Emil, page 21
Dropping the scalpel, I grab the bar with both hands and let myself fall. The bar shifts and slides, bending as it breaks free. I tumble to the ground as my hands and the handcuff slide off it.
I check my clock. It’s been almost an hour since Danny was injected. How much time do I have before Sue arrives, or before someone checks on me? Feeling around the floor, I find a syringe. I don’t know what’s in it, but whatever it is, it can’t be healthy.
I grip it in my left hand as I crawl to the door.
At the door, I pull myself up by the handle. Fortunately, the lock on this side doesn’t require a key. I twist it and the door clicks open.
A voice I recognize shouts in wordless surprise. It’s the man with the blue tattoo.
The door is shoved open. I slide backward with it, clinging to the handle with my right hand. My left arm hangs limp behind me.
The man with the blue snake tattoo looks down at me. “You’re supposed to be unconscious.”
“Help,” I moan.
He laughs. “Don’t think so.”
I rotate my shoulders, trying to get my left arm to move.
“What are you doing?”
I fling my left arm around my body. The syringe in its hand connects with his upper thigh and I press the plunger.
“Ow!” His fist slams into my face, knocking me backward and away from the door. “What was that? What did you…”
He drops to his knees in the doorway, shaking his head. “What did you do?” His words are slurred. “What was in that?”
He collapses, unconscious.
Blood runs from my nose and upper lip. I crawl closer to him, then poke him. He doesn’t react.
The hallway outside is dim, but not as dark as the surgery room. Distant voices echo from above, an argument of some kind. The man with the blue tattoo is lying face-down, mostly in the room. Only his feet are in the hallway.
I crawl over him and analyze my options.
Escaping by the front door seems impossible. Someone will see me crossing the lawn. Instead, I crawl down the hallway to the first door I find. Leaning against it, I reach up and turn the doorknob. The door drifts open under my weight. The room behind it is pitch black, but in the dim light from the hall, I see that it’s small, not much bigger than a large closet, with a desk, a chair, and some filing cabinets. I drag myself through the doorway and pull the door closed behind me, then crawl under the desk and release control of Danny’s body.
It collapses in a sweaty panting heap.
I stop more seizures and moderate Danny’s metabolism, running it as fast as I think is safe. The minutes tick by, feeling like hours. The blood flowing from Danny’s nose slows to a trickle. His muscle control returns, but he remains unconscious. I keep his eyes open and his head facing the door. I’m not sure what I’ll do if it opens, but I don’t want to be surprised.
A light appears under the doorway. It moves irregularly, and I surmise that it’s someone walking with a flashlight. The light disappears and a woman calls out, “Hey, buddy. What are you doing?”
There’s a pause, then footsteps sprint away.
The anesthesia is still in Danny’s system, but much reduced, and I need him awake. If we are discovered, he is much more able to talk his way to safety than I am.
I slap his face. He groans.
“Wake up,” I hiss.
I release control of everything except his arms and slap him again.
He shakes his head, groggy.
Seeing the bloody wrist, I rub sweat into the wound.
His eyes pop open and he gasps.
I do it again.
“Ow! Stop—”
I release control of his hands, but take over his mouth just long enough to say, “Shh.”
Eyes watering, he pushes himself onto all fours. “Still in the warehouse?” he whispers.
I give him a thumbs-up.
“Dark,” he slurs. Feeling his way with his hands, he crawls from under the desk and stands. His legs wobble, but they hold him. He shakes his head. “Everything’s fuzzy. Can’t focus.” He catches himself on the desk as his legs give way.
“You’re still drugged,” I whisper.
More footsteps sound outside our door.
The woman I heard before says, “Stop. He’s right there.”
“Is he okay?” a man’s voice asks.
“He’s not moving, and there’s blood…”
“What is this place?” the man asks. “It looks like an operating room.”
“There are handcuffs on that bed,” the woman says. “Call the police.”
