Story Text | One: Dusk The soft whir of the door shakes me from my reverie. My leg has been tapping incessantly for a half hour, rocking the unstable waiting room chair with each restless bounce. I would try to tone it down if there were anyone in here with me, but I’ve been alone since the last client went in for her consultation. “Nova Johnson?” the surgeon calls, as though there were anyone else to respond. I stand, gather my coat and purse, follow him back. “I have all my letters sorted,” I say, handing the packet over to him. “Two mental health providers, one mechanical consultant, and the government-approved scaremonger.” He sighs, settles behind his desk, pushes his glasses up his nose. “Physical transition consultant.” “You know what they’re really for.” “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,” he says. “I’m taking this dead seriously,” I say. “It’s my life. It’s my choice what I do with it. And the consultant’s only job is to tell me how horrible it is, how much better it is to remain with humanity. She was the one who wasn’t taking me seriously. But I smiled and I nodded my way through the appointments, and I got my letter.” “Fine. All your paperwork is in order. I want you to walk me through what you understand as the process here.” “You install the neural net while I’m under. It records me for a year, then I can finally be put into a body that fits me.” “Assuming your recording doesn’t corrupt, and that you don’t reject the neural electrodes… yes. And you will want to spend that year interacting with as many of the things that you want to remember as possible. What you don’t think about in that year, the net doesn’t record.” “I already have my plans written down,” I say. “I have for more than a year, when I first went on the waiting list.” “All right,” the doctor says. “Let’s get your implantation scheduled. 2: MIDNIGHT My escort is a big guy named Ethan, with a nose ring and a ready smile. I pick him up at his place – the support group sent me his address – and we go together to my appointment. I’m glad I asked for an escort, when we get there. The protestors are out in full force today, forming a cordon in front of the clinic. I try not to look, but it’s hard not to see the slogans on their signs. METAL ABOMINATIONS THIS IS A FACTORY OF DEATH PSALM 115:4 BEATING HEARTS STOP HERE Ethan’s hand is a warm presence on my back as he ushers me past the protestors. I feel tears well up in my eyes, an involuntary reaction that just reminds me, once again, how trapped I am in this body. Then, all at once, we’re through the crowd of protestors and into the lobby of the clinic. The receptionist is a synthetic herself, one of the models with a screen for a face, and she gives me a smile I can’t help but see as apologetic. “Nova?” “That’s me.” “I can take you back right away.” Ethan asks if I want him to come with; I tell him it would help to have someone there, so he follows me. My scalp itches. It has for a year and four months, ever since the electrodes were implanted. I cut my hair into a pixie cut and wore a beanie most of the time, which helped a little. I resist the urge to scratch it as I settle down in a chair and wait for the nurse. Ethan plays on his phone; I’m too nervous to do anything but tap my leg. The nurse, when he comes out, is all business. He pops the little crystal cube out of the pack I’ve been wearing at my hip 24/7 for sixteen months. that’s my brain, I think. I’m in there. He pops the recording into a reader. It churns and whirls for a little while, LEDs blinking, until it finally flashes green. I let out a breath. I had a corruption event four months into my first attempt and had to start over; the worst thing that could possibly happen would be getting another one now. “You’re good to go. We can take you back to anaesthesia, if you’re ready.” “I’m ready,” I say. Ethan gives me a thumbs-up. He'll be back to walk me out, at the end of my inpatient recovery. I take a deep breath – one of the last few I will ever take – and follow the nurse out the door. 3: DAWN Awareness comes to me as a swirl of sensations, colors blending into smells that morph into textures. It takes me a while to remember what I am, who I am, but once I do I can appreciate that swirl for how beautiful it is. My mind is clearer than it’s ever been, and feels… prehensile, for lack of a better term. I can reach out with it, with perfect dexterity, and adjust the connections between my sensorium and my brain. It’s like tuning an old-style TV, the kind my great-grandparents might have watched. Finally, I managed to snap into the right setting for sound – it was better fidelity than I was used to from human ears. Right now it was just hospital chatter, so I set about fixing my vision and getting it hooked up correctly. There was a beeping sound next to me. Eventually, sometime after I got the rest of my senses sorted out, a nurse came over to turn it off. I still didn’t have access to my body movement; it would take months of gradual physical therapy before I could move again. But all my senses were online and active. I was seeing in colors I’d never seen before – ultraviolet is so beautiful it would stop my heart if I still had one. The nurse peers in at me. It’s a different one than the one before – in fact, it might be more accurate to call her a technician, since she probably only works with the synthetic side of the operation. “Good evening, Nova,” she says. “We got an alert that you’ve connected to your body and are figuring out how everything works. I’ve given you access to a text terminal and your vocal synthesizer; just let us know via those when you’re ready.” She fills me in while I get connected. It's been four hours since I went under. My heart is already on its way to its recipient, and the rest of the organs will be ready to donate soon. The synth makes a horrible squealing sound when I first try to use it, but after a little practice I’m able to make it work, by figuring out the phonemes of what I want to say, and modulating the pitches and durations of them. The first thing I say is: “Can I have a mirror?” She smiles, and nods, and presses a switch to move my bed up to a seated position. She produces a mirror from somewhere and spins it around. My visual subprocesses parse what I'm seeing immediately, but it takes my emotions a couple seconds to catch up. Smooth plastic and brushed steel, with bright flashes of RGB color along the seams. A face that is cool, impassive, suggestive of humanity but proudly artificial. A face that, for the first time, is really mine.