From: rtbrown@nyx10.cs.du.edu (Russell T. Brown)
Subject: Healing Hart
Date: Tue, 1 Mar 94 01:18:31 GMT

howdy people.  Here is the rest of the story that I have been working on
recently.  The first part of the story was posted before as part 1, but I
decided to post the final product as a whole instead of in two parts (not
counting the prologue of course). I hope you enjoy it. Let me know.

				Healing Hart

			    By Russell T. Brown

	The security scanner beeped softly and the door to the clinic
swung open silently.  Hart followed the Doctor inside and the door swung
silently shut behind them.  Hart and Moriarty found themselves in a small
concrete cubicle.  The security room had a second door, this one
reinforced steel, that led into the clinic proper. A grossly fat man in a
sweat-stained tunic sat behind a large window of inch-thick bullet proof
glass that was set into the left hand wall.  His dark, pig-like eyes
scanned Hart for an y hint of a threat.  The man spoke and Hart heard the
voice come from hidden speakers somewhere behind him, a tactic he knew was
designed to unnerve him.  "Place yer weapons in the tray."  A large steel
drawer beneath the window pushed itself towards Hart.
	Hart knew that he needed a doctor's help and quickly.  Besides he
wasn't in any condition to put up much of a fight anyway.  With his
cyberarm hanging powerless at his side, Hart reached awkwardly up with his
left hand to remove the Glock smartpistol from its shoulder holster.
After placing the gun in the drawer, he reached down to pull the knife
from his boot.  That's when the room started doing things that would
impress a Russian gymnast and Hart found his face pressed firmly against
the floor, his cybereye on telescopic mode studying the composition of the
linoleum.  From very far away, Hart thought he could hear Doctor M's
voice, "..trauma team in here STAT...ICU.."
	"I wonder what he's all worked up about." thought Hart.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Hart lead his team on a patrol along the outer fenceline of the
Miltron compound.  The riots that had ravaged the southern reaches of
Angel City for the past several weeks had turned towards the sector where
Miltron had its HQ.  This latest round of riots, as always, had started in
the poorest sections of the SoCal Sprawl.  Each time the angry rioters
approached a better section of the sprawl, they were repulsed by various
Government or Corporate forces.  Now it was Hart's turn, the last report
had placed a large group of rioters just eight blocks away from this
facility.  Under normal circumstances, Hart had no doubts about his team's
ability to turn away a ragged band of malcontents.  Unfortunately some
brightboy in the upper echelons of the PR division thought it would be
good for the Corporate Image if the rioters were turned away with
non-lethal means, rather than using any of the cutting edge military
hardware that Miltron sold to clients all over the globe.
	"Major Hart! "  squawked his internal comm, "Rioters spotted coming
down 32nd avenue.  Report to south gate immediately"
	"Affirmative." Hart muttered.
	When Hart and his team arrived, rioters were already starting to
scale the sixteen foot chainlink gate.  Hart signaled Sims to fire the
tear gas and then raised his Miltron-made Multi-Taser toward the crowd.

	The scene blurred and Hart was looking through the hi-mag scope on
his .50 calibur sniper rifle at the CEO of Aragorn Arms, Miltron's main
competitor in the SoCal Market.  The CEO was here in New Berlin to
finalize his company's merger with a German-based munitions firm, thereby
allowing Aragorn to enter the International market.  It was Hart's job to
make sure that didn't happen.  Hart gently squeezed the trigger and caused
Aragorn Arms' market shares to drop sharply.

	The scene blurred again and Hart was in a seedy bar in Bangkok.
He, Cook and Sims were there to bodyguard Miltron's VP of Asian Markets as
she negotiated the terms of delivery of an arms shipment to the White
Orchid Tong.  The negotiations were proceeding calmly as Hart was
surprised by a hail of bullets as Cook opened up on him at full auto.  As
Hart lay on the floor bleeding from a dozen wounds, he heard Sims and the
traitor Cook exchanging fire.  Hart struggled onto his stomach and started
crawling to the safety of a nearby table.

	Another blur and Hart was crawling through the jungle.  He had to
make it to the emergency LZ and hope that the extraction 'copter had heard
his radio call.  He was all that remained of the strike force Miltron had
sent to raid the isolated Aztechnology research facility.  Something must
have tipped off the Azzies to their arrival. His team had still been
several kilos away from their compound when they hit the ambush.  The
mortar shell hit within five meters of were Hart was standing, but there
was no explosion, just silence and then fire in his veins as his cyberware
went haywire.  Hart was too busy trying to cope with his suddenly
unboosted reflexes and sparking cyberarm to notice the Azzie commandos
that must have been closing in on them.  Then Johnson's integral,
shoulder-mounted grenade launcher fired a round with the barrel still
retracted.  The explosion killed Johnson outright and left the rest of
them bleeding on the ground.  Then the Azzies were on them, like black
clad demons on speed.  Without his boosted reflexes, Hart could barely
keep his eyes on them, much less his gun. As he struggled to his feet, a
burst of fire knocked him down the muddy slope of a nearby ravine and out
of the firefight.  He radioed the 'copter and had been crawling ever
since.  Any minute he expected one of the Azzies to catch up to him and
put a bullet into his brain.