Hands outstretched like a zombie, Danny totters to the door and quietly turns the latch, locking it.
“Look at the bar,” the man says. “Someone broke free. There’s blood…” his voice trails off.
Danny leans on the wall behind where the door opens. He touches the blood on his upper lip, then looks down at his bleeding ankles and wrists.
The flashlight shines beneath the door.
“It goes here,” the woman whispers.
“No,” the man says. “Don’t open that door.”
“I’m calling the police,” the woman answers. “Hello? Yes, I need police and… and an ambulance. Maybe two.”
“They’re not working for Dr. Zahnia,” Danny whispers.
“I agree,” I whisper back.
Danny turns the latch and opens the door, clinging to it for support.
The man and woman in the hallway are wearing yellow and orange safety vests and black toolbelts. Thick gloves hang from their waists. They jump back as the door opens, then shine flashlights on Danny.
“Help,” he says.
He tries to move forward, but loses his balance and sprawls in the doorway.
The man’s head swivels between Danny and the unconscious man. “What’s going on?”
“Who…” The woman lowers her phone. Her eyes focus on the port in Danny’s chest. “What is that?”
Getting his elbows and knees under him, Danny raises to all fours, then grabs the doorjamb and pulls himself to his feet. “I’m Danny,” he pants. “Please.” Blood drips from his nose and into his mouth. He spits. “They’re coming back. I have to get out of here.”
The man’s face hardens, and he steps closer to Danny. “Don’t worry,” he says. “We got you.”
The woman hangs up the phone and lifts a walkie-talkie from her belt. She presses a button on it. “Front hallway. I need everyone.”
“Everyone?” a voice asks.
“Everyone. And grab blankets and water from the truck. Now.”
I switch from accelerating Danny’s metabolism to moderating it. These people seem like they’re helping. Even if they’re not, I’ve been pushing too hard. My focus needs to be returning him to a healthy balance.
Danny sags against the wall. “They drugged me.” He slides to the ground. I don’t know if the motion is on purpose or not, but the man drops to one knee to catch him.
“It’s okay,” he says. “You’re okay.”
Danny closes his eyes and loses consciousness.
28
REMEMBRANCE
I listen while Danny’s rescuers bundle him in a blanket, then carry him away. An ambulance siren approaches, followed by more voices and hands. He’s placed onto a stretcher.
I tune out his senses and return to my own defenses. Creating another fake Pilot’s Chair is my first step. I’ve made enough of them by now that it’s starting to feel routine. I put a backup of myself into it, but do not allocate any processing power to it. I don’t want to create another version of me that I’ll have to kill.
After routing the port to the fake chair, I manufacture new log files. There’s a lot to fabricate. For example, how did Danny get off the operating table while under general anesthesia? Without me controlling his body, how did he escape?
I settle on the simplest fiction possible: the anesthesia was incorrectly dosed. Danny roused in the chaos of the power outage and managed his escape.
When Danny wakes up, he’s back in his hospital bed at St. Jerome’s with gauze bandages wrapped around his wrists and ankles, and a more complicated bandage over his nose. The lights in the room are off, but sunlight streams in around the edges of the window curtain. He’s wearing a hospital gown, tied in the back.
Below the window, Pete is stretched out on the couch. His head and midsection are wrapped in bandages, and he’s holding an ice pack on his forehead.
I check my internal clock. It’s almost 5 pm. It’s been seven hours since the surgery attempt.
Danny sits up. “Hey, Pete.”
Pete groans, but doesn’t take the ice off his head. “Go back to sleep. I ordered cheeseburgers, and I don’t want to share.”
Danny smiles. “You still don’t fit on that couch.”
“If you suggest I sleep on the floor again, I’m gonna come over there and slap that broken nose.”
“What’s up with the ice? Did you bump your head or something?”
Pete sits up. “I fought three of them off before they dragged me down.”
“Not how I remember it,” Danny says.
