Memory triggers are funny for me. It’s not that I don’t have memories, I do. They’re in there somewhere. It’s just that whatever the brain software is that lets you remember what you want seems to be totally broken. But if I get the right kind of reminder, I can sometimes go from having no idea what something is to being able to remembering it clearly. Father’s lab is a good example. Every time I walk in, it reminds me of being strapped to the table and experiencing the impossible for the first time. Seeing colors and hearing sounds that never existed as he poked and prodded with tiny electrical impulses around my brain. Flavors and smells that could never be inundating my senses as I tried my best to name them all in my console.
Lin lays down on the table. Evan and Louise finish scrubbing in, partly for the little bit of work they’ll actually use hands for, partly to help strengthen the thin veneer of medical respectability that we have. I know that General Liu is only looking to us because every conventional treatment has failed, but it doesn’t hurt to at least try to look like we’re professionals. I park the bots that I’m going to use in the same sterilizer that the medical bots use and take a seat well outside of the sterile field area. Yang Song stands as near to the table as she’s allowed, frowning at the three of us. In her sleeveless dress with her arms folded, her muscle tone is impressive. I’d guessed she was in her mid fifties when I first saw her, but maybe I was wrong and her stern expression makes her look older than she is. I’m guessing she’s as much bodyguard as translator for Lin.
“Just relax,” Louise says reassuringly to Lin. “You’ll take a nap, and when you wake up, you’ll feel a lot better.”
Yang Song translates, whispering gently to her. Lin smiles and visibly relaxes.
“If you could just step over here,” Evan directs Yang Song, guiding her a few steps back so he has room to hook up the ventilator. She startles for a moment as Louise floats the box of medical bots through the air and over next to Lin. The box opens, apparently on its own, and Lin’s eyes close as the anesthesia kicks in. Evan gently inserts the breathing tube.
As he steps back, I build an invisible scaffold around Lin’s head, anchoring millions of bots to the table and forming thousands of tiny rigid chains holding her head immobile. Evan sets down a glass beaker near her shoulder and makes his way back to the monitors. The brain images rotate and alternate, showing highlighted tumors riddling through the brain stem and worming down the spinal cord and up into the cerebellum and around the thalamus. No wonder no one could cut that thing out. It’s like an octopus in there, wrapping tentacles all over.
Louise stands with her eyes closed for a long couple of minutes. Yang Song looks like she’s about to say something, then stops as she sees thin streams of material start flowing from Lin’s nostrils. I turn on my overlay and see the medical bots running in and out, the ones coming out carrying tiny payloads of tumor flesh. Yang Song’s eyes widen as gray-red sludge begins to accumulate in the beaker.
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“Look over here,” I tell her, indicating one of the monitors.
The wormy tendrils of the tumor start to thin and disappear as Louise works. The beaker continues filling. Yang Song steps closer to the screen, riveted. It’s slow but steady, each cancerous tentacle gradually evaporating. A tear forms in the corner of her eye as she stares at the array of screens. The beaker is halfway full of sludgy material by the time Louise finishes.
She gives me a nod and I release the restraints.
Evan steps over to the table and removes the breathing tube.
Lin takes an unaided breath. She starts to stir. I carefully conceal my sigh of relief. Louise just saved this girl’s life, saved the Asia trip, and proved we are still on track to kick cancer’s ass.
The medical bots retreat back to their box which closes like magic and floats away from the operating table.
Lin slowly moves a hand to her forehead. Yang Song rushes to her side and my bots barely pull the beaker of tumor goo out of the way in time to avoid a really gross mess. Yang Song runs her fingers through Lin’s hair, whispering to her in Chinese.
Lin turns to her and smiles.
To Louise: Did you get it all?
From Louise: Yeah. I can’t guarantee it won’t come back, but she should be good for a while at least.
To Louise: You are amazing.
From Louise: Thanks.
“You’ll want to take a few minutes before you try to stand, but your recovery should be much easier than with conventional surgery.” Louise instructs. “Take as long as you need. We’ll have our nursing staff keep a close eye on you for the next few hours, and they’ll be at your disposal for the remainder of your stay with us. Just let us know if you need anything.”
I keep a contingent of bots in the operating room as we walk out to wait in the hallway. Not that I don’t trust them, but there’s a lot of very sensitive gear in there and Dorothy has me paranoid about espionage. Turns out I didn’t need to worry. The two of them just remain at the operating table for a little while, whispering to each other in Chinese. Eventually, Lin gets up and they come right out.
Lin’s smile lights up her face. She lets out a long string of Chinese and laughs at the end. I like her laugh, it’s almost musical.
“Thank you,” Yang Song translates. “I feel better already. I had forgotten what it was like to not have a terrible headache. The reputation of your family is richly deserved. I am very happy that I have come here.”
I’m glad too. Building the water cleanup stuff was good and important, I know, but there’s nothing like seeing someone’s life transform for the better right in front of your eyes. This is the kind of thing worth living for.