Death Trap (6 page)
“Me?” I said.
“As part of the long-term plan,” Rawling said, “scientists had been hoping to use robots to explore Mars and do work that humans couldn't, based on virtual-reality extensions. The next stage in their experiments was to hook up the human nervous system directly into a robot's computer drive. They were hoping a human brain could control the robot.”
In a flash, I understood why Rawling had always examined my back so closely during checkups. Why he'd been worried about my back after I fell out of the wheelchair the night before. Why he'd spent two hours a day since I was eight Earth years old, training me in the virtual-reality robot program. Why Mom and Rawling had made me learn everything possible about human implants.
“The needle in my back,” I queried, holding up the X-ray against the light. “All those things at the end of the needle that look like fine hairs. Those are biological implants that have grown into my nerves.”
Mom and Rawling nodded.
“Plastic fibers with a core that transmits tiny impulses of electricity,” Rawling said. “You are the first person to get this implant. They hadn't planned on trying it in a human on Mars for at least another 10 years.”
“Wow!” I couldn't keep excitement out of my voice. If I was right ⦠“And the end of the needle coming out of my spinal column,” I said, “it will attach directly to a computer input, right?”
Again they nodded.
“It will take a painless minor operation to cut open the skin and add an antenna plug to the needle,” Rawling said.
“It will barely stick out of your back.”
“Double wow!” I said. Now everything Rawling had just talked about at the telescope made sense. The need for robots powered by human brains. Medical advances over the last 50 years. Virtual-reality extensions of the human brain. “You mean I can be hooked up to a robot?”
“If it works,” Rawling said flatly. But he didn't seem happy. “Remember, no one has tried this before.”
My mind raced. The senses of the robot will be an extension of my body! Just by using my brain, I'll be able to travel without my wheelchair! I'm going to be the one to revolutionize space exploration! The places I can go in a robot's body are limitless. I can â¦
Tears rolled down Mom's face.
“I don't get it,” I said, puzzled. “This is great news. What's there to forgive you for?”
Mom didn't wipe away the tears. “Tyce, I've lied to you about one thing since you were old enough to talk ⦠and it has pained me to do so. I have agonized over my decision ever since, wondering if I made the right oneâletting my baby become an experiment. So here's the truth. You didn't lose the use of your legs because of the way you were born.”
I stared at her. I didn't understand.
“It happened during the operation,” she finished. “When the neurosurgeon inserted the rod into your spine, he accidentally cut some of the nerves that go to your legs.”
When Mom asked me to write this Mars journal, I thought it was going to be about living and dying under the dome. Instead, it has become learning about myself.
First of all, I'm scared. And it's been that way ever since two days ago, when I learned the truth about my handicap. At first I was excited about the thought of zooming around in a robot's body. But then reality settled in. This afternoon I'm going to be hooked up to the computer drive of a robot through the nerves of my spinal column. Rawling says it should work, but no one has ever tried it before. He says something might go wrong. It could do something to my brain if the electrical circuits haven't fused properly to my body with the biological plastic connections.
I say, what does it matter since I might die anyway from the oxygen problem in this dome?
I've also learned I'm crippled not from birth, as I've thought all these years, but because an experimental operation went wrong when I was a baby.
I don't know whether to be mad or sad about this. Or happy that I've got a chance to do something in space that no other person in history has been able to try.
Either way, it won't change the fact that my legs are useless.
I stopped typing at the keyboard. I reached for my red juggling balls from my wheelchair pouch and tossed them in the air. My hands automatically juggled while my brain thought. I needed to comfort myself with juggling because if I let myself think about what I didn't want to think about, I'd go crazy.
But here I was, beginning to consider what had made me cry all last night. I told myself to focus on the operation that crippled me instead.
In a way, I felt more sorry for Mom than I did for myself. She's the one who feels guilty over what happened because of the operation, although it isn't her fault. She didn't have much of a choice: Either she had to send me off to certain death on the spaceship or allow me to stay and become part of an experimental procedure. She'd only had a short time to make the decisionâand all when my dad was out of communication range, so she had to make the choice on her own.
Maybe I should be mad at Director Steven, who forced Mom to make the choice. But he didn't plan on the operation going wrong. It did explain, though, why he always seemed to dislike me. Now I knew I reminded him of his terrible mistake in forcing me to be an experiment without any choice. At least that's what Rawling says.
It wouldn't do much good to get mad at Director Steven anyway, since it wouldn't change my situation. And I knew Director Steven had plenty of other problems now.
I stopped juggling and went back to writing.
Late the night I'd found out the real truth about my legs, one of the scientists went to Rawling with the committee's decisionsâthe committee Rawling had refused to join.
They call themselves the Life Group. They have 75 people, too many for security to arrest or fight. So they now have enough power to rule the dome. They say that unless Director Steven agrees to help them, they will do it themselves. They are trying to force him to make sure that 20 people die early so the other 180 will live. If Director Steven doesn't help them, they'll find a way to pick those 20 people themselves.
Then yesterday morning, Director Steven called another meeting for everyone under the dome. He said he didn't agree with the Life Group but was afraid a war would start if he didn't try to do something.
Director Steven said we had three days to figure out what was wrong with the generators. After that there would only be enough oxygen left for 180 people to survive until the ship arrived. He said at this point he felt he should see if any volunteers would give up their lives to help save the others if the generators did not get fixed.
It was very quiet when he asked for those volunteers.
I felt tears begin to roll down my cheeks again.
I mean, what would you do in the same situation? If you were going to die anyway when the oxygen was gone, would you volunteer to die early so you could save others? Or would you hope that others volunteered to die early so you could be saved?
