F. Brejcha: The Cure

But then it had grown from a theoretical concept into reality.

The Nineties had seen theory stumble slowly into practical research and as the new millennium got underway, prototype nanomachines were developed. Two main directions were being explored: electronics manufacturing and medical research. In the latter field, carefully designed units dubbed nanorooters were sent into the bodies of injured test animals to do repair—including repair of spinal cord injuries that was combined with new regenerative techniques! This was done by replacing nerve fibers with synthetic materials, and literally rebuilding damaged sections of spinal cord on a molecular level.

I realized belatedly that I had mentally blocked out what it might mean for me if this method should progress beyond animal trials and eventually carefully selected test patients. Instead, I had focused on what had increasingly started to captivate me: the mind-numbing terrors that were lurking if the new technology should get out of control despite the rigid safeguards that a joint international commission had placed on all nanotech research. I had had visions of killer machines mutating and replicating out of control to destroy the environment instead of cleaning it up. And of miniature assassins searching out and destroying anyone encountered instead of specific targets.

That fascination with the dark side of the new science had spawned my failure.

Chastened, I had realized I would have to accept that people were not willing to read this kind of horror. They wanted terror that could be dismissed even as it tickled the spine and teased the adrenaline, not something that was potentially all too real. My agent and publisher had tried to warn me, but had relented, hoping my reputation might win the readers over.

Or maybe, an insidious inner voice whispered, it had just been an inferior book because I didn’t want to face the possible failure of nanotechnology to cure me soon enough? Maybe I had just not been focused in my writing?

But who wants to face the worst critic of all—the subconscious?

So I had returned to ghosts and things that go bump in the night. First in stories to recapture my readers, and then my agent had sold “Lunar Legacy” to CineOmnia, blocking all aspects of the new science out of my mind. Until that call from Dr. Renkvist.

Cured. As I sat there, I fearfully considered the word. No more wheelchair. No more embarrassing bowel accidents, no more catheter and leg-bag. No more humiliating manipulations and… no more hiding from the world, no more comfortable isolation.

I would be forced to go into the world again, meet people again, meet women again… Jenny! In my mind, a low wail as I felt myself pinned in a crumpled car, my wife’s dying body within inches, staring at me in agony, begging for release, for freedom, anything to end the pain of her broken body.

Helpless to stem or dry the flowing tears I sat staring at a screen that was suddenly blurred, unsure of what was worse: my continuing guilty pain over having lost Jenny or the fear of starting fresh and facing the world without the shield of my handicap.

A small warm form suddenly pushed itself under my chin. Silky fur tickled my throat as Tina pressed against me, a low throaty chatter of concern coming from her as she butted her head against my chin and picked at my ears and face with her tiny hands. Her fingers touched my tears, tasting the salt as she brought them to her mouth curiously. I couldn’t help laughing softly. “Got a handkerchief baby?” She started at my voice and backed up, eyes wide, and then as she realized I wasn’t mad, came back and continued picking at me and preening.

Feeling a little better, I pulled out my control wand and aimed at a sensitive spot on one wall and triggered it to call Maria to clean my face up.

I forced myself to remember.

Rain… tired relief at going home after a long dinner party at a potential client of Jenny’s… the sharp turn where the expressway curves on the way into Philly to follow the meanderings of the Schuylkill River… the Jeep—red, with white striping on the hood—that is in the next lane spins out of control right into our path… Jenny’s screams—and my own—as we realize we are going to hit it despite the auto-braking… the incredibly minimal sound of the impact, and the dizzying tumble as we bounce and roll, our little Toyota crumpling around us as cutting edges of metal, plastic and glass appear from nowhere to gouge and stab and compress… then gathering blackness as Jenny’s face bleeds, inches from my eyes, a silent—or is it?—scream coming from her mouth as the world fades…

I shivered, feeling Tina jump off my shoulder and back away, chattering angrily. The noise alerted Maria as she came reluctantly into the room, but as soon as she saw me, concern covered her face and she turned to get a towel to wipe my face. I couldn’t blame her for not exactly liking me, since I had not been the most cooperative or congenial patient.

“Remembering again?” she asked, having seen me like this before. I nodded. “Why do you keep torturing yourself? It wasn’t anybody’s fault that the other car went out of control. There wasn’t anything you could have done!”

“I know that,” I snapped at the familiar words. “I’m sorry!” Her eyes widened at the apology, and I was silent for a moment, the words echoing in my ears. I looked straight at her after a moment. “I am sorry. I’ve been treating you like shit and hiding in here by myself. Hell,” I shook my head, “I’ve even been forcing you to stay at the other end of the house except when I call and I don’t think I’ve even said thank you for anything in the three years you’ve been with me.” Suddenly I was realizing how I had been treating her.

She was silent, eyes agreeing, but not convinced that I was sorry.

“Well, I am sorry,” I repeated again, looking down and chewing on my lower lip. My eyes flicked briefly to my computer as I changed the subject.

“Remember what I told you about nanotechnology?” A couple of years earlier, in a rare fit of near-human behavior, I had taken time to explain the new science to her when she had asked me about my latest book. I had been gratified by her intelligent curiosity. She nodded. “Well, they’ve progressed to human trials and my doctor has been trying to get me into the program—and it seems that he’s succeeded.”

“That’s fantastic!” Her face lit up for a moment, and then sobered as she saw my expression. “You don’t seem to think so.”

I was silent.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I moved my head towards the control-box and she reached out and intentionally moved it away. “Uh uh. You’re going to talk to me. Call it a payback for three years of watching you vegetate in here and ignoring me—”

“—and treating you—”

“—like shit. You’re right.” She was leaning over me, one hand on each arm-rest and a fierce expression on her face. “For three years now, five days a week, I’ve cleaned up your shit and piss, bathed you, dressed you, fed you and done everything but clean house for you and you’ve ignored me. Other than keeping me at a distance and insisting on privacy, you haven’t been mean to me as much as you’ve just ignored me! And the same with your other nurses. Seven of them have quit because they couldn’t take it. As far as you’re concerned, we’re just mechanical aids like that damn computer!” I tried to turn my face away, cheeks reddening under the verbal assault, but a hand went up to grab my chin and kept me from avoiding her.

“Don’t even try it,” she threatened. “I’ve been storing this up, and I’m not holding back now when you finally seem to be ready to listen.” She let go and dropped to her knees next to me, concern replacing the annoyance. “I haven’t pushed because I know that the accident must have been awful! I can’t even try to imagine what it must have been like both to lose your wife and to wind up paralyzed like this. But it’s been tearing me apart to see you hiding away. Other paras and quads get around and keep active outside the home, but you just stay buried in here and write, refusing to leave the house. Hell, you haven’t even gone out since I’ve been here. Don’t you think—”