Horizons: A collection of science fiction short stories Read online

  Horizons

  A collection of science fiction short stories

  By Nolan Edrik

  Text Copyright 2016 © By Nolan Edrik

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  Table of Contents

  The Last Rose of Summer

  The Berserker Scenario

  Lane Splitting

  Splunking on Kepler 42

  Where We Left Off

  Projection

  Beyond the Pillars

  The Last Rose of Summer

  I am playing one of Ernst’s variations on “The Last Rose of Summer,” right after the first round of difficult left-hand harmonics, when the headache attacks. The pain strikes so suddenly and so sharply that I briefly wonder whether I’ve been shot. Of course, that couldn’t have happened. I’d have heard a blast or felt an impact, and Danson definitely would have reacted. Instead, he remains seated and staring at me, judging my performance, his face revealing nothing of his assessment.

  What little part of my brain isn’t absorbed in the violin suspects the pain is a delayed reaction to the stress of the audition, a week’s worth of accumulated anxiety finally lashing out on my body. After losing jobs in Boston and Chicago when their orchestras were disbanded, my last hope for keeping my playing career alive is this audition with the Generon Technologies private orchestra in Seattle.

  Even with the lightning storm in my skull, I stay with the piece. The last few bars weren’t my most moving work, but I haven’t made any errors. I feel that I can finish, that I can push through the assault. Then the notes start moving, sliding around the page, and going bleary like they’ve been rained on.

  I play from memory, hoping the music will fix itself back on the page. I think I’m holding it together until Danson knits his eyebrows.

  “Ms. Helford, are you all right? Are you all right? Ms. Helford?”

  I’m playing the same measure over and over. I don’t know what to do and keep going, repeating, repeating, hoping I’ll soon be able to hop back into the piece when everything returns to normal. My left hand goes numb. I see it touching the strings but can’t feel them under my fingers. The paralysis spreads to my shoulder, and for a second it’s as if someone else’s arm is extending from my body.

  As I slump to the floor, I fear only that my hand may have been injured in the fall. Even as Danson shouts for his assistant to call 911 and as the tunnel of my vision collapses inward, all I can think is, My hand. My hand. Not my hand.

  *

  The EMTs in the ambulance move with deliberate haste, probing my eyes with a pen light, forcing a tube into my trachea, uncapping an IV needle. I want to tell them I’d prefer they puncture my right arm, my bow arm, but I black out.

  *

  I regain consciousness two hours later in the hospital. Jesse and my parents rush around my bed to comfort me as soon as I awaken. Their words and touches pass right over me. All I can focus on is the deadness on my left side. Jesse leans in to hug me. I try to put my arms around him, but the stupid limb won’t rise from my side. It sits there, dead and alien to my body.

  I start to cry, and Jesse and my parents probably think the relief at being alive is overwhelming me, so they begin weeping, too. Really, I am panicking at the thought of never playing again. I’ll never take the stage and perform for a crowded hall of rich, elegant strangers. I’ll never feel the violin’s neck vibrate under my fingers, never get to bow a solitary note and hold it for minutes at a time, bending and curling it like smoke as I watch the rain streak my bedroom window. I’ll never play silly songs as Lento and Dante bat crumpled Chinese-food receipts around my apartment floor.

  How will I pay my rent? All I can do is play violin. Maybe I can teach? Even that will be hard to do well if I can’t pick up the instrument and show a student how a particular piece is supposed to sound.

  The sobs come so hard and fast I can barely breathe.

  *

  After two days in the hospital, they move me to a rehab center. Within a week, the nurses have me shuffling around with a walker, and my speech is improving, if still a little slurred.

  The arm remains dead. Every day, the staff bends and pulls it like a giant piece of taffy. They hook it up to the electro-stimulator, and as the muscles twitch, I will the shocks to revive the dormant nerves.

  Nothing works. I am forty-two, and not only will I spend my remaining years unable to do the one thing I’ve loved since I was five years-old, I won’t even be able to lead a normal life.

  *

  In the middle of my second week at the rehab center, Danson visits me, along with a woman named Cynthia. He seems uncomfortable, which is understandable since he’d only known me for the few minutes of my audition. He introduces Cynthia as a Generon representative, then retreats to a chair at the edge of my room.

  She sits next to the bed, clutches my dead hand and looks into my eyes. Everything about her is designed to broadcast how professional and put-together she is: the tortured blonde hair, the just-a-bit-too-much makeup, and the gray pantsuit. Still, something about her round face and big blue eyes is comforting, motherly.

  “Ms. Helford, we’re so sorry for all that you’ve been through. We can’t even imagine what a trying time this must be.”

  I force a smile yet keep quiet. Anything I say will come out with a sob, and I don’t want to embarrass myself.

  “As you may know, one of Generon’s main businesses is biotechnology. Cutting-edge biotechnology, in fact. We invented the tumor-targeting implant and the fetal chromosome monitor, among other things, and we now have a new treatment that we think could dramatically improve your condition. Would you be interested in hearing about it?”

  I nod and remain mute. This time I fear my desperation would leak out. You have a treatment? It requires me to cut off both feet? Great, where do I sign?

