As Peter approached his apartment, he was passed by a very full bus. The bus stopped a few meters ahead of him and a fellow tenant emerged carrying two grocery bags that appeared to be very heavy. Peter couldn’t recall her name but remembered her from the apartment’s Netboard; a few months ago, she had posted her honeymoon pictures. He recalled how cute they had looked, two grandmothers getting married in white. Seeing her struggle, Peter headed over to help her.

“Here, let me help you with your bags,” said Peter.

“Why thank you, that’s...” She paused, noticing Peter’s hands. “…not necessary,” she finished. “I can manage on my own.”

Peter’s jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed. He let her walk by and watched her until she entered the building. Then he took a few calming breaths and followed her inside. Once in his apartment, he headed immediately towards the small bar in his living room. He poured himself a good measure of gin and raised it to drink. As the glass touched his lips, Peter paused and put the glass down. Never when I’m angry, he thought. Abandoning the gin, Peter went instead into his third bedroom, which he had converted into a small dojo. He tested his hands again and smiled as they responded fully. For the first time in weeks, Peter practiced his martial arts he had learned in the Marines. Two hours passed before he stopped. He looked at his hands and smiled. I’m back! he thought.

Covered in sweat, he headed for the shower, where he closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of the water running over his hands, down his forearms and over his shoulders. He tried to feel the difference between the implants and his own arms and could not. Still smiling as he dried and dressed himself, Peter decided to clean up his apartment. He spent more time than he needed to, but he wanted to savor and celebrate the returned use of his hands.

Work finished, Peter returned to the abandoned gin glass and took it with him to the den. Pulling out his keyboard, he started to work on a diary. For a moment he hesitated, unsure where to start. Finally, he began writing about how he lost his hands.

Interrupted by a growl from his stomach, Peter was startled to realize it was 20:03. He’d been writing for more than five hours. He got up, stretched, and walked over to the refrigerator. Finding only an empty pizza box and two cans of beer, he decided to go out.

“Apartment: lock and secure,” he said when he was in the hallway.

“Unit 704: locked-and-secured,” replied the AA.

Peter left via the north lobby, facing the beach, and headed for the seawall walkway. The sun had already set, but the last of the purple hues of sunset lingered, fading to blackness and stars. His stomach reminded him again of his purpose and he headed east, towards the marina and seaside restaurant and pub neighborhood. Peter was so happy with his hands he’d forgotten to wear a vest with pockets to hide them when he left. Walking along the seawall, he caressed the railing, enjoying the feel of the wood under his fingers, blissfully unaware of the stares his hands elicited.

“Royal Palm Grill” proclaimed the holo-display above the restaurant. Peter entered, ignored two couples waiting for a seat, and walked over to the bar.

“Hi, George,” said Peter.

“Long time no see,” said George. “How have you been?”

Peter looked left and right, leaned closer and said, “Well, I had issues with my hands. GLS.”

“Took you long enough. I had my first issue with that shit less than a year after my leg was replaced.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“That’s because we hadn’t met yet.” George smiled, showing perfect white teeth.

“Well, us ex-Marines got to stick together. Did you ever consider getting your military implant replaced with a civilian leg?”

“I consider it every time I take my pants down in front of a new girl. Most of them leave, but that’s civilian life for you.”

“Why haven’t you, then?”

“Same reasons you haven’t—pride, for one.”

“I also read civilian cybernetic implants aren’t as reliable. And they’re even more prone to GLS.”

“I read the same thing.” George shook his head. “You want your usual table outside?”

“Sir, Yes, Sir!” answered Peter, saluting at attention, his heels making a sharp snap.

“Cut that crap out, Mr. Gunnery Sergeant, you know I never made it past Corporal.”

“Yeah, but you’re a Major Chef in your restaurant,” said Peter.

“Ah, ha, you’re so funny. Just for that, I ought to burn your meal. Go sit, I’ll have Lisa see to you right away.”

“Thanks. See you later, George.”

Peter walked out to the terrace, headed for one of the tables marked RESERVED, and sat down. A few minutes later, he heard Lisa’s heavy footsteps.

