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FINDING THE LOCATION address Khaifa had given her had proven more difficult than Sigurdsson had been expecting. Originally, the lower levels of Thor’s Hammer had been designed as storage bays for parts and supplies and so were not laid out as cleanly as the upper levels. Only after a half hour of taking one passage then doubling back to take another had Sigurdsson found the door to which a fabric MediCorps patch had been glued.
Pausing for a moment, she took a deep breath and released it slowly. She was trying very hard not get her hopes up about this meeting – after all, it was hard to see any benefit coming from seeing a medical doctor when it was her cybernetics that were the issue – but she could feel little butterflies of hope flitting around in her belly regardless. She pushed the door open and was immediately hit by the smell of disinfectant.
Despite the rather industrial exterior, the interior of the MediCorps lab was clean and bright. It appeared to Sigurdsson as if the entire setup had been rebuilt piece by piece from the remains of a MediCorps vessel. Probably one of the several that had returned to Thor's Hammer after the blockade had been broken and that were, while largely intact, no longer spaceworthy.
"Good afternoon. I will be with you in a moment, please."
The voice was bright and metallic and entirely familiar and Sigurdsson waited patiently for its owner to emerge from a secondary room. When Brill had first been assigned to Duster’s Range, its presence was one to which everyone had taken some time to adjust. The brill species was unique in many ways, but the three most prominent were that they did not have given names – each simply referred to itself as brill, which was a difficult concept for humans in particular – the second was that brill did not have different sexes and so "him" and "her" were irrelevant, and the third was that brill were one metre long isopods that survived in a liquid soup of chemicals that would kill any other known sentient species. For interactions with other species, most brill travelled in crab-like mechanized exoskeletons with manipulator arms, but a few – including the brill for which Sigurdsson waited – chose to use a humanoid shaped exo-suit.
"Ah. Freyja Sigurdsson," said Brill happily as it entered the room, the single large eye on its exo-suit head pulsating blue as it spoke. "I am pleased to see you remain living."
Sigurdsson had forgotten that it said just about everything happily. Brill had modified its vocal emulator from the standard monotone to something more cheerful in the hopes it would help humans see it as less of a mechanical monstrosity.
"I’m pleased to be living," she said. "Sorry to see that they’ve stuck you down here in the storage section, though"
Brill managed a very convincing version of a shrug. Though every time it had such a human-like reaction – a shrug, a nod, a wave of the hand – Sigurdsson couldn’t help but wonder just how much effort it took the little isopod inside the suit to execute the move and how long it had taken the brill to perfect it.
"In fact the storage area is the perfect location for this lab, providing me with ample cryogenic units," it said.
"Oh. I guess that’s good then."
"It is indeed," it said cheerfully. "Your left upper appendage appears in very poor repair – would you like it removed?"
"No. Thanks. But, uh, Doctor Khaifa suggested I come down and see you."
"Doctor Khaifa is a very intelligent and skilled physician. Are you and she still engaging in sexual activity?"
Sigurdsson just stood in stunned silence.
"Apologies. That was an inappropriate question, perhaps? I am still learning the intricacies of human social interaction and am not always aware of what would be considered an acceptable line of questioning. Your sexual activities are largely irrelevant to this visit, perhaps?"
"Very."
"In that case, how does Doctor Khaifa feel I can assist you, Freyja?"
"I’m not entirely sure," she said, leaning against a lab table and glancing around uncomfortably. "I’ve been having serious issues with my arms and she said you might be able to help. I think ‘alternative medicine’ was the term she used."
"Ah. I see. And she did not further explain?"
"No, she didn’t," said Sigurdsson, eyes narrowing.
"Are you aware of a branch of medical science called xenocuriatology?" it said, waiting for Sigurdsson to shake her head before continuing. "It is, essentially, the science of using genetic material from one species to treat ailment in another. Humans have a general aversion to this particular branch and so I am unsurprised you were not aware of its existence."
"Doc... let’s pretend I have a concussion and that I’m not following where you’re going with this..."
"Come."
It waved for her to follow into the back room, where the walls were lined with cryogenic cases, some the size of a briefcase, some as large as an industrial freezer. Sliding one of the smaller cases out of its rack, Brill set it on the lab table and opened it. Inside was a human hand. Or a partial human hand – the thumb and index finger of the hand had been replaced with the thumb and finger of an icaran. If not for the difference in flesh tone and skin texture, Sigurdsson would never have known they were parts of a different species – there was no seam, no scar. The parts meshed together perfectly.
"That is some serious Frankenstein bullshit," said Sigurdsson. "But I still don’t get it. How does this help repair my cybernetics?"
Brill glanced up at her, then back to the hand, then back up at Sigurdsson.
