Thicker Than Blood (2 page)

"Hello?" A voice answered in a light Indian accent. "Hi Mark. How's it going?" "Hey what's up. Are you coming by tonight?" Mark asked. "No... Well, maybe. What are you doing?" Joe sputtered. "I don't know yet. I'll call you when I do." "I made a mess here. It's gunna be a half hour before I can leave." Joe was still a bit dazed by his near miss. "So I'll see you in thirty-five minutes then." Joe could hear Mark smirking on the phone. "I don't drive that fast." Joe grinned. "I thought you were going to strap a jet engine to your car this month?" "Nope. No jets in the scrap this month." Joe smirked. "Talk to you soon," Mark uttered in his almost singsong accent. "Later." Joe looked at the pile of tools and broken parts on the floor and shook his head.

Why was Mark in a silly mood? Perhaps he has good news about our entrance into the next cyborg wars. Joe walked out the shop door scanning for strangers in the shadows. Satisfied that no one was lurking, he let his mind wander. The name cyborg wars was inaccurate, even funny, he thought. The main factor differentiating the cyborg war from the other robot battle shows, was the two-legged, two-armed nature of the machines. Not that these robots actually used the legs to walk, they typically had tracks for oversized feet. The key Joe had inserted into the shop door refused to turn. He examined the keychain and inserted the right one. Pay attention, he thought to himself. He had to be careful. He was physically large and possibly even intimidating, but his baby face revealed his age. If he were attacked he would be in trouble since ambulance response times were slower than ever. Joe walked cautiously through the cool foggy night toward his classic Camaro. The '73 Camaro looked strange with its red door, silver body and black hood. The air intake system stuck up through a hole in the hood, hinting at the power it might conceal. Joe thought it was probably a good thing it looked like a junk heap, otherwise it might not stay in the parking lot. The suspension groaned as Joe climbed in the car. He started the engine and the whole neighborhood knew it. This could never pass an honest inspection, he thought. Joe smiled. He turned on the stereo, loud, but then reached up and shut it back off again. He reached under the seat and retrieved a small computer and a pair of glasses. He strapped the computer to his arm, and put the pair of Clark Kents on. Clark Kents or "clarks", as the computer savvy liked to call them, were thick framed non-prescription glasses. They weren't just any glasses. They had a thin film display inside each lens and two simple color cameras embedded in the bulky frames. Joe tapped the flat panel screen on the small bland rectangular com15 puter strapped to his arm. This activated the binocular heads up display in Joe's clarks. Some text flashed by as the computer booted and synchronized with the computer Joe had retrofitted to the old Chevy. A semi-translucent tachometer, speedometer and nitrous oxide gauge appeared on the lenses of Joe's clarks. Joe preferred the style of gauge used in the elderly game Wipe Out, because it matched the graphics on his LCD stereo readout. Sensors on the car's hood and doors fed information into his Heads Up Display to visually enhance possible obstacles. Most modern cars had HUDs built in, but Joe couldn't justify the windshield projector since he had a decent pair of clarks. He looked at the wireframed objects on the street, scanning for police. He attracted a lot of negative attention with his Chevy, so a little patience was needed. Joe tapped his computer's screen and made an arching thumbs-'up motion in front of his clarks. A symbol shaped like a double clef flashed by. He turned the black knob on his 80s style car stereo. Static was followed by a few clicks and then the Rolling Stones. Joe mashed the gas, and the tachometer displayed on his clarks redlined. He couldn't hear the tires squeal over the music and exhaust. Joe scanned for cops as he drove. He was cranking along the Southern State Parkway at about seventy-five miles per hour. The inverted pitches built into the road made the Southern State the most challenging to drive. It was the only local parkway whose speed limit was not raised from the once mandatory fifty-five miles per hour. The highway patrol had lost some funding after the Seaford Oyster Bay Railroad line was opened, so there were considerably more speed traps. Lots of people used mass transit now, so the police had to work harder to meet the once reasonable quotas. Blue blobs of varying intensity flickered across Joe's clarks. The car computer was calculating the odds that any combination of bush covered reflectors, CB radio traffic, and radar signals meant a speed trap. He enjoyed taunting the turns with his old Chevy. Hearing the engine revolve as he drifted around the turns drew him away from his day job and its worries. Having built this car really did it for him. It was the feeling of a job well done that made the grease and sweat worth it. His horizontal and mental drift were interrupted by the double beep of his cell phone's ringer. Joe straightened the wheel while reaching for his phone. He muted the radio. He pinned the phone between his head and ear. The phone shifted Joe's clarks so he had to watch the road around the edge of his glasses.

