Joanna Wylde: The Price of Freedom

Ever so slowly the lock cycled. Finally he was able to crawl into the tent. Bragan was kneeling next to Jess, examining him carefully.

“How is he?”

“The only injury I’ve found is to the back of his neck,” Bragan said. “He got lucky; his suit was punctured, but the dirt and powdered rock kept it relatively well-contained until you freed him up. His oxygen levels are good, so that’s one thing we don’t have to worry about for now.”

“So why isn’t he awake?”

“I don’t know,” Bragan said. “But it isn’t a good sign. He’s got a concussion of some kind, and since the impact seems to have hit him right on the base of his skull, in the back, it could be very bad. His brain stem could be injured, particularly if the bones in there are shattered. There’s no way of knowing, though, not without better equipment than I have here.”

“What about his spinal cord?”

"As far as I can tell it's all right," Bragan replied. "We need to roll him over to get a better look. It will need cleaning, and probably some sutures. There's a risk that we'll cause further injury, but that's a moot point by now. For all I know he's brain dead. Can you help me?"

Logan nodded, and together they rolled Jess on to his side. Bragan turned the powerful lamp on to the wound, and Logan hissed. A sharp rock must have penetrated the man's neck. There was a deep gash and the entire wound was filled with a mixture of blood and dust, as well as tiny scraps of fabric.

"Fortunately I have antibiotics," Bragan said softly. "Their medic synthesizes them himself. He keeps me supplied. If we can clean this out we may be able to keep it from getting infected. If he's not brain damaged, he'll have a chance at survival. Doesn't look like it hit any arteries…Hold him for me."

Logan did as he was told, watching Bragan as the man muttered to himself. He pulled a small bottle of something out of the bag. Liquid of some kind…

"What is that?"

"It's a disinfectant," Bragan said, pulling the pressure suit's fabric away from Jess' wound with gentle fingers.

"What kind of disinfectant?"

"It's some of that Pilgrim moonshine," Bragan said. " Bakrah. I'll thank you to keep your mouth shut about the fact that I have it. It may save your friend's life, but I won't have much of it left if the men in the barracks find out about it. Antibiotics are easy to find, but alcohol comes at a premium."

"Is it strong enough to work on a wound?" Logan asked. "I thought you needed virtually pure alcohol for that."

"Let me put it this way," Bragan said, a note of dark humor in his voice. "I suspect that most of the Pilgrim men who don't die from liver disease die from alcohol poisoning. I take some comfort in that, actually. Think about it a lot…"

"How the hell did you get it?"

"I have my ways," Bragan said again. "You don't need to know."

Logan grunted, and turned his attention back to Jess. Slowly the wound was coming clean. Bragan had flushed it out; now he was picking out the larger pieces of dirt. He worked in silence for several minutes, then cursed.

"I need to take my helmet off," he said. "I'm starting to sweat in here. It's hard to see. Can you do it for me? I've already washed my hands, and I don't want to touch anything."

Logan lowered Jess' body carefully, then reached over and pulled the man's helmet off. He pulled off his own as well; otherwise he wouldn't be able to talk to Bragan. Besides that, it was easier to see Jess. He lifted his friend again, and Bragan went back to work. Logan watched, mesmerized by the slow and patient way the man picked through Jess' flesh. Occasionally he would flush the wound, washing away the fresh blood that oozed up steadily. Then he saw something whitish, and his stomach heaved. It looked like…

"What's that?" he asked.

"His spinal column," Bragan said. "Don't worry, it looks like it's intact. The rock seems to have sheared right along it without doing much damage. Practically shaved the flesh off…"

Logan stared, unable to stop himself. He had studied anatomy in school, but it was different to see it on a living, breathing person. Then something caught his eye. Right at the edge of the wound, atop the spinal cord, was something metallic.

"What's that?" he asked. Bragan paused, peering closely into the wound.

"It's the control implant," he said softly. "I'm sure you know what they are. We all have them."

"I know what it is," Logan said dryly. "At least in theory. They wave the wand at us, we die. Pretty damn simple. What's it doing on his spinal cord? I was told they were actually implanted within the cord.

That's why you can't dig them out. But this is on the cord."

"It's probably the control unit," Bragan said, poking at it gently with the tiny metal pincers he was using. "This is what they implant. Then they activate it, and thousands of nano-machines expand out and go to work, spreading filaments through the nerves. That's why you can't remove it. Those filaments are braided directly into his nervous system on a molecular level."

Logan nodded, thinking. Bragan continued his work silently. After a few minutes, Logan spoke again.

"So that little unit is the hub, the processor, right?"

"Uh, huh," Bragan replied absently.

"So if that unit stops functioning, what happens to the filaments?"

Bragan looked up at him in surprise. "Nothing. They're still there."

"But are they active?"

"Define active," Bragan said, voice filled with dark humor. "They aren't active any time, unless they're activated by a control wand. The main unit serves as a control device and the filaments are what directly cause pain or death, depending how the wand is used. The rest of the time they just sit there."

"Does the wand activate the filaments directly, or does it simply interface with the control unit?"

"I would imagine it interfaces with the control unit," Bragan said. "The filaments are very simple constructions. They don't have any processing power of their own. Why?"

"I have an idea," Logan said quietly. "He's already unconscious, and there's already an opening on the back of his neck. I want you to take out the control unit."

Bragan grew still. Then he replied, very softly.

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because everything I've told you is hypothetical," Bragan said, his voice tense. "Just because I've speculated on how these things work doesn't give me the right to experiment on this man. And you don't have the right to make a decision like this for him. Taking this out could kill him. It could paralyze him, even stop his heart from beating. I don't know what the hell might happen. There could be a thousand different booby-traps built into the system to prevent tampering. It's wrong."

"It's wrong ?" Logan asked, his voice harsh. " Wrong is working to death in a mine on an asteroid that doesn't even have a name. Wrong is never having sex again, never even eating real food. Wrong is slavery. If we can find a way to get rid of these implants we have a chance at escape. This is the best opportunity to find out if it's possible that we'll ever have."

"And what if it kills him?" Bragan asked, his voice caustic. "We don't have the right to make that decision for him."

"Do you know this man at all?" Logan asked, his expression intense. Bragan shook his head. "Well, I do know him. We've been bunkmates and we've talked. He wants to escape. He has a sister, he wants to get back to her."

"We all want to escape," Bragan replied. "And we all have families." He paused. "Or at least, we did."

"Yes, but he and I have been discussing escape plans from the moment we met," Logan continued.

"This is an opportunity for him. He may die. He may live. But if he does live and he missed a chance to have his implant removed, I can guarantee that you'll hear about it. You have to do this."