"Casil,_Amy_Sterling_-_To_Kiss_the_Star" - читать интересную книгу автора (Casil Amy Sterling)

"We put them into your cerebral cortex," he said. "Bio-electrical devices. We also implant controls into the main nerve centers which control body function -- cerebellum and pons and so-on. The probe will become your body."
"I've never had very good control," Mel said.
He chuckled. "This will be different," he said. "After we start the process, you'll have two weeks to decide if you want out. In fact, you can stop it at any point up until the time we -- "
"Get rid of my body," Mel said.
"Yeah," the counselor said. "You got it."
"Can you tell me something?" Mel asked.
"Anything. I'm here to answer all of your questions."
"Before you put me in the..."
"Housing," he said.
"I want to know if I'll be able to see again. Is that part before or after?"
"Oh," he said, drawing in his breath, as if she'd surprised him. "You could see some things, I think. You'll have your visual cortex connected and I suppose we could fix something up. I hadn't thought about it quite that way before. Not everyone we work with is blind."
"Before the final step -- will I be able to move?"
The counselor clicked his tongue. "Move? Well, you mean more than you can right now? I'm afraid not. We'll have to shut many functions down. You may not be able to move at all."
"My voiceboard?"
There was a pause. "Possibly. I can't tell until we evaluate you further. With your degree of motor impairment, it's difficult to know. There may be seizures. We are working with your brain, you know."
"If I can't use my voiceboard, how will I tell you to stop?"
The counselor touched her hand. He tapped the middle of her palm with one finger.
"Twice a day until the final step, I'll tap your hand once. You move your fingers, if you want to go ahead. If I don't feel anything, I'll tap twice. Like this." She felt him tap two times. "If you move then, we'll stop. Remove the implants."
"That's good," she said. "Is that it for today?"
The counselor patted her shoulder, impersonally. "If you're tired," he said.
"No," Mel said. "I'm not tired. But today is my Friendly Visitor day. I'm expecting someone."
"Oh," the counselor said. "Well, that's good. Who is she?"
"Him," Mel said. "His name is John. He's a musician."
"Very good," said the counselor. Then, he left.
Mel waited in the dayroom for an hour. No one came. Finally, she wheeled to the door and pressed the call button. She guessed it had been about ten minutes when a nurse finally showed up. It was Hana.
"Yes, luv?"
"Hana, I was waiting for John."
"Oh, he's not here?"
Mel was had to force her exhausted, trembling hands over the voiceboard. "Do you see him?"
"No, luv. I suppose he's not coming today. Let's give you a nice bath. You'll want to be all fresh for those nice ISA gentlemen. How lucky you are!"
"I suppose so," Mel said, hoping that John would come later. It was so unlike him not to come, and not to call. He always called, and he was hardly ever late. After the bath, during which Hana had scrubbed too hard, Mel thought, though she couldn't say anything without the voiceboard, Mel sat by the window in her room, feeling the warm light on her cheeks. Why hadn't John come? Or called? No one knew anything, and it was too tiring to keep asking. She fell asleep in her chair. When she woke, it was cold. She was still by the window, and they were fastening a dinner tray on her chair and tying a bib around her neck.
* * * *
"Hana," Mel said to the nurse, who was washing something, Mel thought perhaps her water jug, in the sink.
"Yes?" Hana began to hum a little tune, something Indian-sounding. Maybe that was what John's music sounded like. Mel had always wanted to hear it, but John always forgot to bring his recordings. He was so busy.
"Before I go any farther with this, I want to do something." Mel paused, waiting for Hana's reaction. There was none. "I want to smoke a cigarette. Like John's," she continued.
"Oh, luv! The way you breathe? You'll keel over! It's nasty, nasty. Why would you want to do that?"
Mel kept working at the voiceboard. "I want to smoke a John Player Special. I want to eat lobster. I want to feel what it's like to have somebody..." Mel meant John, but she wasn't about to say so. "I want somebody's arms around me. I want to feel a kiss."
Hana turned off the water. Mel felt her sit on the bed, smelled her cologne. Hana's hand, damp from the water, brushed Mel's forehead.
"I think I understand." Hana's warm lips touched Mel's cheek. She took Mel's hand, and rubbed Mel's wrist in a soothing way.
Mel tried to speak with her mouth. "I wuh-wuh-hunt s-s-s-s..."
"You want a bit of life," Hana said. She raised Mel and held her close. "I'm no man, not like what you mean, but I love you, Mel-o-die." Hana almost sang Mel's name. Tears stung in the corners of Mel's eyes.
"I'll see what I can do about that lobster," Hana said. "My boyfriend's a chef. Have I ever said? He'd be proud to make something up for you. I don't eat meat, but I've heard that lobster is very good. You'll like it. But first, we'll get you dressed, for those ISA doctors."
Later that day, the ISA technicians finished implanting her visual bio-electrodes. The counselor told her that they'd made something up for her: a special visor similar to one which had been developed for cold-fusion technicians, the ones who worked with the magnetic bottles which contained the reaction. A visor sensitive in the ultra-violet and infra-red, as well as the normal visual spectrum. Whatever she would see through it wouldn't be like she what she had seen before she'd gone blind.
Mel's old doctor had said, brutally, Mel remembered, that she'd really gotten the short end of the genetic stick. Cerebral palsy -- a spastic -- with a heart defect, and retinitis pigmentosa. It didn't get much worse than that, he'd said.
The ISA counselor arrived, just as the technicians were fitting the visor. He spoke to her, holding her hand while they fitted the metallic piece over her temples and eyes. "I know it hurts. Just stay with us. It's going straight into your optic nerve, which ain't damaged. You oughta see something, but we can't guarantee technicolor."
Mel had shut her eyes. They'd said it didn't matter whether they were open or shut. It was going over the eyes, not into them. The implant went through her temples. The connection was so fine, he'd said, that no one could see it, and she wasn't supposed to feel it. Even so, Mel felt like they were breaking holes in her skull with a jackhammer.
"You can't move," the counselor explained. "It won't work until you've adjusted thoroughly and the implants have integrated."
Mel realized that they were drilling holes in her skull, not for the implant, but to stabilize the visor. She couldn't say anything. They'd taken her voiceboard away, promising to give it back when they'd finished. She heard a voice, moaning. Hers. Something dribbled on her chin. They whacked the crown of her head, again and again.
The counselor squeezed her hand. His finger tapped, once. She squeezed back. "That's great," he said. "Now, they'll activate it."
Mel closed her eyes. It was as if she had opened them, but she hadn't. A long, mournful-looking face appeared, grainy and hazy, like an antique telly when it was turned on. Big nose, and a wild head of bushy hair. The face smiled, crookedly, showing a mouth full of even, pale teeth. He must be the counselor, Mel thought. Her head was throbbing viciously, but she managed to smile in return. Somebody thrust the voiceboard in her lap.