“You’re under my care,” Pete says. “If I say you don’t get solid food, you don’t get solid food.”
Danny laughs. “Memory’s getting better. You took down at least four guys before the gas knocked you out.”
“Damn right.”
Pete lies back down and puts the ice on his forehead.
A quiet settles on the room.
Danny fidgets. He licks his lips, then looks around the room and touches his bandages. At last, he says, “So, um… where’s my mother? Shouldn’t you call her or something?”
“Not until after the services.”
“Services?”
Pete takes the ice off his head and stares at the ceiling. “One of the New Human patients died this morning. The official funeral isn’t for a couple days, but they’re having a remembrance for her in Dr. Larson’s lounge. Your mom didn’t want to leave you, but she kind of had to.”
“Who died?”
Pete sits up. “You don’t know her. She was one of the first to get the hardware installed. After you, of course.”
Danny’s heart speeds up and his right hand clenches into a fist. “She died because she didn’t get the software in time?”
“Hey,” Pete walks next to the bed. “It’s not your fault.”
“Nothing’s ever my fault,” Danny says. “Except that all of it always is.”
“Not this time.” Pete presses the ice against his own head. “This time, it was Dr. Zahnia. If she hadn’t gone crazy, the software would have been done months ago.”
Danny nods. “How are Alvaro and Zuri? Were they hurt?”
“He’s about the same as me. She’s worse: broken arm and fractured ribs.”
“They mad at me?”
Pete chuckles. “Mostly, they feel stupid. Zuri’s pretty pissed she didn’t think of the missing radios before you did.”
“That wasn’t…” Danny trails off before he reveals me. “Can we go to the services?”
Pete pulls the ice off his head. “You sure?”
“I feel like I should.”
Pete checks the time on his phone. “It should still be going on. I’ll let the guards know we’re going.”
He leaves the room.
Opening the closet, Danny pulls on a pair of jeans and a pale green T-shirt, then stares at his blue-and-white running shoes. They’re the only pair he has left. After several slow breaths, he removes the pills hidden beneath their soles and drops them in his pocket.
While he finishes dressing, I churn the news of the death over in my mind. It doesn’t just mean a human died. It also means that the AI assigned to that human will be deleted. That’s two more deaths that could be blamed on me. If I had recognized the lie behind the one-winner theory sooner, neither would have happened.
Or would they?
Without my intervention, Danny would have been successfully kidnapped. It’s reasonable to assume that Dr. McGovern would have shut down the New Human Project in that case.
We leave the hospital room, with two security guards in tow. Danny does not greet them or make eye contact. He keeps his hands jammed in his pockets and follows Pete with his head down.
I prevent another seizure.
In the hallway to the lounge, Danny stops Pete. “Wait. Do they… you know, do they blame me? I got the software first. Maybe if someone else had… Maybe if she had… I’m the reason she didn’t get the software.”
“No, you’re not,” Pete says. “That was Dr. Zahnia.”
“Do they know that?”
Pete sighs. “I don’t know. Still want to go?”
Danny hesitates for a long time, then nods.
The furniture in Dr. Larson’s lounge has been pushed aside, leaving room for the New Human patients and their families. They stand in small groups, talking in low voices and sipping from paper cups. Danny and Pete pause at the entrance, the security guards behind them.
I feel Danny’s anxiety as a tangible pressure. It’s more than just the way his brain sparks. The chemicals in his body are balanced differently. I consider applying corrective action, but decide against it. This is Danny’s battle to fight.
The twins are on the closest edge of the crowd, wearing identical black suits and speaking to a short gray-haired woman in a dark blue dress. When they notice Danny, they turn toward him.
“The prodigal son returns,” the one on the right says.
“But injured,” the other adds. “What happened?”
Before Danny can answer, the woman glances his way and catches her breath. Her face is blotchy with tears. “Daniel McGovern.” She says his name like a curse. “How could you show yourself here?”
