Dale Brown - Puppet Master

Dressed in her typical blue skirt and a slightly darker top, Sister Rose wore one additional item tucked into the side of her waistband that set her apart from some of the others: an old string of rosary beads. These were special to her for many reasons, not least of which was the fact that they had once belonged to her best friend: Massina’s aunt, now deceased, with whom she had gone through the novitiate.

“Would you like to look in on young Thomas?” asked the nun.

She veered left toward a clinic room before Massina could answer. Inside, a child of ten was bent over in the middle of the room, pulling new shoelaces through the loops of his shoe. His mother and father beamed behind him.

Tying a shoelace was hardly much of an achievement for a ten-year-old — except that in this case, the fingers he was using were prosthetic. He had lost both of his forearms two years before when a hurricane had taken down his house, crushing them.

More interesting, at least to Massina, was the exact construction of the arm. The “skin” was actually an inflatable membrane of special vinyl that was the most lifelike Massina had ever touched; it was difficult to distinguish it from flesh. Instead of steel rods inside, the internal skeleton was made of flexible tubing inflated like balloons. Small internal pumps gave the arm far more flexibility than normal prosthetics; it could be bent at a ninety-degree angle, for example.

It would take quite some time before the boy could control that ability. For now, he was still learning the very basics, directing the machine with his nerve impulses.

The arm was an outgrowth of Smart Metal’s work with so-called soft robots, a cutting-edge area that so far had not produced marketable or even practical items. But the “conversation” between brain and mechanical fingers was already a tested technology. Remarkably, it had been only a theory at the time of the hurricane that claimed the boy’s arm.

That was how they worked: fast.

The kid glanced up from his shoe and smiled at Massina. Massina nodded, then watched with quiet contentment as the child finished the bow. The doctor who had helped develop the hands stood at the side of the room, frowning.

The boy’s parents applauded as the child finished. Massina nodded to them, then stepped outside. The physician followed.

“Still a bit of a delay in the software,” grumbled the physician. “We’ll get it.” The complaint pleased Massina — he wanted perfectionists working with him. The doctor was one of the best.

“You think it’s the flex functions?” Massina asked.

“It would make sense. If it would be possible to have D.J. go over the systematics personally…”

“I’m sure he’d welcome the opportunity.” D.J. was one of the systems engineers who had helped develop the arm but had recently moved on to another project. “If there’s trouble, let me know.”

“Thanks, Lou.”

Massina decided to drop in on another patient whom he’d met a few weeks earlier. A soldier who had stepped on a mine in Iraq, he had received a custom-made leg a month before but was still confined to a hospital bed because of continuing complications with his lungs.

The doctors who worked with Smart Metal had developed a series of drugs that could greatly speed his recovery, but they were holding off using them because of concerns over the long-term effects. Massina had actually pulled strings and gotten an FDA waiver for them, but they were holding off until and unless they were convinced that he couldn’t recover without them.

Massina knocked on the door frame, then took a step inside the room. It was completely empty: no bed, no patient.

“Jason’s gone home,” said Sister Rose, catching up.

“What?”

“He’s with the savior,” said Sister Rose.

“Why didn’t they use the drugs?”

“You’ll have to ask the doctors, Louis.”

Damn it. He could have been helped.

“You needn’t feel sorry for him, Louis. He was a good Catholic.”

Massina’s thoughts about religion and the afterlife were considerably more complicated than those the nun preached, but he didn’t feel like having that discussion at the moment. He followed her back to the hall, brooding as they walked to another room.

The occupant was a boy who’d had his arm and leg severed in a train accident. He’d been fitted with a prosthetic months before but was back on the ward because of an unrelated flare-up of pneumonia. The boy’s face lit up as Massina entered the room — the two were old friends, not least of all because they suffered from the same general injuries. Massina had been very fortunate not to lose his own leg.

They spent a few minutes talking about the video games the boy was playing lately. They were all “shooters,” and he had very high scores online — a good sign, since it meant his artificial limb let him keep up with kids who had their original hands.

The boy’s father stood in the corner, watching intently as his son chattered on. Finally, Sister Rose broke up the mostly one-sided conversation, explaining that Massina had a meeting upstairs.

“Fist bump!” said the boy.

Their artificial fists clinked against each other. Massina left the room with a smile.

Trevor Jenkins pulled the lapels of his suit jacket forward as Louis Massina stepped out into the hallway. Jenkins felt a sudden surge of nervousness but fought through it. “Mr. Massina?”

The scientist jerked his head in Jenkins’s direction.

“I’m Trevor Jenkins,” said the agent, striding forward. Tall and well-built, he was naturally imposing. The fact that he was black sometimes added to that aura, but it sometimes worked against him. He hoped it was neutral in this case, though racial prejudices were beyond his control. “I don’t know if you remember me—”

“Of course. Your daughter has an artificial knee,” said Massina, surprising Jenkins by remembering him. It had been two years since they’d last spoken. “How is she?”

“She’s fine, she’s fine,” said Jenkins. “Every day, we thank you.”

“We all do what we can.” Massina started to turn away.

“Actually, I came here on official business. Semiofficial,” added the agent. “You filed a complaint about your bank account. An ATM card.”

“Yes?”

“Your office said I would be able to catch you here,” explained Jenkins.

“You’ve caught the thieves?”

“No, but…” Jenkins shook his head. “I thought, when I saw your name, I would — that you were owed a real explanation.”

“I see.”

Jenkins glanced at Sister Rose, who’d just come out of the room. “Maybe we should discuss this somewhere a little more private?”

“Mr. Jenkins,” said Sister Rose, belatedly recognizing him. “How is your daughter?”

“Very well, Sister, thank you.”

“Business, Louis?” she asked.

“It’ll only take a minute,” said Jenkins. “Maybe in the lounge, or better yet, downstairs?”

Massina looked at the nun.

“We’ll always wait for you, Louis,” said Sister Rose. “Go right ahead.”

Gabor Tolevi walked out onto the platform of Boston South and glanced in the direction of the Amtrak train. Its departure had been delayed forty minutes for unspecified reasons — not unusual for Amtrak.

He hated trains — they reminded him of his early childhood in Europe, Ukraine especially, when his father took him on business trips. He loved his father but hated those trips — far too poor for first class, let alone airplanes, they most often went common or fourth class, which meant jamming aboard the sleeping cars and staying there for the duration of a trip. These cars were traveling dormitories where as many as fifty bunks might be partitioned in. Tolevi and his father would share a bed, which was one thing when Gabor was three and quite another at six; they traveled together until Gabor was nearly thirteen, his father unable to find a suitable sitter after Gabor’s mother died. A splurge might buy a platzkart, or third-class ticket, which meant a real seat in another car, but that, too, they would have to share, generally as a tag team. The Russian trains were usually cleaner than the Ukrainian, though that was simply a matter of degree, and he’d been on a Russian train when a fat walrus of a man tried molesting him at age nine. The incident had changed Tolevi, but in his estimation for the better: he had learned how to fight and stand up for himself, and if it was his father who slit the man’s throat that night in revenge, it could just as well have been him with the knife.