Life First

Chapter 3: LMS

Chapter 3: LMS

 If I could bounce off the walls, I would. The wait is getting to me. It’s hard knowing what you want is within reach, but untouchable at the moment. I urge my students to be patient daily, yet here I am unable to take my own advice. I temporarily calm myself by reading a novel about space adventures. It is trite and silly, but I enjoy it because it’s a gift from Luke. And anything from Luke makes me happy.

I sit “crisscross applesauce,” as we kindergarten teachers love to say, with my back against the wall. The room feels too warm, so I roll up my sleeves and fan myself with the book. I glide the book through the air slowly, but consistently, bringing a weak, but steady, breeze. Then it occurs to me that maybe it isn’t hot. Maybe it’s just nerves. Maybe fleeing has put me on edge.

I look at my arm, midway between wrist and elbow, at the slightly raised square of flesh that used to give me such comfort. Just under the skin is my life monitoring system (LMS): a tiny computer chip that tracks the body’s major systems to make sure they’re functioning correctly. Each LMS is linked wirelessly to a government database. If my blood pressure were to dip dramatically due to a stab wound, the LMS would signal the government for help. Because all LMS chips emit a low-level tracking beacon, the government can easily find anyone and send aid.

I’ve always felt comforted knowing my LMS would bring help. It was like the ultimate safety blanket. But tonight, I feel the opposite. The LMS means I can be tracked, and that is the last thing I want. If the rumors are true, authorities are monitoring my LMS data. If I leave, the LMS will lead them to me within minutes.

Under normal circumstances, that is. But, a few well-placed dollars allowed Luke and I to change the circumstances. A source inside the LMS monitoring group promised to alter my identity data temporarily. For a period overnight, the source will switch Haleema’s LMS data with mine. When I leave, it will look like Haleema is leaving. No reason for anyone to get alarmed. I feel guilty about involving Haleema. There weren’t a lot of choices about whom to switch ID with, and I’ve convinced myself that she’ll be OK with it. Hopefully, this is not wishful thinking.

Once I leave here, I’ll travel about a mile to the safe house, where Dr. Grant will remove my LMS and place it in Buddy, our five-year-old Black Russian Terrier. Normally, removing an LMS causes the device’s alarm to go off. However, Dr. Grant knows a way to stop the alarm from sounding long enough to reinsert the LMS into Buddy. A regulator chip will make sure Buddy’s data looks enough like a person’s that techs shouldn’t notice any difference.

Unfortunately, the chip can only regulate data, not forge it, so the LMS must be implanted into another mammal in order for the regulator to work. Mainly it will control for minor differences in heart rate and temperature between dogs and humans. It would be better if we could simply take my chip out, slap the regulator on it and leave it in my room. But, this is the best we can do. The tech will switch Haleema’s and my data back in the morning. When I don’t show for surgery, authorities will track my LMS and find only Buddy. I’ll be long gone.

That’s the plan at least. All I need now is Susan’s call — at 10:15 — to say my LMS data has been switched with Haleema’s.

The mobile phone in my pocket is set to vibrate, so Haleema won’t hear. I don’t want to involve Susan in my escape. She’s already had more trouble than anyone deserves in life. Yet, she wants to be a part of this. She wants to help set me free.

Given all she’s been through, I feel I owe it to her. Owe her the opportunity to help me. We’re uneven in our relationship. Not in any tangible way, but in a more ethereal way. Susan thinks about it like Yin and Yang or tit-for-tat or basic Karma. She believes things need to be balanced, equal. In reality, things are, but she doesn’t see it that way. She is hung up on Camp Picklewick. That was the summer I saved Susan’s life.

Even back then, Susan was an overachiever. She wanted to be the best at everything. And that summer, being the best meant winning the camp triathlon. She had everything down, except for swimming, so she dragged me out to the lake to watch her practice. She told me the only way to improve was to “push yourself to the brink, then go one step more.” She couldn’t go one step more that day, though. From the shore, 50 yards away, I saw her go under.

 Survival statistics had taught me well. If I called for help and waited, she would die. If I saved her myself, she had a chance at life. So, I jumped in and swam to her, reminding myself that the average swimmer had an 87 percent chance of pulling this off. Thank God Susan’s hair is as bright and fiery red as her personality. It was the only thing that helped me find her. She’d been sinking and resurfacing, so I could keep track of her, and execute my sorry attempt at a rescue. As I got close enough to almost grab her, she sank and didn’t bob back to the top. I managed to duck my head under and see that dazzling red plume of hair in the murky water. Reaching her, grabbing hold and pulling her head above water was the most satisfying moment of my life. I had saved my best friend from certain death.

That rescue threw us out-of-whack. Susan feels she owes me for that day, owes me something more than she owes the rest of society. Frankly, any average swimmer would have done for her what I did. Only, it was me who saved her, so she wants to repay me. She thinks helping me now will somehow even the slate.

Truth is, the slate’s always been even. I was a shy child, and having a friend like Susan, an outgoing, dynamic, full-force personality, helped me immeasurably in making new friends and fitting in. But, she’s never seen it that way. So, tonight, she’s my signal that it’s time to go, that I don’t have to worry about my LMS betraying me. After tonight, we’ll be even in her mind.