“May-I-take-your-order-sir,” asked Lisa, a first-generation waitress drone, imported all the way from Earth back when George had immigrated to Occinus IV.

“You look lovely today, Lisa, did you change your hair?”

“May-I-take-your-order-sir,” asked Lisa again, her limited programing unable to respond.

“What’s today’s special?”

“Today’s-special-is-chicken-cordon-bleu-stuffed-with-brie-and-apples.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“I’ll have that.”

“One-special-coming-up,” answered Lisa.

Peter watched Lisa slowly walk away. He’d always wondered why George kept such an antique but had never got around to asking him. Ignored by the other patrons in the crowded restaurant, Lisa entered the kitchen. After a few moments she emerged again, carrying a tray bearing a glass of water and breadbasket. Peter watched a teenager try to trip her as she walked past his table. He smiled when kid failed, and Lisa continued walking, the water in the glass remaining level. Must be nice having a gyrostabilizer, thought Peter. Behind her, the kid laughed with his friends. Peter shook his head. He’d never understood why most civilians on this planet were now so hostile to clones, synthetics, robots, or cyborgs like him. It hadn’t been like this on his last visit before his permanent relocation 29 years ago.

“Here-is-your-bread-and-water,” Lisa said.

“Thanks.”

Peter turned toward the promenade leading to the marina and watched the crowd until his dinner arrived, placed on the table with mechanical precision by Lisa.

“Enjoy-your-meal.”

Lost in thought, Peter ate his meal slowly. He checked the timer and his order took 14 minutes to arrive. As usual, the daily special was very good. He connected to the restaurant’s localnet using his Netlink and paid his bill, then checked the time: 21:48. Still not sleepy, he got up, waved at George, and left the restaurant.

He headed to a nearby club with a long lineup of attractive young men and women. The holosign showed dancing stick figures in a shifting rainbow of colors and the club’s name flashed randomly Sticks.

Peter walked over to the bouncer and extended his cybernetic fist. The bouncer, standing at 212 centimeters, was a very large and overly muscular black man, about the same age as Peter. He tapped the proffered fist with his own. “Respect.”

“Respect,” answered Peter. “How are things tonight, Alex?”

“Quiet so far. Try not to start anything.”

“Who, me?” said Peter, batting his eyelashes and holding his hands in prayer.

Laughing loudly, Alex unhooked the red rope preventing access to the club and let Peter through. He promptly put the rope back as a prim teen tried to slip through.

“What the fuck? Why’re you letting the freak through?” yelled the teen.

Alex answered by backhanding the kid across the face. “That ‘freak,’ as you call him, saved my life. Get the hell out of here before I decide to do more, shithead.” The teenager, helped by his friend, left the line.

Peter, smiling, made his way to the bar. “I’ll have a double gin and tonic.”

“That’ll be fifteen credits,” said the bartender.

Using his Netlink, Peter paid eighteen credits. He picked up his drink and headed for the second floor, where he found a stool by the railing overlooking the dance floor. His hands caused a few raised eyebrows, but no one said anything to him. When his drink was done, a waitress walked over.

“Would you like anything else, sir?”

“I’ll have another gin and tonic.”

When the waitress had left, Peter glanced around and saw that the three young women at the table behind him were staring at his hands. When they noticed him looking back, one of them approached.

“Hi, my name is Nicole. Do those hurt?” she asked, pointing to Peter’s hands.

Peter looked to the heavens before answering, “No.”

“Can I touch them?” asked Nicole, already reaching for Peter’s right hand. “Wow, they are warm! Your skin feels more like silk than metal! How come? Did you do this on purpose? Why didn’t you get normal-looking ones? Can you feel it when I touch you?”

Unable to answer the barrage of questions, Peter remained silent.

“You can’t just ignore me, I’ve got rights, you know! How’d you get in here, anyways? You’re old and ugly! Why must all the stupid tourists come to sit with me?”

“Sorry, sir, please excuse Nicole; she’s had one too many,” said one of Nicole’s friends, dragging her away.

