NO CURE WITHOUT A PRICE

 

Richard Blaine finds himself alone, paralyzed, blind, and naked. What else could go wrong he asks.

He should have known better.

ON THE RUN

“You cannot connect the dotslooking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards.”

- Sentient

 

My panic went into overdrive asmy body was sucked like a strand of spaghetti through the lips of some unseengiant.

Ears popping painfully, I sailedthrough really foul-smelling air to tumble roughly across a painfully hardmetal floor.

‘Up! Hold those hard-won handsup! Do not let them hit the floor even slightly, or you will lose them!’

I held them up.

Though I couldn’t feel my numbhands, I certainly could feel my throbbing wrists, so I held those up.

I had a thousand questions forSentient. I didn’t get a chance to ask even one.

Rough, calloused hands jerked meto my feet. I wobbled and weaved, but I managed to stand on my own. I almostcried from the relief of having control of my body once more.

Wiry fingers poked and proddedme. I winced as it felt like needles were attached to those fingers. I jerkedas a dozen stabs plunged into my flesh all along my body.

A stench of burnt fabric filledmy head. The heavy fabric fell from my eyes.

I immediately wanted it back.

One wizened, stunted creaturestonily eyed me with no comprehension at all in its solid black eyes.

Angular, covered with fur, it wasthe strangest creature I had ever seen. Short but amazingly strong to havelifted me so easily. It stood rock-still, but it seemed to vibrate in place.

‘It is … the closest phrase forit is a “Medical Savant.” No intelligence per se, but a phenomenal skill inhealing … all instinctive.’

I opened my mouth to mutterthanks, but Sentient stopped me.

‘Even if it had ears, it wouldnot understand you. You are 413 years from where you once were. The languagespoken here … let us call it … Englysch. Though those who survived theAttrition Wars with enough intellect to cogitate and speak do not think broadlyenough to conceptualize in such a manner.’

‘What?’

‘To think I missed conversingwith your limited intellect.’

‘I missed you, too.’

The galling part of that sentencewas that I meant it.

‘People who spoke Old English didnot call it that. They called it Ænglisc. Chaucer and his peers did notcall the language they spoke "Middle English", they called it Inglissh.’

‘If it is so primitive here, whybring me to this time?’

‘Because this edifice still containedthe advanced technology of the Attrition Wars without the wholesale slaughterand butchery of that conflict exploding all around it.’

‘You mean you saved my hands?’

‘That was beyond me. Your handsand the fingers attached to them still remained clenched around the triggerhandles when I took you here.’

‘Then, what is attached to mythrobbing wrists?’

I looked down at my heavybandages in the shape of hands. Strange looking wrappings though.

‘The latest and last advancementin Intelligent Prosthesis. An amazing prototype actually.’

‘Super. The last prototype costme my hands.’

‘Your perverse, stubbornstupidity cost you your hands!’

The Savant shrugged absently and shambledthrough the wall.

‘And you are welcome, by the way.’

‘I didn’t thank you.’

‘You never do.’

The wall directly in front of mestarted to glow a strange sort of blue.

 ‘Ah, it can’t get back in?’

‘It does not want to. In fact, itis scurrying far, far away. No, the lone remaining Harvester wants in. Wants invery badly.’

I asked though I had a sinkingfeeling just what crop it wanted to harvest.

“Harvest what?’

‘Your over-sized thymus … atleast for these times … and your distinctive medulla oblongata … though nonenow live who could benefit from their transplanting.’

‘How did that … Harvester evenknow I was here?’

‘As soon as you emerged from …oh, talking to your limited awareness is so inconvenient … let us just call itan advancement in Hyperbaric Chambers … it was notified of your body’s ripecondition for harvesting.’

The wall had gone to dull red andnow was rapidly becoming cherry red. I could feel the heat of it a dozen feetaway.

‘Ah, “away” would be agood place to be, don’t you think?’

‘Say “please.”’

‘Please!’

‘I did not like your tone.Politeness is to an intelligent nature what warmth is to wax.’

I clenched my new fingers andimmediately regretted it. I found out I could feel pain in my artificial hands.Good news: at least, I could move them.

‘Please. Pretty please … with bothmy burned off hands on top.’

‘Must you always be a smart-ass?’

‘No. Sometimes I sleep.’

And with that, we were gone …elsewhere.