F. Brejcha - The Cure

“Tina! My control!” Panic threatened to overwhelm me as my mouth searched for the joy-stick to my wheelchair. My arms were useless weights lying limply in my lap. The small furry shape of the Capuchin monkey that had been prowling around on the bookshelf stopped at the sound of my voice, cocking its head to study me with a puzzled look.

I tried again. “Come to daddy, bring me my control!” My mouth changed targets and fished for the light-wand that I used to guide Tina. As my lips closed on the thin rod, I pulled it out of its socket and aimed it at the control-box. An uncontrolled neck spasm had knocked the small joystick out of my reach. Then I clamped down with my teeth to trigger a thin red beam of light to hit the control.

Tina, my “helping hand”, leaped off the shelf and came scurrying across the floor. She scrabbled her way up one of my numb legs as she reached me. Tiny hands tugged on her little beard as her gaze swung back and forth from my face to the small metal box on its goose-neck. The small red spot wavered as I fought to keep the beam centered. Then with a low clicking gurgle, Tina jumped up on my shoulder and reached out to pull the control in next to my face where I could reach it.

The surging panic that dried my mouth and churned my stomach gradually ebbed. I lived in mortal fear of what would happen if Tina was gone and I should be stuck, unable to move and there should be a fire or… I fought the panic that threatened to overwhelm me again.

Tina stayed on my shoulder, tiny fingers picking through my hair, trying to find some lice or any other interesting pests. Alternately, she peeked over at me expectantly with rapid darting movements of her head.

I smiled. She was so polite, and never greedy.

I reached over and triggered the reward chamber with my chin, hearing the thin rattle as a small biscuit rolled into a cup on the side of my chair. Tina dove for it and nimble fingers pried it out to pop it into her mouth as she balanced on my knee, chewing happily.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the glowing computer monitor sitting patiently on my desk, the cursor halfway down the right half of the two-page screen, crisp black letters waiting expectantly on a bright field of white.

Grabbing for the joy-stick with my lips, I guided my chair towards the computer and ran my knee lightly into one of the padded sections along the front of the counter. In response, the keyboard lifted up from the desk, a stylus sticking up from it. The stylus was attached by a thin cord, in case I should drop it. A small directional microphone mounted on a stalk aimed out like a snake poised to strike, waiting for my voice, now that it had been activated. Moving forward carefully, I positioned myself and leaned forward to grab the stylus so that I could set the computer into control mode. Then I leaned back.

“Save file under same name. Clear screen. Load letter format. Address to code one zero three.” I had to think a minute to remember Paul Atkins’ code in the address file. “Date equals January 31, 2003.” Then I leaned forward and shifted into edit mode. Meanwhile, the screen obligingly cleared and painted with my letterhead and Paul’s address neatly placed as the intended recipient of the letter, complete with a “Dear Paul:” followed by a blank line.

I closed my eyes a moment as I phrased my letter mentally. Then I began, speaking as clearly as possible into the microphone.

“Greetings, Paul (a double bite on the joystick for a period). Just a note to ask you to please come over and add a speech-command unit to my chair. I spazzed (the cursor stopped and flashed a question mark until I spelled the word and added it to the dictionary) and knocked the control out of my reach today. Tina put it back in line for me, but it made me think about adding voice control to the chair. It may not be as good as the joy-stick, but at least it’s something if I get stuck again and Tina can’t help me.” I felt a brief cynical smile creep onto my face. “I should be home all day.” Then I switched to control. “End paragraph, linefeed, new paragraph.” Back to edit again. “Thanks for your help and I look forward to seeing you.” Back to control. “Standard closing. Fax to code one zero three now. Reload last saved file.”

On a small box next to my computer, several green LED’s lit briefly, and the letter on the screen vanished, replaced with the title page of the draft of my latest novel manuscript. I had promised my publisher I would have it done by the end of the year. My agent had managed to sell one of my earlier novelettes to a movie company, and my publisher had sent me the preliminary shooting script so I could write a novelization of the movie for simultaneous release. I knew I had better get my ass in gear if I was going to have it finished in time for it to get into print by the movie’s release date. 2004 would be here all too soon.

But as I sat there staring at the screen, the letters blurred as I thought about my writing.

“Lunar Legacy” was not destined for the critic’s corner, but for my bank account. My first four horror books—two written since the accident—had grossed a tidy sum for me. But my next one had bombed; barely earning out. So this one had to be good so I could start a come-back.

The idea was a basic enough ghost story about a remote research station on the Moon, haunted by the ghosts of a team of scientists who had killed each other when a malfunction in the atmosphere plant had them in the throes of hypoxia. Even though my original story had been Hollywoodized, the novelization had been coming along fine, flowing out effortlessly, only occasionally stalled as the computer had to pop a window up with a list of homonyms when it was unable to distinguish the proper one from context.

But suddenly I was stuck.

The reason was a surprise phone-call from my doctor who had just called, and with a big grin had said: “You’re approved as a test subject! In two weeks we’ll have you in here for analysis, and after the nano-rooters are tailored to you and set to work, you may be ready for physical therapy before too long and on your way back to normal!”

I remembered forcing a smile onto my face as I had stared into the small color phone-screen to give him the expected happy response. Then I pleaded a backlog of work and hung up. For a long time, I just sat there, feeling suddenly afraid, but unsure of why.

Tina felt it too and ran around in rapid circles, chattering endlessly and ignoring my calls for her to shut up and get me a drink. Finally I calmed myself down as my aide, Maria came in to check on the noise, the breeze from the door making me realize I had been sweating as I felt the cool dampness around my neck.

I chased Maria away as soon as she had wiped me off and changed my shirt. And as I finally relaxed, so did Tina, allowing herself to be petted with my chin as she sat on my shoulder munching one of several treats.

Just like she was doing now.

She jumped up on my shoulder again and I sat stroking her soft, warm fur with my chin as I tried to figure out why the thought of being cured should scare me so.

Cured by nanotechnology.

Long before my accident, I had read the various articles and books on the new science that had started appearing in the late Eighties, marveling over the idea of microscopic machines built up atom by atom until they were only the size of a molecule. Machines that eventually would analyze, break down and reassemble matter on an atomic level, and also replicate themselves. They would be virtually living organisms! At first I had incorporated nanotechnology’s fascinating promises of a brighter future into many of the stories that I wrote for science fiction magazines when I wasn’t working on a horror novel—that genre paid better for me. Fantastic and hopeful tales of armies of nanomachines spreading to clean up a tortured environment, replenishing exhausted resources, and providing a safe means of disposing of hazardous wastes of all types except nuclear.