  “It’s a tiny device, about the size of a grain of rice, that we implant into your cerebellum. Right here.” She points to where the back of her head meets her neck. “The implant releases and controls a group of nanobots that repair your brain, reversing the damage that the stroke caused. A month later, once everything is fixed, all the nanobots go back into the device, and we remove it.”

  Tears well up in my eyes, and my throat tightens.

  “And it works?” I ask.

  “You’d be the first human patient, so we can’t make any guarantees. But it has performed very well in non-human tests. There was a 100 percent restoration of functions in 100 percent of the animal test subjects. Many of them even improved their motor functions. You are an ideal candidate for human trials, given that you’re so young for a stroke victim.”

  I choke up at the thought of having my hand back.

  “I’m also required by regulations to inform you of the side effects, no matter how rare they may be,” Cynthia said, cheeks flushing. I fear she’s going to mention some sexual abnormality or uncontrollable flatulence. “And keep in mind, this only happened in one of our test subjects, but I’m required to tell you.”

  She takes a deep breath.

  “I know this sounds weird, but the only listed side effect so far is disappearance.”

  I don’t understand. Did some lab mouse blink itself out of existence? That surely wasn’t possible.

  “I’m sorry. What do you mean by that?”

  The red flush extends down her neck and spreads under the freckles on her chest.

  “I’m afraid I can’t say anything more.”

  I feel bad for her. She’s required to tell me this, no
matter how nonsensical it sounds. What could have happened? There must have been a mixup at the laboratory. Someone accidentally left a cage open, and a mouse escaped. The testers couldn’t account for it any other way, so to comply with regulations they had to list “disappearance” as a side effect. That’s why Cynthia seems so embarrassed by the whole thing, why she is pained to mention it.

  “But I want to assure you, you’re the perfect candidate for this treatment, Ms. Helford, and we are confident we can give you full recovery of your motor functions.” She pats my hand. “You have a lot to gain if works.”

  *

  The operation takes about four hours and leaves me with a dull ache at the implant site. The pain isn’t bad, the soreness no worse than if I’d slept with my head cocked at a weird angle. And thankfully my hair is long enough to cover the tiny scar and shaven patch just above my neck.

  *

  Within three days, my speech is back to normal. Four days after that, I can walk without assistance, so they send me home. From then on, I have daily monitoring and physical therapy appointments at Generon’s facility near Pioneer Square as well as an hour of exercises to perform in the morning, midday, and at night.

  I’m happy to have so much work to fill my time. I can’t play the violin, can’t smoke, or drink coffee. If anything, I wish Generon had more for me to do. I dread the hollow times between exercises and appointments. I watch television or pet my cats with my right hand or shuffle through the rainy streets for a tea at the café around the corner. Always my violin stares at me from the corner of the room. Its tones surface in places I’ve never noticed them before: toothpaste commercials, department-store muzak, the harmony of honking cars.

  *

  My hand regains some movement if not much feeling. I can curl the fingers slightly but not strongly enough to hold anything. These tiny improvements give me an inordinate amount of hope. At night, I fall asleep with my right hand behind my head, stroking the fuzz growing around my scar, trying to picture the molecular robots darting around my brain.

  *

  The first time I think something may be wrong is a week after I’ve been released. I’m riding the bus to the rehab center when sirens approach from behind. The bus pulls to the side, and as the ambulance tears by, I perceive a presence tailing the vehicle as it speeds toward the hospital.

  The image confuses me. There is a visual distortion, transparent like heat waves but opaque like smoke, and yet everything behind it is perfectly clear. The presence makes a sound as well, a ghastly warble that seems to originate from within me. A gust of lavender infuses the air, then fades. The strangest and strongest sensation is a tug, as if all of my organs are being pulled toward the anomaly.

  I mention the incident to my reviewer that day. This one is an older Asian gentleman that I’ve never had before – they keep rotating my clinicians so I won’t form a relationship with any of them and bias the study – and he remains impassive as I describe the odd mix of sensations. I give him my theory that the episode represents a sensory overload from the blaring siren and flashing lights. He scribbles on his notepad.

  *

  My parents invite me out to dinner that night, and they don’t tell me that Jesse is going to be there, but he is. It’s OK, mostly. He’s the only person I know in town, and he got me the Generon audition, so I should be thankful. Still, I’m not convinced he’s entirely over us. My parents definitely aren’t.

  “How are you feeling, Hattie?” Dad asks. “How is the rehab going?”

  “Good,” I say. I want to engage, want to have a conversation with everyone, but I’m tracing my finger along the condensation on my water glass, and the chill, the moisture, the vibration of the glass from the friction of my epidermal ridges is mesmerizing.

  “Do you still have any pain from where they operated?” Dad asks, snapping me out of the trance.

  “Not at all.” I turn and pull up my hair so they can see the scar.

  “That’s not so bad,” he says.

  “The hand’s coming back, too,” I say, lifting my arm and moving the fingertips until they almost converge on my thumb.

  “Wonderful, dear,” Dad says, “you’ll be playing again in no time.”