Peter decided he’d had enough. Without waiting for his second drink, he got up, paid for it via his Netlink and left the club. “Take care, Alex,” he said to the bouncer on his way out. “See you later.”

“Take care, Peter. See you later.”

A few minutes after Peter had left the noise and lights of the promenade behind, his walk home was interrupted by the scream of a woman. It was a sharp noise, full of fear and pain. Peter used his cybernetic ears and pinpointed the origin, less than twenty-five meters away, in the alleyway he had just passed. He turned and ran quickly towards the sound. As he arrived at the corner, he heard, “Shut up, you fucking whore!”, followed by another pained yelp.

Still behind the corner, he used his pinky-cam to see without exposing himself and saw two men standing over a crying woman—a woman who, even disheveled, dirty and with a split lip, was strikingly beautiful. His onboard tactical system detected a knife and a small handgun. Minimal threat.

“What the fuck do you guys think you’re doing?” asked Peter, as he stepped into the alley.

“Stay out of this!” answered the first man.

Peter used his Netlink to call the police and used his ocular implants to start recording what he saw. “Let her go, now.”

“She’s just a clone, either join or walk away,” said the second man.

“Last chance,” said Peter.

“You asked for it!” said the first man. He pulled a large knife from his belt and came at Peter.

Peter easily ducked under the man’s clumsy swipe. Trying not to break bones, he hit him hard in the solar plexus with an open palm. The man dropped his knife, took two steps back, gasping for breath, and fell.

“You’re dead, man!” said the second assailant; he pulled a small pistol and pointed it in Peter’s general direction.

Reacting instantly, Peter jumped forward and reached for the gun. It went off just as he reached it. The hollow point round struck Peter’s outstretched palm and mushroomed against the nanoweave skin and internal armor of his cybernetic hand. Unaffected, Peter violently disarmed the man, taking his index finger with the gun. In less than a second, Peter had released the clip and emptied the chamber. He used the man’s own gun and knocked him out with a precise blow to the forehead. He turned to the first man and kicked him in the head, knocking him out as well.

Then he turned to the woman. “Are you all right?”

The woman sobbed uncontrollably, unable to answer.

“I’ve called the police; they should be here shortly,” said Peter as he knelt. He offered his hand to help her up and was startled to see the forgotten bullet still stuck to his palm.

“Oh my God, you’ve been shot!” said the woman, her sobbing stopped by surprise.

“It’s all right, it didn’t penetrate.”

The woman looked over Peter’s hand and gently picked up the bullet. He noticed her irises were yellow—that confirmed her attackers’ claim that she was a clone.

“Thank you for saving me,” she said. “My name is Alyssa. Today is my first day of freedom; I didn’t know it was going to be like this.”

“I’m Peter—”

Peter broke off and turned as three policemen entered the alleyway. They quickly took charge of the situation. One officer cuffed the unconscious assailants, another took Alyssa aside, and the last, a sergeant, approached Peter.

“Are you Peter Gordon?” asked the sergeant.

“Yes.”

“And you’re the one who reported the crime in progress?”

“Yes.”

“Can you describe what happened?”

“I can do better; I recorded the whole thing.”

The sergeant extended his PDA and asked, “Can you upload it to my device?”

“One moment.” Peter used his Netlink to upload the video.

The sergeant replayed the video and said, “That was very brave of you, sir. We have your contact information. Do you have any plans to leave town?”

“No.”

“Are you willing to testify if necessary?” asked the sergeant.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?” answered Peter.

“Well...she’s a clone and they’re humans. Not everyone would stand up for a clone.”

“I will testify if necessary.”

“I understand, sir. Thank you for your cooperation. You will be contacted if we require further assistance.”

Before leaving, Peter turned to Alyssa. “Will you be all right?”

“I will, and thanks again for helping, Peter.”

“Happy to help, take care.”

Alyssa waved once and left with the police officer.

Peter walked back home, still feeling the rush of adrenaline. He looked at his palm, smiled, and brushed off the remaining flecks from the bullet.