Марта Уэллс: From a Certain Point of View

“I can’t help it,” Luke said. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Do you not?” 2-1B responded. Just a casual response, but he didn’t expect his patient to go suddenly cold and grim-faced. He appreciated stoic patients, but the silence grew until he felt compelled to fill the void. “Now, once you have your new hand, it will feel very strange at first. Your brain will send signals to move your fingers, but occasionally it will feel as though there is a delay, even if there is not. Your nerves will still be recovering, so do expect your hand to spontaneously contract once in a while. And you may still have phantom pain while your nerves heal.”

“Phantom pain?” Luke asked.

“Yes. Your nerves were cut through entirely. They will sometimes experience the memory of that injury, even the memory of that hand. Some patients feel the pain, as if new, for the rest of their lives.”

Luke’s eyes looked glassy, and he dropped his head and sighed. “That’s a long time.” He glanced up at his caretaker with curiosity. “Do droids feel phantom pain when their limbs are cut off?”

“Our circuits have memory,” he responded. Then it was 2-1B’s turn to be quiet. He disliked when patients asked questions that probed too deeply into his own thoughts. It was all so much easier when he had a task to accomplish. Using a syringe, he carefully extruded the translucent bacta gel onto the freshly cleaned wound. “There. I have cleaned off all your scar tissue, and the bacta is already working on the nerve, muscle, tendon, bone, and skin. Now it’s time to begin the attachment process for your cybernetic hand.”

Too-Onebee went back to the supply wall and began selecting instruments for the next phase. For some reason, this procedure was not going the way he thought it would. Usually, 2-1B would have completed his task by now. But with Luke, he was working more slowly. He was baffled by some of his patient’s questions about 2-1B’s own sensory input and memories. No one ever asked about a droid’s injuries or pain. It occurred to him that with this artificial attachment, they would have this part of themselves in common. He paused, unsure where he ought to store this new information, before continuing. He picked up the appropriate-sized cybernetic hand, already pre-covered with synthskin to match Luke’s skin. His patient held out his good hand.

“Wait.”

“Wait? For what?” asked 2-1B. An FX droid rolled nearby, its cylindrical body slowly spinning with its multiple arms extending and contracting, thinking it was needed for assistance. “Oh, do go away, Effex-Seven! If you’re needed, I’ll call for you.” Too-Onebee shook his head. “Twenty elbows in the way, and Trandoshan toenail clippers always at the ready. That ridiculous droid.” He turned to Luke. “As you were saying?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t attach the cybernetic hand.”

“Pardon?” If 2-1B were human, he’d have dropped the surgical clamp in surprise. “What in the Maker’s name—why would you not want a replacement?”

“Maybe this was meant to be. Maybe I was destined to lose my hand, in exchange for something else.”

“In certain cultures, the amputation of a hand is done in exchange for the crime of thievery. But Luke, you have not stolen anything, and our laws do not condone such punishments.”

“It’s not that simple. I made mistakes.” He looked away, but even 2-1B could see that his face was stricken. “I could have learned the ways of the Force better. Faster. I was so stubborn. I was too foolish to see the trap in front of me.” He looked at his stump, with its tissues shiny from the recently applied bacta. It must have tingled; many patients reported the sensation at this point in the process. He banged his injured arm onto the examination table. His voice cracked as he muttered, “I could have saved Han.”

“Luke, I—”

“Even Yoda said, ‘this crude matter.’ ” Luke pressed the fingers of his good hand to his chest. “I don’t deserve to have it fixed. And maybe I don’t need to. If I learn the ways of the Force, one hand alone doesn’t matter.” He looked unsure. “Right?”

“The Force is not in the repertoire of my medical data banks,” 2-1B replied. “Medical droids and the Rebel Alliance are quite responsible for keeping people alive, too, you know,” he added, a touch haughtily. Oh, these creatures. Always thinking they could rush off to battle, while it was the medical droids and crew on ships like the Redemption that stitched them back together and healed them. Was that the Force at work? He didn’t know. Perhaps.

What he did know was that he was programmed to heal. How he ended up caring was another matter. But he did care. Luke was in pain, after all. In many ways. “Don’t deserve to have it fixed? All beings deserve to be cared for, to be healed.” He said this rather adamantly, and Luke seemed surprised by the passion in his words. “Moral perfection is no requisite for care. That would be cruelty itself, as no beings are perfect. As for your other comment…there is limited information in my programming on how the Jedi and Sith heal with respect to cybernetic implants. There could be many who live with artificial limbs and are, as you say, strong with the Force.”

Luke’s eyes widened at his words. “Sith? Like Darth Vader?”

“I do not know. When new data is gleaned, we medical droids share our data as a collective. Often the Empire destroys its own medical droids, so I know little of Darth Vader’s medical status. However, my understanding is that Darth Vader is heavily incorporated with cybernetic parts, if that is what you are asking.”

Luke was quiet again as 2-1B brought the disembodied cybernetic hand to the examination table on which Luke rested his injured arm. His patient stared at it as if it were evil incarnate, a look of utter disgust that slowly transformed to an expression of anguish.

“Father,” he said weakly.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Luke shook his head. “Nothing.” But he still seemed somewhat repulsed by the artificial hand.

2-1B cocked his head. “If you choose not to let me attach the new hand, that of course is your right and your decision. It is true that by giving you what you’ve lost, it will not necessarily make you…complete. Normal.” He searched for the word. “Whole?” Too-Onebee was well equipped with programming to make him more sympathetic. But it was a bit rusty, so to speak. Straightforward patient care was easy, but it went better when he used all his programming. It did take extra effort, though, and it made 2-1B somewhat uncomfortable. Perhaps that was why organics suffered so.

“All I know is that I can help you,” 2-1B continued. “And your friends can help you. After all, when a bone is broken, it requires time to mend. A crutch to lean on. Accepting such assistance is not weakness, nor is it gallant to forgo such treatment. Sometimes the harder choice is to accept help.”

Luke held up his stump, looking at it this way and that. “Crude matter.” His eyes went to the artificial hand. “It won’t be my hand, though.”

“It’s your tool, just as many other things in your world are your tools. A wheel instead of a leg; a mechno-lens instead of an eye. What does it matter? There is no shame in this.” Too-Onebee began to prepare the cybernetic hand for the delicate connections to Luke’s stump. “There is nothing inherently good or bad in it, unless you choose to use it as such. And it shall become a part of you. Every creature in this universe alters and evolves from minute to minute. We are not the same as we were only a day ago. We are ever changing, fated forever to exist in a state of decay and creation.”

“You’re a poet, Too-Onebee,” Luke said, a gleam of humor in his eye.