It was dark and his helmet’s visor was partially frosted on the outside. The station’s life support had just turned on a few minutes ago and the atmosphere was slowly turning from oxygen frost into its gaseous form. He was looking for something, nervous sweat made his eyes itch and he expected enemies around every corner. That’s when he saw it, the bomb.
It was complex too complex to disarm before the timer ran out. Not seeing any other way, he had to take the bomb and jettison it into space. He couldn’t just grab it; he saw the magnetic trigger that would detonate if it was removed from the wall. He reached for his plasma torch and started to cut the wall itself. It was going to be close. His teammates should be here to help him, but they weren’t, where were they?
As he was cutting, his hands went numb, and started twitching. He couldn’t hold the torch as it slipped from his fingers. He watched as it fell to the floor and the timer counted down.
3… 2… 1… A flash, pain and…
Peter woke up in sweat. It was 06:52 and he had slept less than thirty minutes. He got up and watched the sun rise through his bedroom window after yet another restless night in Paradise Heights, the small condominium complex located on the beach a few kilometers north of Occinus City, capital of Occinus IV. It had been weeks since his last good night’s sleep. To make a bad situation worse, he had lost control over his cybernetic forearm and hands. The loss had started slowly, a simple decrease of sensitivity, followed by random twitches or clenching of his fists, but had eventually become a complete loss of control and feedback.
Sitting up on the edge of his bed, Peter looked at his right arm. He could still see the faint scar etching his muscled bicep, courtesy of an armor-piercing round, years ago. He let his gaze continue down to the elbow, where his skin joined seamlessly with the matte-black carbon nanoweave that covered the cybernetic implant. The internal armor plates made sleek lines along his forearm and angular shapes on his hand. Peter’s left arm was almost identical with its matte-black skin from fingers to elbow, his left bicep had no scar and it had a holo-interface near the wrist, positioned like a watch.
Still looking at his hands, Peter tried to make fists and cursed as he failed to do more than twitch his fingers. “Fuck!” He slammed his right hand on the nightstand. He felt nothing.
The sound of the impact still echoing, Peter got up and walked to the bathroom. Even with the limiter installed at the end of his service, the cybernetic hands were more than three times stronger than his own had ever been. He had had nightmares where he crushed his dick while pissing, where his fist clenched in an explosion of blood and pain. That always woke him up. Since then, he’d chosen to piss sitting down.
Still on the toilet, Peter used his Netlink to go online and do some research on GLS, or Ghost Limb Syndrome. Using his cybernetic eyes to view the results without an external display, Peter read from medical sites and personal blogs about the loss of feeling, the involuntary movements and loss of control.
They all confirmed what he feared most: he was suffering from GLS. He realized that for weeks, he’d been in denial, that this could never happen to him. But now, he had no control over his hands, he couldn’t continue denying. Still, every time he thought to go to a clinic, a cold sweat broke out, his stomach became unsettled and a headache came on. After thinking on this and his situation, he realized that his fear probably came from when his encephalon was shut down and his implant limiters were installed.
Realizing that his situation would only get worse and not wanting to face permanent nerve damage, Peter decided that his fear was stupid and he started to look for a nearby clinic where he could get help. He found many, but chose a Genutech clinic, located downtown. There were two generic cyber clinics closer, but since his implants were also Genutech, it made the most sense.
Before getting up, Peter used the holo-interface in his left arm to run a quick diagnostic. Feedback levels were in the red, at 4.2%; nominal range being between 70% and 85%. Wireless power reception was nominal at 86% and emergency battery life was full, at its legislated 4 hours.
The medical readout showed his medications were being circulated at their last dosages within his body, but it clearly wasn’t enough anymore. Peter tried again to increase the dosage, but the Artificial Awareness built into his implants prevented the unauthorized tampering and he didn’t want to outright hack it. “AA my ass,” he mumbled, leaving the bathroom.
Walking into the kitchen, Peter couldn’t help but see the broken glasses and cups on the table, their contents long spilled and dried amongst bent cutlery and cracked plates; all innocent victims of Peter’s uncontrolled spasms. He opened the fridge and grabbed two slices of yesterday’s pizza. He’d been ordering from the Tower of Pizza for the last few days; they made the best pizza he’d found on this planet, and their pies tasted just as good cold as when they arrived steaming hot. Sure, the congealed cheese didn’t look very appetizing, but Peter didn’t care. Once he’d eaten, he drank from the kitchen sink, careful not to damage the faucet again.
