Boston—an hour later
Many things about Johnny Givens’s new “condition” were strange, but the weirdest were the shoes.
The feet on his prosthetic legs had been designed to replicate his “original” feet, so that as much as possible walking felt like it always had been. And it did. Except when it came to putting on the shoes.
While Johnny had considerable control over his “feet” and could even wiggle his toes, the prosthetics could not be manipulated to quite the same degree as his “original” feet. This made it hard to get his old shoes on without a shoehorn. Even with a shoehorn it could be difficult; it was far easier to put the shoes on the feet when they were off his body. But though physically easier, mentally it was very difficult—there was no more obvious example that he was now literally half the man he had been.
And it was just strange, like dressing a mannequin. Only he was the mannequin.
Johnny adjusted the shoes and then began strapping the legs to his stumps. Unlike “conventional” prosthetic legs, Massina’s version used feedback via the nerve endings in what remained of his upper thighs to communicate with his brain, interfacing through a series of contacts implanted in the stumps. The arrangement didn’t fool his brain into thinking that he still had his original legs, but the feeling was close, as if he’d put on a heavy snowsuit and clunky boots.
Eventually, it might all feel very familiar, and even comfortable. Eventually.
In the meantime, there was enough flex, as well as support, in the prosthetics to allow him not only to walk but also to run fairly well. In fact, he could run faster and with far less fatigue, thanks to actuators in the leg that literally put a spring into his step. He suspected that he might do extremely well in next year’s marathon, assuming he was in shape to enter.
Which meant a lot of running in the meantime. And for want of something better to do, he decided to start training that evening.
One leg at a time, just like always.
Gestapo Bitch’s joke. He liked her now, admired the way she had goaded him into working harder and harder. She was the perfect bitch, as good as the drugs he was taking, maybe even better.
Johnny strapped on his legs and connected the electrodes. He pulled on his pants, making sure the Velcro straps at the bottom were secure; the pants had always been a tiny bit big.
They were very big at the waist now. Amazing how much weight he’d lost.
Don’t need to stretch these babies. Just grab the phone, some backup dough, and rock ’n’ roll.
Johnny slipped his wallet clip—which held his FBI creds, a credit card, and a few bucks in cash—into his pocket, next to the phone, and hit the road.