The doctor's office in the Main Street infirmary was clean and white and
decorated with posters of Jiminy Cricket in doctors' whites with an
outsized stethoscope. I came to on a hard pallet under a sign that
reminded me to get a check-up twice a year, by gum! and I tried to bring
my hands up to shield my eyes from the over bright light and the over-
cheerful signage, and discovered that I couldn't move my arms. Further
investigation revealed that this was because I was strapped down, in
full-on four-point restraint.
"Waaagh," I said again.
Dan's worried face swam into my field of vision, along with a serious-
looking doctor, apparent 70, with a Norman Rockwell face full of
crow'sfeet and smile-lines.
"Welcome back, Julius. I'm Doctor Pete," the doctor said, in a kindly
voice that matched the face. Despite my recent disillusion with
castmember bullshit, I found his schtick comforting.
I slumped back against the palette while the doc shone lights in my eyes
and consulted various diagnostic apparati. I bore it in stoic silence,
too confounded by the horrible Waaagh sounds to attempt more speech. The
doc would tell me what was going on when he was ready.
"Does he need to be tied up still?" Dan asked, and I shook my head
urgently. Being tied up wasn't my idea of a good time.
The doc smiled kindly. "I think it's for the best, for now. Don't worry,
Julius, we'll have you up and about soon enough."
Dan protested, but stopped when the doc threatened to send him out of
the room. He took my hand instead.
My nose itched. I tried to ignore it, but it got worse and worse, until
it was all I could think of, the flaming lance of itch that strobed at
the tip of my nostril. Furiously, I wrinkled my face, rattled at my
restraints. The doc absentmindedly noticed my gyrations and delicately
scratched my nose with a gloved finger. The relief was fantastic. I just
hoped my nuts didn't start itching anytime soon.
Finally, the doctor pulled up a chair and did something that caused the
head of the bed to raise up so that I could look him in the eye.
"Well, now," he said, stroking his chin. "Julius, you've got a problem.
Your friend here tells me your systems have been offline for more than a
month. It sure would've been better if you'd come in to see me when it
started up.
"But you didn't, and things got worse." He nodded up at Jiminy Cricket's
recriminations: Go ahead, see your doc! "It's good advice, son, but
what's done is done. You were restored from a backup about eight weeks
ago, I see. Without more tests, I can't be sure, but my theory is that
the brain-machine interface they installed at that time had a material
defect. It's been deteriorating ever since, misfiring and rebooting. The
shut-downs are a protective mechanism, meant to keep it from introducing
the kind of seizure you experienced this afternoon. When the interface
senses malfunction, it shuts itself down and boots a diagnostic mode,
attempts to fix itself and come back online.
"Well, that's fine for minor problems, but in cases like this, it's bad
news. The interface has been deteriorating steadily, and it's only a
matter of time before it does some serious damage."
"Waaagh?" I asked. I meant to say, _All right, but what's wrong with my
mouth?_
The doc put a finger to my lips. "Don't try. The interface has locked
up, and it's taken some of your voluntary nervous processes with it. In
time, it'll probably shut down, but for now, there's no point. That's
why we've got you strapped down -- you were thrashing pretty hard when
they brought you in, and we didn't want you to hurt yourself."
_Probably shut down_? Jesus. I could end up stuck like this forever. I
started shaking.
The doc soothed me, stroking my hand, and in the process pressed a
transdermal on my wrist. The panic receded as the transdermal's sedative
oozed into my bloodstream.
"There, there," he said. "It's nothing permanent. We can grow you a new
clone and refresh it from your last backup. Unfortunately, that backup
is a few months old. If we'd caught it earlier, we may've been able to
salvage a current backup, but given the deterioration you've displayed
to date. . . Well, there just wouldn't be any point."
My heart hammered. I was going to lose two months -- lose it all, never
happened. My assassination, the new Hall of Presidents and my shameful
attempt thereon, the fights with Lil, Lil and Dan, the meeting. My plans
for the rehab! All of it, good and bad, every moment flensed away.
I couldn't do it. I had a rehab to finish, and I was the only one who
understood how it had to be done. Without my relentless prodding, the
ad-hocs would surely revert to their old, safe ways. They might even
leave it half-done, halt the process for an interminable review, present
a soft belly for Debra to savage.