-perfect but rather biological-perfect, that is, good enough. And the answer to that was clear. “Lola is perfect the way she is.”
“You hesitated.”
“What?”
“What’s to think about? You either want to cut her up or you don’t.”
“No. Wait. I had to translate your definition of perfect.” Medicine. They called it a science, but it was more like arts and crafts with Latin names. “I don’t want to cut up Lola.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t even understand what I’m doing. This isn’t about cutting. Cutting is an unfortunate prerequisite for enhancing functionality.”
“Does Lola know you want to enhance her functionality?”
“I don’t want to enhance Lola!”
“Bullshit.” Angelica raised the syringe. This time I was sure she was going to smash it. My legs hiccuped forward.
“I swear to God—”
“I can tell you’re lying!”
“I’m not!” My legs took another step, a big one. Dr. Angelica backed up against the door. My legs were going to kick her. They were going to kick her right through the door. “Wait!” I yelped. “Stop! There’s no problem! I promise, everything is okay, I swear, I swear it!” The legs did not move. I closed my eyes. Happy thoughts.