Peter dressed in his usual jeans and t-shirt and checked the weather and news via his Netlink. The time was 07:40 and the day was going to be hot, dry and sunny, with a high of 38 C. News headlines indicated the transit operators were on strike again, the bus drivers starting to picket against the introduction of Quantum Artificial Intelligence-equipped buses.
Curious, and to distract himself, Peter checked further into the story. It seemed that the ancient tradition of bus driving was going the way of taxi drivers, being replaced with self-driving vehicles. Although, unlike Auto-cabs with their swarm AA, the buses were going with QAIs, probably for safety and liability reasons. Some of the debate seemed to revolve around the QAIs themselves, how, when in a robot body, they were legislated as artificial workers, but when stationary or in a vehicle, like a starship, or it seems, a bus, they were not. The bus drivers were on strike to have the bus QAIs qualified as artificial laborers, which would drastically increase their costs and slow their adoption.
Peter checked the schedule, but his area was not yet served by the QAI buses. In the schedule’s headline, the Occinus Transit Authorities advised travelers to plan for longer wait times and full buses.
Peter decided that a walk would be better than a long wait and an overcrowded bus ride. He grabbed his vest, so he’d have pockets to hide his hands in and left the apartment, pausing in the hallway to say, “Apartment: lock and secure!”
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“Unit 704: locked-and-secured,” answered the apartment’s AA in its mechanical voice.
Peter wished the strata council would upgrade the AA to a new QAI, but the previous month’s meeting minutes had indicated such an upgrade would cost more than $2,000,000 for an adequate QAI. While he himself wouldn’t have minded paying the $25,000 share per unit, the majority did not. He had bought into Paradise Heights because it only had 80 large units and was close to the beach, just one block away in fact. In the rest of the neighborhood, the average apartment was around 70 square meters, less than half his, at 160 square meters. I guess being stuck with a dumb AA in a large apartment still beats having a QAI in a closet, he thought.
After a quick elevator ride, Peter left through the south lobby. When he reached the sidewalk, he headed downtown, further south. He was grateful that nearly all private and commercial vehicular traffic was restricted to the underground roadways, away from pedestrians. Thanks to surface streets being reserved for buses and emergency vehicles, walking was a quiet and pleasant experience. Even in the downtown district, the surface roads were free from honk-rage and gridlock. Peter thought that with the advent of self-driving cars, traffic jams should be a thing of the past, but no. Too many drivers still insist on manual driving, which causes all automated cars to be stuck at the speed of human reactions and distractions.
Peter, used to the brisk pace of the military, reached the clinic at 09:03. Genutech’s double-helix logo gleamed above the glass entrance. The clinic occupied a small portion of the ground floor of a skyscraper that took up the entire city block. To the left of the clinic was a loan broker and to its right an insurance company, both catering to cybernetic implants.
Inside, the waiting room was well-lit, both from discreet holo-lights and from natural light shining through the glassed entrance on the east wall of the clinic. The north wall was filled with holo-displays showing news, TV shows and adverts for Genutech implants. The south wall had two doors for the bathrooms and shelves on either side, filled with informational brochures. Peter noticed how quiet the waiting room was: the holo-displays were as silent as the patients.
Peter’s ocular implant informed him that there were 120 seats for patients, and a total of 73 patients. Ten nurses sat behind the processing desks along the western wall. Most of the patients were using wireless ear buds or their Netlink to tune into either music or the holo-displays. Peter queried the selection with his Netlink but was unimpressed. Before disconnecting from the system, he logged himself as a waiting patient and started his stopwatch from his Netlink. Now in queue, he took a seat facing away from the holo-displays and waited. Two hours, seven minutes and forty-two seconds went by before his turn, at Processing Desk 4.
“Welcome to the Downtown Genutech Cyber-clinic, sir,” said the nurse, a man in his late 20s with bright-blue eyes in an otherwise plain face. “Please have a seat Mr. Gordon.” He indicated the chair in front of his desk.
“Thanks.” Peter sat. “I need to see a doctor.”
“Of course. I have your check-in form here, but I’ll need to confirm your ID and the purpose of your visit, sir.”