"Hello, I'm driving." "Okay, here's the deal. We are going over Amman's house. Lucy's going to meet us over there." It was Mark. "Uh, okay." Joe wasn't listening. Joe saw a blue blotch flicker in his lens, his driving knee twitched as he hit the brake with his other foot. "You mean your crazy cousin?" Joe sounded a little worried. "He's not crazy." The sound of Mark's voice faded out of range as Joe let the phone drop to the seat. Joe released the brake as he drove by a shiny black car parked on the roadside. "Mark hold on, cop," Joe yelled through his teeth. He tried to look casual driving his loud multicolor muscle car. Joe yelled at the phone on the seat. "Mark what the hell are you hanging out with that guy for? You know Homeland Security has gotta be watching him. I don't really feel like being watched. I'll get busted for something." He followed the gently curving road out of the black car's sight, as if he were a hundred and three years old. He reached down for the phone and lifted it back to his ear. Mark was still talking. It seemed to Joe, Mark must have been talking the whole time. "Just because he is a physicist from Iran doesn't mean he's a bad guy. He showed me this great little computer he's been writing programs for and..." Joe cut Mark off, "Mark, wooa. I have no idea what you said. Hold on, hold on, tell me when I get there. 98th, right?" "Yes," Mark said. He sounded a little hurt that Joe missed his rant. "Alright I'll see you." A loud bang came from outside the car. Joe was tossed forward and back. The steering wheel lurched, and he straightened it. A second bang sounded as the Camaro's rear end passed over the gaping pothole. It launched him off his seat a second time. Looking in the rearview mirror, Joe saw the monster. It was four feet wide and at least one foot deep. His heart was pounding, and Mark was yelling something. He glanced in the rear view mirror to check for damage. None seemed obvious. "Holy crap!" he exclaimed to Mark. "That was a pothole!" "Are you alright? I heard that here." "When are they going to fix the frigging roads?" Joe growled. "I'll get off, see you later," Mark said.

"Okay later," he pushed the button on the phone and lowered it to his seat. His heart was still racing. He almost smashed his head on the steering wheel. That was too close, he thought. He felt embarrassed and angry; embarrassed that Mark heard the fear of injury in his voice, and angry that the condition of New York was deteriorating. He un-muted the radio and heard "Another One Bites the Dust" by Queen. The perfect music for my car, he thought. Same era, same attitude. He shed his fear and accelerated again. He began to dream of his latest robotic creation, looking for ways to shave its weight down. He thought about drilling three four-inch holes in an over-engineered torso support. I could compensate with a triangular cross brace, he thought. It would work, but it would be ugly. Would it clear the hip servo? Click. Maybe not. Click. The click was not part of his daydream. He recognized a familiar fear, the wasted time and money repairing his old car. Damn it!, he thought, I must have damaged the car. Click, click, BANG! The car lurched to the passengers side. The steering wheel was no longer responding. He heard the sound of scraping metal and screeching tires. He stomped the brake pedal. The steering wheel fought back as the remaining tie rod end tried to convey his counter steering. A strange calm came over him as he tried to compensate for the random action of the loose front tire. The Camaro swung sideways with a horrible screeching noise that only all four tires can make. Joe looked for headlights or headlight markers but just got a pair of red Xs on his clarks. The car's computer didn't know what to look for when sliding sideways. Joe looked out the driver's side window and saw another giant pothole. He heard a crunch and a bang simultaneously, the sound of glass breaking and metal folding as the car's body hit the pavement. He smashed into the drivers side window as the rear of the car lifted in the air. The car was rolling, he knew he was done for. Joe woke up coughing black smoke out of his lungs. A small flame flickered out of the hole cut in the car's hood. He knew he hadn't been out for more than a few seconds, because he would not have had woken up at all. Blood was running into his eyes. He didn't have much time. He moved his legs and arms, and they still seemed to function. He unbuckled his shoulder harness, and climbed across the seats under the buckled roof. He felt broken glass cutting his hands as he scraped them across the passengers seat. Staggering out of the missing passenger's side door, he flung his broken clarks off. "Where is the phone?" he mumbled to himself while scanning the ground.

He mindlessly reached into his back pocket, and then his coat pockets, looking for his cell phone. He couldn't think clearly anymore. He collapsed to the ground. He knew he was going to die.

