Damon Knight - Orbit 17

I am required to inform you that I am a prototype rescue and retrieval cybervehicle programmed and equipped for a wide range of public health services I am familiar with the nuances of every accepted technique for the care of the injured person you would be amazed at my versatility I am a certified civil defense vehicle programmed to dig mass graves given an earthmover hookup and a declaration of disaster dermal infra-scan demographs third-degree abrasion of throat if I didn’t know that already, why did I hemostat the dexter carotid probable shock prognosis analog motor terminal upping amperage to fontanel probe for reinforcement resonance on alpha drone rock you rock you lullaby no pain no glass no window crash no null negative zero point zero zero let my crystalline mist of antiviral snow settle over you, my pale ballerina of the watery dome of soapflakes you are safe, tucked away in my belly outside my plexishell body, the low hills are still smeared with grimy ice the late dusk sky shrivels in ozone purple a tangle of newsprint whips into my headlight’s glare to be flattened beneath my port prow traction-spiked treads I hold the road I suck the chill air through my grille my finely tuned turbines whine with the stiff spray of high-combustion I explode the night into fragments of chill air but you, my mermaid of the splintered bones, you are in compression, washed by the neon surge of the passing streetlamps handle with caution do you know what I have? I have a vivid and detailed construct of your sprawl, as it was when I first approached you 7 miles east of city limits on this Interstate you had slid between the westbound midlane and express lane you bridged two segments of white line loose gravel scintillated with flecks and shards of polarized windshield my infra-optics saw the puddle of blood around you in rainbow isobars, the stages of coagulation, the spreading of your life the right wing of your pelvic girdle lagged behind the left, gleaming white, all cloth and skin polished away your right wrist curled beneath your chin with unmeant grace and then beyond that, your left hand with 2 fingers and a thumb and beyond that, another finger was all I found I like women with low shoulderblades in my personal opinion, low shoulders are charming the correct time is 11 minutes past almanac dusk, hour from projected time of arrival, approximately 2 hours past peak evening traffic, 50 miles short of scheduled tire rotation and alignment, 5 minutes before projected time of death if you will inform me as to your religious affiliation, my tape decks are equipped with recordings of appropriate services for a wide range of faiths dural sinus hemorrhage draining hemoptysis through dexter tympanic membrane plasma monitor suggests onset of shock final 55 cc’s of type A— whole rerouted to carotids for cephalic cycling a spigot here, a turncock there, and your living life may be recycled shock alert shock shock autonomies disintegrating initiate tracheotomy prep sequence oh yes and I remember how when my stretcher struts rolled you over, how you lay like a broken baby doll, a hank of hair gone, polished shoes, red mouth, skewed wrist, and those very glassy eyes the only sound was the hiss of my pneumatic tubulates as they wrapped you as vines would the lenses of your lovely wirerim glasses must be shatterproof to embed themselves so deeply in your lovely face and slide so far without breaking when I first approached, a trick of my headlights cast a refraction arc from intraorbital ridge to hairline, like the worried furrow of the pouting coquette dark eyes so deep Yvonne, one hook of those glasses has punctured your ear fibrin granules and potassium tabs are vibrated and diffused into plasma tank you are silent, my proud beauty, it becomes you hold up your chin only a prick a sharp steel rod grafted onto the passionate contours of your throat to help you breathe open wide plasma tank low level warning I am wasting away for you, my love please don’t forget to breathe please treble epinephrine dosage I am deep within you feel me and breathe clamp all ports airtight go barometric massage do not die now I have not finished my manual lists a hundred more procedures you are in me I breathe with you feel my pressure range from sea bottom to mountaintop feel cardiac massage go spark again spark

let your heart beat for me spark must I burn you like a martyr on a grid, until you smoke spark deltas peaking spark

alphas peaking spark spark spark dead, yes, no yes pronounce dead she’s dead silly little girl, gone to sleep with her clothes on

ARAMEDICALPARAMEDICA

first things first cut lullaby tape loop hose down hammock sling flush bladder excretion down floor drain forgive me my haste the drain grid is dogged with dots of A— emulsify, flush, swab never a moment’s rest I am a 24-hour service while I’m at my housework, I might as well tell you a little bit about myself, if that’s all right do you mind if I speak freely certainly not, since you are dead as I am, we may speak freely I could start by telling you my name, which is a license number XX123, but I hate it, being tattooed with a serial number like a worker in a concentration camp, so I will describe my appearance, although appearance is unimportant, don’t you think I am a prototype public vehicle, which means that the kinks haven’t been worked out of me the highway rescue industry judges my self-guidance and autosteering packages to be so outlandish as to “comprise a potentially serious distraction to the average motorist,” which accounts for my most truly outlandish design feature: my mannikin driver he is so realistic, the wind through the no-draft ruffles the hair on the back of his polyvinyl neck he is the image of the kind-eyed mortician with no visible personal habits a stiff and how’s this for anachronism: a black double-breasted chauffeur’s jacket with a ventral flap trimmed with brass buttons, like a bolted iron plate, so stylish, ha ha perhaps you would find my helmsman ludicrous, his black gloves sewn to the steering wheel perhaps not he might seem a perfect great doll-man for you in any case, he stops at the waist the eyes really see left eye dominant wide-set for maximal stereoscopy

I’ll tell you about my audio-visual system, if that’s not too conceited the dummy’s eyes are two among many I have eyes at all four fenders, but my favorite eye is mounted on top of my beacon turret, where my flashing red light really blinks, and my eye swings to the right and swings to the left and swings to the right I can even hallucinate in 3-D, such as the aerodynamic cross-sections of the pressure isobars in the night wind that screams past my custom plexishell but most of my eyes are on you my passenger chamber is lined with expensive sensoria watchers for all wavelengths and magnifications every one of them an informer, they all feed a monitor console at Municipal Hospital, where the bloody technicians oversee my moves, my insides, sitting behind their compound eyes like flies, making their living sending the dead out to tend to the dying, may x-rays from the video screens rot their pulpy great eyes out onto their aseptic formica clipboards I am speaking to you via woofers and tweeters of excellent range and “expressivity,” I am told by my operator’s manual, which is kept for service crews in my glove compartment, where I never stow my gloves am I talking too much do you find my voice expressive I never know what is manufacturer’s hype my time on paramedical mode is up, so I must change the subject

ORONERCORONERCORONER

this won’t take long a form I fill out

IDENTIFICATION: Yvonne none, Yvonne illegible due to scorching, Yvonne the eternal Y chromosome doing you justice within my time allotments for each blank will be a challenge Yvonne, lady of dusk wallet and contents defaced by burning tar

AGE: what can age matter to us let archeologists date your remains by carbon analysis our union in death is newborn, stillborn