  Mom stares at me, misty-eyed, then glances at Jesse. The waiter shows up and takes our drink orders. I allow myself a cabernet since I’ve heard wine actually is good for the heart.

  “Have they picked the first-chair violinist yet?” I ask Jesse.

  “No. Concert season doesn’t start for another month, and I think they’re waiting for you.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Danson said you were amazing until your stroke hit. And the business people told him they’d love to have one of their own success stories playing in their orchestra. They’re very confident whatever you have in your head is going to straighten everything out.”

  I imagine the advertisement: I’m playing solo on a darkened stage while a baritone voiceover explains how Generon transformed me from a cripple to a world-class violinist. “Generon. Cutting-edge biotechnology.” Gleaming corporate logo.

  “They’re right to wait,” Jesse says. “You’re the best there is.”

  Jesse is a good guy. I wish I liked him more.

  The waiter brings our drinks, and I scan the menu for a dish that won’t require the use of a knife. As I peruse the seafood section, I notice that my left hand is pinching the hem of my skirt. All of a sudden, I can pinch.

  *

  At home, before I even take off my coat, I pick up my violin. My index finger is strong enough to depress a string. With some struggle, I can sound a clean note. The bow’s polished pernambuco wood vibrates in my hand. The grooves on the horsehair scratch across the steel coil on the string, the synthetic core thrumming inside the metal. The violin and the note and I are one entity, and I control it all.

  *

  At night I am awakened by a presence like the one trailing the ambulance. It is two floors above me and on the other side of the building, yet I smell patchouli and feel it tugging me up against my sheets. Chimes sound through the walls and floors and ceilings between us, but only I can hear them. Lento and Dante remain asleep at my feet, their warm chests rising and falling steadily. The presence evaporates, and I sink back into my mattress.

  *

  The next morning I wake up and go straight to my violin. My fingertips are raw from last night’s session, my callouses having faded over the last few weeks, but I play through the pain. My middle and ring fingers are now strong enough to hold down the strings, and I try to walk through a scale.

  The strings are so taut, so far from the neck, that I wonder how my fingers ever were able to dance over them without conscious effort. The simplest progression of notes is a struggle. Just like when I was five, the violin has become a puzzle to be mastered, an adversary whose allegiance I’m trying to win. Still, my bow work is fluid, velvety.

  I fight with the violin for half an hour, repeating the scale, until I fear my fingertips may split.

  *

  This clinician is a black woman, five years younger than me I’d guess, and when I wiggle my digits to show how much movement I’ve regained, she shows a flash of genuine surprise. She’s the first reviewer to have any reaction to my comments.

  “You’ve had the implant how long?” she asks and flips through my file.

  “Exactly two weeks,” I say.

  She scratches a note on her clipboard then pulls out the video camera to record my exercises.

  *

  That evening, Cynthia calls.

  “We hear you’re doing well,” she says, though the statement sounds more like a question.

  “Yeah, my hand is almost back to normal. I can’t quite play how I used to, but I’m on my way.”

  There is a muffled sound, as if she’s covered the phone and is speaking to someone else in the room.

  “We’re so happy to hear that,” she says, her voice clear again. “Keep up the progress and we may b
e able to end your treatment early.”

  I notice I am stroking my scar.

  “We just want the bots to clean up the mess the stroke caused and leave everything else the same,” she says. “We don’t want them going too crazy in there.”

  My hand is clamped over the incision.

  *

  The next morning, my pinky finger is working again. My hand is fully restored. I start with Bach and Tchaikovsky and work my way up to Paganini. My fingers are nimble, and maneuvering them no longer demands my attention as I play. My mind stays entirely on the score, following the notes, adding texture to the themes, injecting air and crispness into the pizzicato.

  I play louder than I normally would in my apartment in the morning. If anyone is still sleeping at 9 a.m. on Tuesday, that’s their problem. My hand is alive, and I will keep playing until they kick in my door.

  *

  After an hour and half, I go to the coffee shop. I wanted to keep playing – normally I’d practice for at least three hours – but my hand tired quickly.

  The barista gives me my earl grey, and I sit at a table near the window that has just been vacated by a young couple. I push their empty sugar packets to the side and cup my hand around my steaming mug. The heat rushes into the nerves. Life thrums through the veins. The muscles and tendons tingle as they recover from their workout. I want to kiss them all, individually.

  The door clangs open, and I sense a presence. I turn to look at it, but instead of an opaque transparent cloud, it is a woman. She’s my age, my height, my weight. Her hair is exactly my color, and her nose and chin and eyes resemble mine. Strangers would think we were sisters.

  The presence watches me, even while talking and joking with the barista. The presence is watching everyone, everything inside the shop, and even people outside.

  It sits down across the café. The presence, while strange, is comforting. The bergamot from my tea floods my nose, and I can sense every particle in the room distinctly while simultaneously tracing the threads that bind them all together. A mug scrapes across an errant grain of sugar on a rough wood table. A muffin crumb tumbles from an old man’s mouth into his shirt pocket. The espresso machine’s steam wand sends a jet of humidity through the air.