“I’m here because I have problems sleeping and controlling some of my implants. I think it’s GLS,” Peter said, as he confirmed his ID via Netlink.
“I have your records here, Mr. Gordon. I see that you are a retired veteran with full benefits; there will be no charge for today’s visit.” The nurse finished updating Peter’s record and stood up. “Please follow me; I will take you to Examination Room 4. Doctor Ryan Collins will see you shortly.”
Peter followed the nurse towards a single door behind the processing desks, and down a wide hallway to the examination room. There were ten numbered doors in the corridor. Peter wondered if it was a coincidence, or if each processing desk had its own room
The nurse opened door number four. “Please make yourself comfortable. The Doctor will be here momentarily.”
Peter looked around the room: the layout was simple, clean and efficient. The ceiling was equipped with a very sophisticated holographic system. He sat in one of the room’s three chair, facing the door and started another stopwatch while he waited.
Precisely eight minutes later, the door opened and a tall woman appearing to be in her forties entered. Her name tag identified her as Doctor Ryan Collins. “Good morning, Mr. Gordon,” the doctor said, closing the door behind her.
“Good morning, Doctor. Please call me Peter.”
“Of course, Peter. How may I help you today?”
Peter raised both hands. “I can’t sleep, and I’ve lost control of my implants and can’t feel anything from them. They also randomly twitch or clench.”
“May I connect to your implants?”
“Sure.” Peter accepted the connect request via his Netlink. “You have access.”
The ceiling’s holographic system activated and displayed all of Peter’s implants by model and date installed. Frowning, the doctor said, “This can’t be right; it says here that your implants were installed almost two hundred years ago. How could that be?”
Crossing his arms, Peter answered. “I was a space marine, spent a lot of time in cryo-sleep. That should be in my file.”
“My apologies—I didn’t get a chance to read your file before seeing you.” Turning back to the holo-display, the doctor resumed her investigation. “Based on the readings from your implants, it appears you have the early symptoms of GLS”
“I already told your nurse that.”
“Yes, and I already apologized for not having read your file. May I continue?”
Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes, continue.”
“As I was saying, you have the early symptoms of GLS. If left untreated, your eyes, ears and even Netlink will also become affected. To prevent that, I’d like to get some blood samples so I can adjust your meds.”
“Here,” said Peter, presenting his left bicep.
Using a bio-sampler, the doctor took the necessary blood from Peter. “Okay, I have the sample; please wait while I review the results.”
“What does—”
The doctor raised her hand sharply to silence Peter. Her eyes flicked rapidly over the holo-display. “This confirms what I suspected, you’ve built up a low-level immunity to the anti-rejection drug and the neurotransmitter boosters.” she said after a moment. “I will do a preliminary adjustment to your implant’s medication system.” Without looking at Peter, she connected again to the implant and made the adjustments. Peter knew she must have also noticed his attempts at self-medication in the AA’s logs, but she said nothing. “I’ve adjusted the implants; all your symptoms should subside within an hour. Do you have any other questions?”
“No, not really,” answered Peter.
“I would also like to check you for Cyber Psychosis, I think–”
Peter jumped to his feet. “What do you mean, Cyber Psychosis? I may not be able to sleep, but I’m not going crazy!”
“Please sit down, Mr. Gordon,” the doctor said, her voice controlled. “I would like to check for signs of Cyber Psychosis because sleeplessness is usually one of its first symptoms. Irritability is another one. Some also develop obsessive compulsive behaviors as well.”
Peter sat down, thinking back on his recent habit of timing everything, this did not put him at ease. “All right. How?”
“I need to install a temporary monitor behind one of your ears to record your brain activity. For best results, you will also need to start a diary or journal. You can write about anything in your past, but the more details you recall, the more accurate the report will be. Try to use a pen or a keyboard instead of your Netlink. Do you have any questions about this process?”
I’m not going crazy, Peter repeated to himself, but all he said out loud was, “Not really. You can install your monitor behind my right ear.” He lifted his unruly curls.
Doctor Ryan opened a drawer and pulled out a short silver wand. She touched Peter gently behind his right ear. “Done. Please come back in a week: we will check the monitor’s logs. Make at least one diary entry before you come back. Goodbye, Peter. When you leave, the exit is to your right.”
“Thanks, Doctor.”
Peter waited for the doctor to go and the door to close before leaving. He regained full use of his hands before arriving home.