"Not repair. Replace."
It was her turn to stare.
"What?"
"Icaran genetic material has very strong regenerative properties," said Brill. "In addition to a very high level of cross-species compatibility, making it ideal for xenocuriatological applications."
Sigurdsson just stared at the brill’s unblinking mechanical eye for several moments. It was clearly waiting for her to clue in to what it was saying, but for whatever reason, that just was not happening.
"Remember that part where I said pretend that I have a concussion...?"
"Apologies," it said, picking up a pair of forceps. Gently, Brill prodded at the near-invisible line where the icaran fingers were joined to the human hand. "As you see, the skin has merged almost perfectly, leaving no scar. The underlying musculature had bonded in a similarly seamless fashion, as has the bone. This operation was a resounding success, though results are tempered by the fact that it was performed on a severed appendage rather than a living specimen. And of course a simpler procedure than replacing a pair of arms, but the principles and processes would be similar."
Sigurdsson looked up sharply. Brill appeared not to notice, instead moving to the larger containers, checking the labels. He passed on three before stopping.
"Ah. Yes. This one would appear to be the correct size. Icaran female."
It slid the container open, revealing the cryogenically preserved body of an icaran female. At least part of a body – there was nothing below the pelvis, but the torso, arms and head were perfectly intact.
"You will of course have an adjustment period as you become accustomed to having three fingers per hand rather than five."
"Are you...? What the actual fuck? Are you suggesting to replace these," she said, indicating her damaged arms. "With icaran arms? Actual living icaran arms? Is that even legal? Is it ethical?"
"Ethics vary depending on the species. My conception of what is ethical is different than yours, perhaps?"
"And what about legal?"
Brill shrugged.
"The procedure is too new a concept to have been regulated as of yet."
It paused and then shrugged again.
"No doubt it will be outlawed in the Commonwealth once the lawmakers fully understand xenocuriatology and its many possible applications. Humans are very averse to change."
"And what about the icarans?" she said, feeling a sweat break out on her forehead. She wasn’t sure if it was a reaction to the strangeness of what was being proposed or her nervousness at how seriously she was considering it. "Do they feel it’s ethical?"
"Do you wish to discuss it with them?"
"I can’t. If I tried, the transmission would be flagged and killed before it reached them."
"Brill communication networks. Due to our position within the universe as healers, we maintain contact with most sentient species – exchanges of knowledge and supplies would be very difficult otherwise – and as such, we maintain our own, unregulated communications networks. The Commonwealth does not have control over those networks," it said. "I would be pleased to allow you access."
Sigurdsson pulled over a stool and sat down slowly. This was all a little too much to process. She’d come to grips very quickly with the fact that she’d lost her arms and had just taken it as a given that she’d adjust to life with two cyborg limbs. Of course she’d known there would be problems now and then – even the best of Commonwealth cybernetics were not immune to wear and tear and all required maintenance from time to time – but the problems she’d faced and the prospect of continuing to face those same problems indefinitely weighed on her. So Sigurdsson found herself – to her own shock and even mild horror – seriously considering the brill’s offer of turning her into a monster.
A monster. She almost smiled as she recalled the exchange with Khaifa back in the observation tower on the walls of Fort Hathaway what seemed like a lifetime ago.
"Do you think I’m a monster Nasrin?"
"No," said Khaifa without hesitation. "I think you’re a woman under enormous pressure, doing what you feel needs to be done. I think you’ve done the wrong thing, but for the right reason. I think that it’s more important whether you think you’re a monster, Freyja."
Sigurdsson forced a smile.
"I think we’re going to find that out soon enough."
In retrospect, the discussion seemed prophetic.
Sigurdsson had seen many broken soldiers in her life. The walking wounded, the wounded who could no longer walk. Some adjusted well to their handicaps, but some hadn't. She’d seen them panhandling on the streets, lining up for their veterans' benefits cheques at the VA offices. Drinking away their pain, reliving old adventures with no expectation of new ones to come. They’d drink away their pittance or gamble it away or whore it away and then they’d die leaving nothing behind but their medals – assuming they hadn’t already been pawned.
Freya Sigurdsson was a fighter, always had been. Even before joining the military, she had fought, sometimes for the right reasons, sometimes for the wrong reasons, sometimes for no reason at all. From the streets of Johannesburg to the training grounds of Fort Baggett to the walls of Fort Hathaway. And now to the bowels of Thor's Hammer.
Broken. Sidelined. Out of the fight.
She looked down at her broken left arm and her failing right.
"Fuck that."
"Fuck what?" asked the brill, his voice still cheerful, making the epithet sound like something out of a children’s book.
"How long would the surgery take and how long would I be out of commission?"