I wish I could tell you what I decided about volunteering. But I wasn't given a chance. So I'll never know for sure, no matter what I tell myself.
Director Steven said some people wouldn't be allowed to be volunteers because of what they contributed to the long-term project. I was one of those people. He had learned through Rawling that I'd said yes to the experiment where the nerves of my spinal column would be attached to a robot's computer drive.
I forced myself to write in my journal what happened next.
Altogether, there were about a hundred people who would be allowed to volunteer to save the others. When he asked again for 20, nobody looked at anybody.
Then I heard a movement as some people stepped out of the back of the group.
Director Steven had asked for 20 volunteers, and 3 decided to give up their lives if the generator wasn't fixed in time.
I cried all last night. I haven't cried in years. But I couldn't help myself.
One of those volunteers was my mom.
“Tyce, you know I believe God created humans with a body, a mind, and a soul. I know you can't prove the existence of a soul. You tell me that all the time. But you can't prove it doesn't exist.” Mom stood beside my wheelchair in the part of the dome that overlooked the ferns and trees planted in straight rows. She had a hand on my shoulder.
“You're correct. No scientific instrument will measure or prove the existence of God or the soul,” she continued. “But no scientific instrument can prove the existence of love or loneliness, either. Love exists. So does loneliness. You can feel it. And I believe your soul will be filled with one or the other.”
“Please,” I begged, “please change your mind about being one of the 20.” I fought hard not to cry in front of her. It was bad enough when I did it alone.
“I know we've had these talks before,” she stated, “but listen to me again. If we have souls, then there is more to this life than what we see with our human eyes. And there is someone beyond, waiting: God, who created us and this universe.”
“Mom ⦔ I couldn't help it. I began to cry.
She squatted beside me and stared into my face. She smoothed my hair as she spoke. “I love you. I love you so much it breaks my heart to think of leaving you behind. But my faith would be worth nothing if I could not face death bravely because of it. Our human lives are just a blink in eternity compared to God's promise of where my soul will fly after it leaves my body.”
“No â¦,” I blubbered. “You can't. I don't want you to leave me behind.”
Mom spoke very quietly. “I can't make you believe what I believe. I just hope that when you see how strongly I believe in Godâeven accepting death because of itâthat my faith might lead you to believe in God too. If my sacrifice brings you home to God, then it'll be worth it. And I've already asked Rawling to take care of you when your father isn't here.”
“All right,” I said, tasting the salt of my tears. “I'll believe. I'll believe. If that's what it takes to save you, I'll believe anything. Just tell Director Steven you've changed your mind.”
She stood again and looked out at the plants. “You know I can't do that. But don't give up so fast. We still have two days to find a way to fix the generators.”
“Your upper back giving you much pain?” Rawling asked.
“No,” I said. “Can't feel a thing.”
We were in the computer lab room. I was on my back on a narrow medical bed in the computer laboratory. I wore a snug, navy blue jumpsuit. My head was propped on a large pillow so the plug at the bottom of my neck didn't press on the bed. This plug was wired to an antenna that was sewn into the jumpsuit. Across the room was a receiver that would transmit signals between the body suit antenna and the computer drive of the robot. It worked just like the remote control of a television set, with two differences. Television remotes used infrared and were limited in distance. This receiver used X-ray waves and had a 100-mile range.
A half hour earlier, Rawling had frozen the area of skin below my neck with a needle injection. It had taken him less than five minutes to find the rod in my spine and attach a computer plug to the end of it. With the plug sticking out, Rawling had stitched the small opening of my skin around the plug with careful, tight loops, explaining that if we weren't so short on time, we'd have waited a week for the skin to heal.
I didn't care about a few stitches that I couldn't feel anyway. I wanted to get started as soon as possible to see if this would work. My wheelchair was empty in the corner, and I hoped to keep the wheelchair empty for as long as possible. I'd dreamed my whole life about walking, and if it took my brain and a robot's body to do it, I was ready.
“I've got to go over this one more time,” Rawling said. “I can't tell you enough how important it is.”
“No problem. I'm ready,” I said.
“Tyce â¦,” he warned.
“Um, ready to listen just one more time,” I quickly finished.
“Good.” Rawling began pulling straps tight across my legs to hold me snugly to the bed. “First, it won't be good if you move and break the connection. I doubt it will happen, since only your brain will be responding, and your brain, of course, cannot move. But this will be the first time anyone has ever done this, and I'd rather be safe than sorry.”
He tightened the straps across my stomach and chest. “Second, don't allow the robot to have contact with any electrical sources. Ever. Your spinal nerves are attached to the plug. Any electrical current going into or through the robot will scramble the X-ray waves so badly that the signals reaching your brain may do serious damage.”
Rawling placed a blindfold over my eyes and strapped my head in position. Immediately, it began to itch under my chin.
“Lastly,” he directed, “disengage instantly at the first warning of any damage to the robot's computer drive. Your brain circuits are working so closely with the computer circuits that any harm to the computer may spill over to harm your brain.”
“Understood, understood, and understood,” I said. I wanted to scratch myself under my chin. “I'm ready.”
“No, you're not,” Rawling answered. “Tell me how you're going to control the movements of the robot for me.”
I spoke directly to the ceiling. My eyes were shut beneath the blindfold. “From all my years of training in a computer simulation program, my mind knows all the muscle moves I make to handle the virtual-reality controls. This is no different, except instead of actually moving my muscles, I imagine I'm moving the muscles. My brain will send the proper nerve impulses to the robot. It will move the way I made the robot move in the virtual-reality computer program.”