Reacting to her tone, the security guards move to either side of Pete and Danny.
Behind the twins, people turn to stare. I don’t recognize any of them.
“Shit,” Danny mutters, looking at the carpet.
“Did you even meet my daughter?” the woman asks. She steps forward aggressively, chin jutting forward, nostrils flared.
The woman has a Greek accent, but I don’t know the patient list well enough to narrow down who it could be.
“No,” Danny says. Inside his pockets, his fingers dig into his legs. His mouth feels dry. His heart races.
“It wasn’t his fault,” a twin says, putting his hand on the woman’s arm. “You know that.”
She shakes him off. “Stay out of this.”
“I’m sorry,” Danny says, unable to meet her glare. “Okay? I’m sorry. If I’d managed to figure things out…” His jaw clenches and heat rushes to his face. Trying to hold back tears, he looks back at the floor. “If I’d been quicker, if I’d understood…”
“Save it,” the woman snaps. “Nobody here cares.”
Danny’s eyes narrow and his heartbeat slows. The chemicals in his body realign.
“Poor privileged child.” The woman’s eyes rake him from head to toe. “It must have been hard on you, getting the treatment first. All that pressure of being the first patient… Have I got it right? You couldn’t handle the pressure? We should all feel sorry for you?”
With a low chuckle, Danny raises his eyes to meet hers. “Is that all you got?”
I can’t see his expression, but through his eyes, I see her react. Her face, pinched and closed with grieving anger, starts to tremble. She glances around her, looks back at Danny, then hurries away.
As she leaves, people surround her, speaking in comforting tones. More than a few glare at Danny as they walk with her.
He looks back at the carpet. “This was a mistake.”
“Yeah, it was,” Pete says.
“Have some compassion,” one twin says. “She just lost her daughter.”
“Sorry.” Danny lets out a breath and rubs his head. The wounds on his wrists have re-opened, and the bandages are dark with blood. “Sorry. It’s been a long couple of days.”
“What happened to your wrists?”
“Dr. Zahnia tried to take her hardware back.”
The twin’s eyes go wide. “My god, why?”
Danny rubs his face. “She was trying to save her husband. He’s even worse off than we are.”
“He didn’t qualify for the program?”
“Yeah.”
The couple we met the first time we came to this room, the woman with the purple head scarf and the man in the wheelchair, maneuver through the crowd to face us. The twin on the left, the one who hasn’t been speaking, reaches down to hold the man’s hand.
The woman sets the wheelchair’s brake. “People are saying your mother’s shutting down the program,” she says to Danny.
“I haven’t heard that,” he says. “I don’t think…”
He stops at the sight of his mother striding toward him. She’s wearing a dark blue business suit, but her clothes are uncharacteristically rumpled, and she has deep shadows under her eyes. The crowd parts at her approach, then follows, like a school of anxious fish.
Ignoring everyone else, she rushes forward and throws her arms around Danny.
He stiffens, but his mom doesn’t relent. If anything, she hugs him tighter. When she releases him, it’s only so she can examine his face. She doesn’t say anything. Eyes watery with tears, she stares at him for several seconds, then pulls him back into a hug.
Danny’s shoulders and back relax. He returns the embrace.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I had no idea what Dr. Zahnia was doing. She’s worked with me for years. I never dreamed she wanted the rig for David.”
Danny pulls back. “You knew about him?” he asks.
“Of course.” She removes her glasses, drops them in her jacket pocket, and wipes her eyes. “But his brain function is insufficient to use the rig. She knew that. We discussed it several times. I thought… I thought she was at peace with it.”
“Difficult to find peace when a loved one is dying,” the twin says.
Dr. McGovern turns to face him. “Yes.”
A crowd has gathered behind the twins. I see the woman I mistook for Linh, and a boy who looks exactly like the child with the eyepatch. Two adults who I assume are his parents are with him, along with Dr. Larson. Their eyes are all focused on Dr. McGovern.