I smell glass cleaner. No wait, not glass cleaner, ammonia. Joe stretched his right arm to scratch the left. Why are my sheets itchy? Who's cleaning around me? Joe listened. It's really quiet. I hear a machine, maybe a computer? Joe reached across his chest to scratch again. Why am I bandaged? Then Joe remembered everything. The accident came back to him in more detail than when it happened. The song, the clicking part about to fail, the pair of giant potholes, the blood running in his eyes. How long have I been unconscious? Joe wiggled his toes and his fingers. I don't seem to be paralyzed, he thought. I can feel the sheets, so my limbs aren't phantoms. Wait, I walked away from the car. It was on fire. Oh crap I loved that car, it was demolished. He began to try to visualize the damage to the car. He began to take stock of the damaged parts and how he would begin to fix them. Oh wait, he thought, what if I'm blind? Joe opened his eyes. The light was intense, so he blinked them shut. He squinted and tried opening them again. His vision was snowy but his eyes worked. He was afraid the broken clarks might have damaged his eyes. Every direction he turned his eyes, his vision was speckled with little gray spots, like pepper. He heard voices in the hallway. One was his aunt. As a childish reflex, he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. "You don't have that right. Life and death, is subject to a higher morality. It's not like any damage was done to the project." Joe recognized his aunt's whispering voice. "This hospital participates under a specific auspice," Joe heard a man say. He had a southern drawl. "Our research effort counts on the limited funds allotted to this project." "Don't cry poverty to me!" His aunt shot back, "You people have more money than you know what to do with. That boy is like a son to me. You would have done the same thing for your daughter. The need was real and immediate." They're talking about me, Joe thought. He immediately felt anger toward the man who spoke to his aunt like that. "Okay, okay. I believe..." the strange man paused, "I believe I can convince the committee that any risk of exposure is a risk of a public debacle. I think that they will see it's far too risky to end the project here. What you do need to do is disable them immediately, and you do need to be far more careful with other people's property." The man paused and then said, "I will expect full analysis and data." His voice faded and echoed. He was walking up the hall. Joe heard a shoe squeak. "You foolish child," Dr. Graceland whispered, startling Joe. She was closer than he thought. Joe's eyes blinked open. "You're awake," she proclaimed, suddenly ecstatic. "Yeah barely," Joe mumbled. "I have to call your father," Joe's aunt was brimming with joy. "I'm glad I'm alive too... I thought I would die for sure." "How do you feel?" "Lousy, and my eyes are grainy. You aren't going to give me a speech are you?" Dr. Graceland chuckled. "No, Joe, not this time." He grimaced. He was thinking about the accident. "How did they find me? I don't remember finding my cell phone." "The explosion." Joe felt the hairs on his body stand on end. "The explosion?" He abandoned any hope of repairing his car. "I guess you were unconscious before it happened. Your car sent a fireball into the sky." "The explosion?" Joe repeated in a gravelly voice. "Oh, wait. It was on fire." "A state trooper saw the explosion from his speed trap up the road. He saved your life," Teressa said. She drew close to his face. He thought she looked worn. "If your car hadn't exploded you would be dead." Joe stopped worrying about his un-fixable car. "Do you think the explosion damaged my eyes?"

"It's possible." She reached for her pen light. She shined it in his eyes and squinted. "So, you are having trouble with your eyes? Can you see?" She shined the light in his left eye. "I see little pepper specks everywhere." "It might be," she paused, "hmmm." "It might be what?" "The nanites." Joe looked confused. Then his face lit up. "I have nanites in me? Cool!" Joe almost shouted, his eyes widening. Joe felt excitement and dread at the same time. A huge fear campaign had been aired on TV over the past year. Government commercials talking about the unprecedented risks of unbridled nano-size machinery in the hands of terrorists. On the other hand, they're tiny robots, Joe thought. What's better than that? Who cares about the three letter agencies anyway? "You'll be sad to hear I have to shut them off, daredevil," Dr. Graceland said with a straight face. She reached for a wheeled machine and pulled it toward her. She flipped a switch on its top. "They're still on?" Joe asked in amazement. All of sudden it all snapped into place. The nanites must have had some responsibility in Joe's good fortune. That conversation in the hall with the angry man was about the nanites. Aunt Teressa must have taken a big chance to keep him alive. Joe's smile faded. "I'll be right back. I need another machine." Joe's aunt walked out of the room. Joe forced his guilt aside and began to search around for something that could hide some of his blood. I have to get some of these to Mark, Joe thought. He heard his aunt's shoes squeak as she approached. Joe laid back down, trying to copy his original position. His aunt was carrying what looked like a small old laptop with a cable dangling from a port by its hinge. "We have never had a conscious subject before with active nanotech. That might be what is causing the distortion of your vision. The nanites are more dense than natural blood components. There may be other side effects too." She plugged the laptop into the device. A small light on the device began to flicker. "So what do the nanites do?" Joe asked hoping to find out more. Joe's aunt continued plugging in wires and booting the laptop. She pulled Joe's tablet off the end of the bed.