The Rebel Code

Chapter Eighteen

On the first day of August, John erases our new roommates.

Larry was nervous the night before, like he expected to feel it somehow when he stopped existing. But when he wakes up and John gives him the news that it went well, he returns to normal, as if relieved to have the weight off his shoulders. He starts talking more loudly, laughing more frequently. He starts acting like one of us, and I think he really feels like one of us.

But where Larry is carefree and calm, Link is lethargic. Despite his healed head, he acts days from death, isolating himself and passing the days with books and long naps. He's endlessly frustrated with himself too, mostly because whatever Junior did to him messed up his balance. Phichai insists that the vertigo will run its course and go away eventually, but Link doesn't seem to want to give himself time to heal. Twice in one day, Link insists that he's fine and can manage walking to the kitchen without any help, and twice he falls, or has to pause and rest against a doorway. He's impatient and exhausted, and John seems worried.

John disappears one afternoon and comes back with a big, green, metal box, which he drags into Natcha's apartment and hooks up to the personal computer. I have no idea what it is, but Mo is on cloud nine, gushing over the thing like he's just brought home a long-lost relative and not a broken microwave.

"There's a service android repair place on the tech level," explains John. "They make the replacement parts and stuff, so this is usually for specific patterns, but he says that if we connect it to a computer, we can make it do whatever we want."

"What is it?" Larry asks.

"A 3-D printer," says John, slapping the top. "He even gave me some cartridges too, and If I can get my hands on a frame from the warehouse, we can make whatever we want."

At first I wonder what on earth they would want with a 3-D printer, but then I see Mo pull out her design sketches for Link's arm. They work for an entire weekend, measuring, resizing, welding, attaching, until the drawings are suddenly reality. Mo types in patterns and gets smooth, streamlined carbon-fiber plates. The result is nothing short of artwork. Other than measurements, it has nothing in common with what Link had before. It's light and delicate and flexible, but still strong. I don't ask if they added secret knives. I don't want to know.

On monday morning, John runs a few tests and determines it's time to try it out. Link seems pessimistic, but doesn't object to trying, so after some tinkering, John activates it and hooks it up to his artificial shoulder. I see Link's eyes get wide as he flexes the fingers for the first time, rotating the wrist and running his palm over the smooth metal.
"It's light," he says, giving it a tentative stretch.

"No weapons attachments," says John. "and it's a bit more sensitive. It may take a little getting used to."

Sure enough, instead of easing into his new freedom of movement, Link's frustration only doubles. The arm seems to have a mind of its own, as it twitches with every slight muscular instinct. Link accidentally spills tea, drops books, and throws a fork across the kitchen. Every little task suddenly calls for the utmost patience and care, and I can see the toll it's taking on him. Not a day goes by when I don't hear a crash or thump from across the apartment, followed by a dejected groan. Larry and I start counting the accidents, and we turn it into a probability game for education's sake. It's easy for us to make light of it, to laugh, even, but I can't help feeling a pang of guilt when I see Link in the doldrums again. He spends hours in meditative silence. Whatever excited comeback we'd had been expecting, post-transplant, this isn't it.

John takes to helping him with everything. He picks up everything that gets knocked over and shrugs off broken dishes like they happen every day. He encourages Link to at least try. It's about muscle memory, he says. It's about training yourself to think differently. It's all practice. But Link is defeatist, immediately giving up when something doesn't work out. He refuses to help with the dishes or mop the kitchen because there's no point. Something always breaks. Something always goes wrong. It's like he wants us to give up on him. But at the same time, there's this miserable attitude of his, the way he talks like his presence is inconveniencing everyone. He can't help, but he wants to. Anything to earn his keep.