Her eagerness to cater to whatever urges or impulses he might have was a little disconcerting. No doubt it had been sharpened by the size of the payoff he’d promised her. He felt a little guilty about sandbagging her with such a large sum, but he needed even more forbearance than was usual in her profession. One way or another she would feel satisfied with their transaction.
The money meant nothing to him, but if she took it, he was going to feel cheated. Only time would tell.
“Don’t worry, I will.” He took a deep breath, suddenly feeling as nervous as a boy about to steal his first kiss, and told her one of the things he did want.
“What I would like is for you to tell me what happened to your face.”
Merry was a pro. The expression on the working side of her face barely changed. But the warmth in her brown eyes was snuffed out in an instant. “Airlock accident,” she answered tonelessly. “Blowout.”
Just as he’d thought. “Ah. Savatinian embolism?”
She stared at him in unconcealed disgust. “Look, if you’re a cripfreak, that’s your business. But it’s not mine. I may not like it, but I’ll put up with you getting your rocks off on the way I look if that’s what it takes to earn my money.” Her good eye narrowed and her mouth hardened. “But I’ll be damned if I’ll talk it up just so you can get it up.”
This flash of fierce pride made Marchey like her even more than before. He gave her his most disarming smile. “The reason I asked is because I’m a doctor.”
She snorted. “Right. And you’re here to make me all better with your magic syringe.”
Marchey couldn’t help guffawing at the image she’d conjured. “No, nothing like that,” he assured her, chuckling and shaking his head. “Your condition was caused by hundreds of microscopic gas bubbles bursting numerous small blood vessels in your brain; like a stroke, only widely diffused. Savatinian embolism is a condition that occurs in about one-tenth of one percent of people subjected to explosive decompression.”
“You sure talk like a doctor,” she said grudgingly.
“That’s because I really am one. Here, give me your glass.” He took it from her long slim fingers, carried it and his own to the bar to fix them both refills.
“Sorry I was so touchy,” she said behind him. “It’s just that I don’t like being treated like a freak.”
“Believe me, nobody does.” Just this morning some of the staff at the hospital had treated him like a radioactive pedophile. And those had been the polite ones.
But that was then and this was now. One hurdle had been cleared. He finished assembling their drinks and prepared to go on to the next.
“As for your being a cripple,” he said as he returned to sit beside her, “that’s not a word I particularly care for.”
“Thanks,” she said, accepting the glass he handed her with a nod. “Why’s that?”
“Aside from its cruelty, some would say it fits me, too.”
She looked him up and down. “I don’t see anything wrong with you.” Then her gaze went to his lap and a pink tinge of embarrassment crept onto her face. “Oh… you mean you don’t—I mean you can’t…?” She shrugged. “You know.”
“No, nothing like that,” he assured her. “There might be dust or cobwebs on it, but I’m fairly sure it still works. The thing is, I don’t have any forearms or hands.”
She gave his gloved hands a look, scowling slightly. “What’re those, then? Extra feet?”
“Prosthetics.”
Her scowl deepened. “Proswhats?”
“Prosthetics. Fakes. Artificial substitutes.” He put his glass aside, then peeled off one glove to show her.
Merry gazed in wide-eyed wonder at the silver-metal hand that emerged. “It’s beautiful!” Her voice was hushed, awestruck. Even her drooping eye widened slightly.
Marchey was surprised by her reaction. “Well, it’s shiny anyway,” he allowed. Even though it wasn’t some crude hook or whirring, humming antique Cyberhand, most people were put off by the sight of it and its twin. In a world where missing limbs could be easily replaced or regenerated, and even normal prosthetic devices were covered by vat-grown skin and could not be identified except by scan, it was proof that there was something strange about him.
They were self-contained, powered only by the whisper of electricity carried by the nerves, self-maintaining, and all but indestructible, the gleaming biometal several times harder than hullmetal, yet supple as skin and providing the same degree of tactile feedback. Most importantly, they were easy to take off and put on. No synskin covered them, and they needed none of the structural or cyberneural connections other kinds used. When brought up against the silver stump-caps the biometal arms melded seamlessly back into them to become one. They were glaringly obvious, but in the beginning there had been no thought of hiding what they had done. They were all proud to have given up their hands and taken these silver replacements.
Now he wore gloves in public.
She started to reach out to touch his hand, hesitated, turning her wide brown eyes toward his face. “Do you mind?”
He held it out palm up. “Be my guest.”
There was nothing cautious or squeamish about the way Merry handled his hand. She stroked the smooth curve where thumb sloped into wrist and leaned close to examine where the fingers met the palm. She felt the shape of the knuckles and tried to wriggle the fingers from side to side as if expecting to find them loose.
“A perfect replica,” she said half under her breath. “Body temperature. Jointed just like a regular hand, but except for a couple access seams, like here on the palm, it’s seamless. It even gives to conform to the surface of whatever object you’re holding, just like a real hand.”
She looked up at him again, still holding his hand like it was a gift he’d given her. “This is stunning workmanship. Absolutely perfect. Class I Biometal, right?”
“The best money can buy,” he agreed. “I was told that each hand and arm have almost twenty-five KISC worth of biometal in them.” He hesitated, marshalling his nerve for the next step, then with his other hand cautiously reached up toward the frozen and drooping side of her face. “May I… ?”
“I guess so,” she answered uneasily. He doubted that most men wanted to touch her there. But he did. Needed to.
“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” he said softly. “I can juggle eggs with these things.” His silver fingers lightly traced the slack muscles around her eye, along her cheek, around her mouth. Not even a reflexive twitch. She sat stiffly, her eyes warily tracking his hand, her full lower lip caught between her even white teeth. “Of course I always end up with two mitts full of scrambled eggs and the yolk’s on me.”
A laugh burst out of her, sudden and hearty. Marchey felt it filling a place inside him that had been silent and empty for a very long time. Making someone laugh is such a little thing. Such a wonderful, rewarding thing. Only by living without it could you learn just how priceless it was. It felt so good to know he still could dispense the best medicine.
Even if she did take the money—and he hoped she didn’t—that laughter, and her easy acceptance of the way he was, were worth far more than the thousand credits.
Things had been going quite nicely until he asked The Question. Merry had been afraid he might, and hoping he wouldn’t. Now he had, spoiling everything.
“Hard luck.” She shrugged, trying to pass the matter off. “It’s like gas. Everybody gets their share.”
“And it eventually passes. What was yours?”
She stared at this strange man who had purchased her services for the night, feeling torn. How she’d become a pro was her own business and nobody else’s. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but it was part of her life, not part of her job.