Suddenly the MU released him. It stared mutely at him with its optical sensor as Jackson gave it a swift kick—then hopped in pain after remembering too late he was barefoot. Moving closer to the AI interface to ensure he stayed linked, he considered having the MU disassemble itself with its own appendages. No—he needed it for a more important task.
As the machine skittered away Jackson delved deeper into the central AI system. Luckily, its security codes had been easy to crack. The administrator had apparently skimped on that too—probably hiring programmers just out of training who’d done a slipshod job. It was easy to make the software changes he wanted. There was more than one way to lend a “human touch” to this place. Soon it’d be like a hospital should be!
The MU returned from its errand. “Your clothes, sir.”
Jackson thankfully stripped off his tattered hospital gown and put them on. It felt good to be dressed like a human being again.
“Anything else, sir?”
“Yes. Escort me out of here!”
Several other MUs joined him, forming an honor guard as Jackson strolled toward the exit. Soon he was out of range of the AI interface again—but it didn’t matter anymore. A simple command to the central AI beforehand ensured the MUs were still under his control. The machines recognized individual human beings by scanning them with their optical sensors and correlating that data with identifying information in the hospital’s database. All it took was an order to match his own image with the administrator’s ID. And vice versa.
An MU, convinced the man it scanned was the hospital administrator, opened a door for him. Jackson blinked as he emerged outside into sunlight—once more, a free man. He smiled, imagining what the administrator’s face would look like when the MUs gave him their “standard” care for patients—and took who they thought was “William M. Jackson” for his hemorrhoid surgery. Maybe he’d done the guy a favor. Maybe the administrator had hemorrhoids too. And if he didn’t, at least he’d get a taste of his own medicine before the surgeon MU discovered there was nothing to operate on.
As for himself—there was still hope. Somewhere in the world there must be at least one caring, human doctor left. Someone like the elderly physician on that old TV program, who’d treat him with dignity and compassion. Who’d never rest until they’d used the accumulated medical knowledge of millennia to cure his problem. It might take years to find such a dedicated healer. But when he did, it’d be worth the wait.
Sustained by that comforting thought, Jackson hummed the theme music from “Marcus Welby, M.D.” Just hearing that soothing melody again made his hemorrhoids feel better.
Alone in his spacious cedar-paneled office, the administrator stroked his putter. The golf ball rolled straight into the plastic cup at the other end of the carpeted floor. He laid the gold-plated club down on his expansive oak desk, settled into an exquisitely cushioned leather chair, and spoke into the intercom. “Colette, would you bring me the hospital’s latest financial report?”
The door opened. Colette was wearing that exiguous nurse uniform he liked so much. A mist of pheromones swirled around her as she handed him the papers. “Would you like me to do anything else for you, sir?”
“Not now.”
Watching his secretary undulate out of the office weakened his sense of duty. They could listen to one of the titillating recordings the MUs made of patients’ sexual histories, and play their favorite game—“Doctor.” But no—business before pleasure.
He smiled at the report. The Board of Directors would be pleased profits were still skyrocketing. And the percentage of them be got as a bonus for “containing costs” and “enhancing revenue” looked nice too.
The administrator yawned and stretched his arms. A long nap after lunch made the day fly. Time to go on rounds again. Experience had taught him to check on the inmates—correction, patients—periodically to keep them from making trouble. Like that one who almost had the wrong operation. He really should get the programming glitch that made MUs misidentify patients with similar names fixed. But programmers were expensive…
Well, maybe next fiscal year.
He’d walked only a little way through the hospital before he stopped—horrified. MUs were skittering frenziedly through the hallways. A blur of metal appendages scrubbed floors and applied fresh paint to walls until those worn surfaces looked new. Befuddled patients milled in the corridors, tearfully accepting the expensive-looking robes and pajamas MUs were bringing to replace their paper gowns. Other MUs exchanged dilapidated beds with new ones, carefully applying clean sheets and fluffing plush pillows.
The administrator staggered dazedly—finding new horrors around every corner. Patients were being served gourmet meals—for free. As an MU raced past he glimpsed the label of the wine bottle on the tray it carried. It was one of the 2010s from his own private stock. He saw MUs treating patients with courtesy and basic human dignity—and worst of all, performing billable services like blood drawing and giving medicines without asking for payment authorizations! They were even knocking out walls, enlarging patient rooms, and putting framed windows in previously solid concrete to let sunlight in. Through one of those windows he saw MUs unloading a fleet of automated trucks delivering expensive building supplies and furniture, and the very best medical equipment and supplies. Soon St. Dismas would be a state-of-the-art hospital—and look like a luxury hotel!
The MUs ignored his screamed orders to stop, and kept at their work. Finally, faint with shock and frustration, the administrator stumbled into an empty patient room and sat on its disgustingly comfortable bed. Why were the MUs acting like this? And how much was all this costing?
Maybe a virus had infected the central AI. He had to get back to his office—use his private voice interface to regain control of it.
Mobile Unit ICD-9 rolled to the doorway and swiveled its optical sensor at him. “You’re not in your gown, sir. That’s against regulations.”
The machine picked him up, ripped off his expensive custom-made suit and rubber underwear, and wrapped his bare body in a scratchy paper gown. It trundled him down the hallway so fast he couldn’t speak until they’d reached the operating room.
“Don’t put me on that table, I’m not a—blurp!”
The anesthesiologist MU held him down while it snugly secured a mask over his face and administered the anesthetic. As his consciousness seeped away, the administrator saw the surgeon MU holding a sharp gleaming scalpel over his groin.
“Don’t worry, William N. Jackson. After I’m through, you’ll feel like a new person.”