The Malice. Peter Newman
fragments float across Massassi’s consciousness, pieces of mosaic, disconnected. They blend with voices, also floating, near her head. She cannot tell which belong to the past, which to the future as she drifts through them, a happy phantom.
Words become clearer, more pressing. She recognises the speaker, identifies the words but their impact is distant, barely felt.
‘… And all I’m asking for is a moment of your cooperation. Then everyone can get on with their lives. Surely, you’d agree, that’s for the best?’
Massassi goes to speak but a mask stops her. Her eyes flare and she coughs, choking on the tube jamming her mouth, running deep.
‘Ah, I think she’s waking up.’
A second voice joins in, less familiar. ‘Let’s not get hasty. The body is recovering, yes, but cognitive function has to be verified if you want her statement to stand.’
Someone bends over her. She tries to bring the shape into focus. It is a head, blurry but recognizable. It belongs to her supervisor. He looks tired, bags like baby slugs sit heavy under his eyes.
‘Doctor, look! That was a smile. She recognised me, I’m sure of it.’
‘That’s hardly conclusive. It may just be a muscle spasm.’
‘Massassi? Massassi, can you hear me?’
She manages a nod.
‘Good. That’s good. Now pay attention: you were in an accident, a serious accident. We need to talk about what happened. There are arrangements that need …’
The words start to fall away, dropping into a chasm that opens up between them, her eyes closing.
‘We’re losing her. Do something.’
‘Her body has been under incredible strain. It’s natural that she’ll want to rest.’
‘But for how long?’
‘Difficult to say. It could be days, it could be more.’
‘That won’t do. We need to close the file and move on. We’ve spent too much on this already.’ The supervisor begins to pace, hands folded behind his back, reminiscent of a woodpecker strutting on a branch. Massassi smiles again. ‘I can’t go back without an answer. We need to wake her up.’
‘I can’t force her to wake.’
‘Yes, you can. Give her a stimulant.’
‘With the levels of pain she’s in, coupled with her medical history, I don’t advise that course of action. If I wake her suddenly, the shock to her system could be catastrophic. She needs to be stronger before she learns the extent of her injuries.’
‘I only need her conscious for a few minutes. Once she gives consent, you can keep her here as long as you like.’
‘I want it on record that I don’t endorse this action.’
‘Your objections have been filed, doctor. Now get on with it.’
The doctor moves out of sight, makes adjustments.
The feed of sedatives slows.
Pain climbs back inside, making muscles strain and knuckles white. With it comes something else. The world resolves itself in sudden focus, lines so sharp they cut into the brain.
‘Keep calm, Massassi, and listen. I promise I won’t make this last any longer than it has to.’
Her eyes lock to his, drawn to the lights starting to fizz inside the supervisor’s sockets. They have always been there, invisible to normal sight; manifestations of the man’s essence.
But not to Massassi’s unclouded mind. Not any more.
Unaware of how dramatic his face has become in Massassi’s eyes, the man continues, giving a speech repeated so often it has become a script: ‘You were in an accident. A serious one. As a result, Superior Class Harvester 4879-84/14 was shut down following emergency protocol. Hours of work time were lost, not to mention the cost of recovering your body, covering your shifts and ongoing medical care.’
He pauses to smile, a practiced calming thing. Massassi notes that it does not reach his real eyes, the ones that glow behind his face. She also notes his second mouth, the one etched in light, pale, remains sour. Around the tube, Massassi smiles back. The supervisor does not note its feral edge.
‘I want what you want. To get you back on your feet and working as soon as possible. You’re going to need a new arm, and a partial reconstruct of your upper body. The mods you’ll need will be expensive. Now, I’ve looked at your funds and you have a lot saved up. However, with the enquiry costs and the mounting medical bills, I’m afraid there won’t be enough left to restore functionality.
‘But don’t worry, I’ve got a solution. If you admit full responsibility for the incident then we can turn this into a criminal issue. We’ll lower your echelon class and take full ownership of your rights until the debt’s worked off. Heavy, I know, but it will make all the problems go away. I’ve got pre-approval to fund your operation based on your work record. We could have you back on the mechs before year’s end. What do you say?’
She tries to speak, begins to cough.
‘Can we take the tube out now, doctor?’
‘Yes, hold on.’
A command is given and the tube recoils smoothly into the mask, which the doctor removes, equally smooth.
Massassi coughs, then accepts the water offered by the doctor. A genuine frown appears on her face as she looks at the formless sheet covering her body. ‘I’ve still got my arm. I can feel it.’
Supervisor and doctor glance at each other. The doctor clears her throat. ‘I’m afraid that’s a common misconception. Your brain is so convinced the limb is still there, it fabricates sensation.’
‘I can see it.’
‘You want to see it? Well, if you’re sure.’
The doctor pulls back the sheet.
A plastic cap is fixed to her shoulder, running all the way to her right hip. Her left wrist is fixed to the bed. There is no tie for her right wrist. There is nothing there to attach it to. Despite this, she smiles. ‘There it is … what did you do to my arm? It’s … beautiful.’
Another glance is shared. They both retreat to the other side of the room, whispering.
‘Perhaps this was too soon.’
‘I did try and warn you.’
‘We’ll try again the next time she wakes. If her condition persists, it may actually work in our favour. How long before you can certify her?’
‘Normally, a month but, given the circumstances, we can come to an arrangement, I’m sure.’ The doctor returns to the pod. ‘Lie back, you can rest again now. This will get easier, I promise.’
Massassi does not relax. She sees the spark of thought appear in the doctor’s essence, the desire to silence her. ‘I’m not crazy, my arm is right here. Look!’
‘Yes,’ her supervisor says, adopting an expression of polite pity. ‘That’s good, that’s very good. You’ll be back to work soon, I know it.’
Drugs are authorised, dulling pain, dulling sense.
‘No!’ she screams, glaring at the space where her arm once was. At first, they do not see the luminescence, thin as bone, following the line of a lost limb. Then it brightens, thickens, light intensifying, hardening, like silvered diamond. Compared to the light she sees in their faces, her arm glows with a star’s fury.
Now they see it, falling back in their fear, legs scrabbling like a spiders on the slick floor.
With her shining fingers, she tears through the bonds on her left wrist and jumps from the bed. Weak muscles