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Natalia Afanaseva
© Natalia Afanaseva, 2015
© Alexey Gorokhov, translation, 2015
© Natalia Afanaseva, translation, 2015
© Aleksandr Delistyanov, illustrations, 2015
© Anna Delistyanova, illustrations, 2015
Created with Ridero
It’s a well-known fact that our Future is mighty world rescuers wearing exoskeletons, and heroic spacevessel captains prowling the Universe. The smart things capable of doing all yourdaily routine work. Super-geniuses and explorers creating the new reality.
Maybe itwill be this way, but to err is human. Stumbling and ending up with eggall over the face will be as human-like in the future as it is today. However… not unlikely, with the advent of anti-gravity, the egg will be able to hop and smearitself over your face, and, with the appearance of artificial intelligence, itwill try to catch up with you and rub itself in your face once again. I’m here to invite you to take a fresh look atthe Future uncrowned, with a large dose of irony.
I’m here to invite you to take a fresh look at the Future uncrowned, with a large dose of irony.
Human Factor
– 1 —
Wahl crinkled. His right foot was encapsulated in a glass cube and was a sorry sight. The swollen bluish-black flesh was oozing drops of some nebulous liquid. Although the cube kept the smell inside, Wahl felt like he could smell it internally. The smell was a kind of saturating his entire body and oozing treacherously from every pore. The worst thing was that the leg itched terribly.
Doctor Tim, a merry fat little man, as ill luck would have it, commenced his round with Wahl’s chamber mate. One minute, two… Wahl could not bear his boisterous cackling any more. Finally, the doctor turned to him and took an indulgent look at the guy’s dying limb.
“Won-der-ful!” he clicked his tongue with enjoyment and shook what was left of his red locks. The thin hair was drawn back in a puny neither-here-nor-there bobtail. Indeed, the doctor’s appearance was that of an aging punk-rock fan rather than of a world-class head of science. Wahl hated him.
While the “Wonderful!” followed by either one or two exclamation marks, had lasted for a month, what was left of his patience could last him for but a few moments. And, right away, the doctor said what the whole thing was all about.
“Ti-da-da, ti-da-doo, surgery tomorrow…", he chanted in the manner of his favorite song by the Clash, and Wahl all but joined him, although under any other circumstances the Clash’s “Should I stay…?” would have made him want to curse and swear.
He did not say a word to the doctor about the alarming itching, since now his biggest dream was to lapse into sleep and wake up five minutes before the surgery. Yet, he was in for a rather complex preoperative assessment. Everything had been discussed beforehand, and Wahl was aware that there would be no food and, most important, no pain-killers, during the following twenty four hours, plus he would have to go through a whole batch of unpleasant procedures.
But still that was going to be just one day! And he was nearly “off his rocker”, already cherishing a to-hell-with-that-leg-an-artificial-one-will-be-ok thought. All the more so, today’s prosthetics had grown dexterous enough to craft a limb barely distinguishable from the real one, so to speak. If it were not for surfing…
That was how the whole thing began. Surely, the higher the waves, the bigger the sharks. However, in 99,9999% of cases a shark will not attack you unless you are bleeding. What is left is a one-in-a-million chance of an unprovoked attack. Wahl remembered himself being carried away from the beach, not able to even look at his shredded led, and a rescue man saying to him: “You’re one in a million boy, Wahl!” He did have to say something anyway.
If it were not for the surfing, he would hardly have thought about the new method doctors had come up with – protomass limb regeneration. But for the government’s financial help (Wahl was an investigator at a local police department), nothing would have come of it either. The cost was far beyond an ordinary citizen’s capacity.
Now the government did help him, and at first Wahl was very happy considering himself a lucky boy. Later, he repeatedly tongue-lashed himself, since he knew that he would have rejected it, had he been aware how it would have ended.
The creepiest thing was that it was his leg rotting in the cube that actually generated the protomass. The beasts dressed in lab coats had set up a blockade to let Wahl’s leg rot completely. Frankly, the shark did a great job, and, it might have been a hundred years since it had brushed its teeth last time… It took only a month and a half. Only a month and a half! Wahl was a crazy surfer…
Alright, tomorrow he’d receive his batch of injections, the “protomass” would be loaded with nano-particles featuring DNA elements, and here we are! Wahl’s right leg’s second birthday – Happy Birthday, maam!
– 2 —
Everything swam before Wahl’s eyes. He felt a scalding pain in the leg. “Can you hear me? Good boy!” Tim the Merry Greek spoke in an unusually serious tone. But he beamed right away, not being able to hold it: “Everything was won-der-ful!”
“You stay here for a while,” the doctor absently waved his hand sideways, “but we’ll put you back in there (another wave) soon. We have them coming in one by one, applicants, one by one…” And off he ran, jumping up and singing something of his most favorite stock again.
Soon Wahl was transported back to the chamber indeed. The well-recognizable cube was there too. Wahl would superstitiously turn his eye away from his leg until he really knew it was ok. Two weeks later, he was liberated from that glass contraption, which had embittered the last two months of his life, and discharged from hospital. Although there still would be a lot of screening procedures, examinations and treatment, he was back home!
The leg ached, itched and tingled, but it was. Regeneration was surprisingly rapid, and shortly after that Wahl started using crutches and was able to reach the window; and after a month he was giving his leg full-scale training by walking along the coast with a stick.
There was only one thing that worried him – a strange pain in the heel. He had telephoned his doctor on that and was advised not to walk too much. Wahl obediently reduced the mileage, but the pain persisted. Not that it was severe, but all nasty sensations seemed to concentrate in the heel, and stepping on it would hurt pretty much.
Nevertheless, going to the clinic was the last thing Wahl wanted to do. He rightly feared detection of a serious problem and, consequently, having to get back to that place indefinitely. But one day in the morning he groped a small lump in the area where the pain was concentrated and realized that further postponement of his visit to the Esculapian lair was no longer possible.
– 3 —
Doctor Tim looked unusually gloomy. Known for moving around the clinic in a fashion of a well-pumped ball bouncing from one wall to the other, he suddenly fell into the habit of shrugging sharply and speaking with long breaks, during which he stared at the floor with his dull eyes.
Wahl briefly described the problem and provided a visual demonstration of his swollen heel. He told the medic about the pain, craving for, if not interest, at least a tiny bit of sympathy, but Doctor Tim continued to indifferently rock heel to toe and hardly deigned to even look at the leg. Finally, feeling outraged, Wahl requested at least an X-ray of the tumor, but the doctor brushed it off wearily.
“I know, Wahl. You don’t think you are the only one who has it, do you? Every seventh does, Wahl. Every seventh patient who has undergone the surgery. Everyone of you has the same thing.”
“What is it?” Wahl felt cold creeping through his chest. “What… what’s happening?”
“Teeth. You all have teeth cutting. My first patients already have fully grown ones.”
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