	The jungle blurred and was replaced by the sterile white of a
hospital and the smell of antiseptic was overpowering.  Hart was in the
infirmary at Miltron HQ.  The Head Surgeon had just informed him of the
decision.  They weren't going to patch him up, "Sorry, just not cost
effective" they said.  Oh sure, they had pulled out all the lead and sewn
up the holes, but his hardware was still tweaked.  He had one more day in
the corporate womb and then they were going to kick him out in the street
with only a pat on the head and a mediocre pension to show for 12 years of
service.

	The hospital white blurred out of focus for a moment and then
returned.  It had changed subtlely, he was someplace else - a private room
this time, he didn't know where.  The first thing he noticed was the pain.
It washed over him in dull waves, as every part of his body ached.  The
second thing he noticed was that he was seeing out of two eyes again.
There was a call button for the nurse on the nightstand.  Hart reached for
it and that is when he noticed that his right hand was missing. His old,
standard issue Miltron cyberarm had been removed and a new cyberlimb
interface mount grafted below his elbow, but there was nothing attached to
it.  Pushing the call button with his left hand, Hart ignored the protests
of his aching muscles and stumbled into the small ajoining bathroom.
	Once in the bathroom, the mirror greeted him with an almost, but
not entirely unfamiliar face.  The mass of scar tissue that had engulfed
the left side of his head had been removed and they had replaced his ear.
New hair was even beginning to grow in on the left side of his new scalp.
The reconstructed bones of his jaw and cheek had been perfectly matched to
the undamaged right side, but he looked different somehow.  Probably
because what nature had given him wasn't symmetrical to begin with.  His
new eyes were blue, neither the color of his originals nor of the chromed
cybereyes that they replaced, but they didn't look half bad.
	"Welcome back to the land of the living Mr. Hart"
	Hart turned to see a petite, blond woman with partially Asian
features standing in the bathroom doorway.  She wore a white labcoat over
her clothes. Hart didn't recognize her from the Miltron medical staff, but
then he didn't recognize this room either.   "Where am I?" he asked.
	"The Kawai Clinic" was the answer.
	The name 'Kawai' kicked his mind out of neutral and into gear.
Hart remembered where he was, the Kawai Clinic, in Chiba where had come to
be healed.  The 'Black Clinics' of Chiba were famous the world over, they
were the cutting edge of medical technology.  The saying went, "if they
can't cure you in Chiba, you must be D.O.A."
	"Nurse," said Hart, "Would you get Dr. Moriarty please?"
	"That won't be necessary Mr. Hart. My name is Dr. Ishita Mariko,
biotechnology and Cybernetics.  I have been handling your case.  As you
can see," she nodded to the mirror, "we have been patching you up.  But
cosmetic work is not all that we have been doing. Come have a seat and I
will give you a full report."  She stepped back into the room.  Hart
followed her back into the room, limping slightly.
	"I see you still have some stiffness in the left leg." said Dr.
Ishita.  She lifted his hospital gown to reveal a new patch of Vatskin(TM)
covering his left thigh.  She poked and squeezed his thigh muscle as she
continued, "You still had some shrapnel  fragments in there and almost
half of the muscle was burned off.  So we wrapped the damaged bone in a
steel wire mesh and built up the muscle with synthetic muscle fibers.  Any
pain there?"
	"Not much" replied Hart.
	"As you get some exercise, the stiffness should go away."
	Hart sat down on the bed, "So what else did ya do?"
	"We repaired the damage to your subdermal kevlar weave and replaced
your eyes and headphone.  Your new headphone is a Sony Earman(TM), like
the one you had before. It is capable of both sending and receiving on
both shortwave radio and cellular phone frequencies and receiving radio
transmissions.  It is a newer model though, and can store several
specially encoded signals that can be sent to a wide variety of electronic
systems such as car alarms and home security systems.
	"Your new eyes are Panasonic Supervision 2000s. I selected options
that were consistent with your previous models: infrared vision, target
acquisition sighting and telescopic vision.  I also added the color
shifting option so you could pick any color you want, even mirrored
chrome.
	"And Obviously, I removed your damaged cyberarm and fitted you with
a standard mount so you could pick out your new arm yourself.
	Hart nodded, impress with the woman's knowledge medtech and combat
cyberware.  "Sounds like you've been doing good work Doc, and I feel
pretty good considering.  But why can't I access my main neuralware
processor?"
	Dr. Ishita took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. "Now we
come to the bad news, Mr. Hart.  Ken Moriarty told me the story of how
your cyberware was knocked out by some kind of electronic scrambler.
Well, whatever it was, it crashed your neuralware processor, damaged it
beyond repair."
	"Can't you just put in a new one?" Hart asked.
	"No, unfortunately not. You see, after the chip was crashed it was
still sending signals to your nervous system, but the signals were
garbage.  For six weeks after the 'accident' your central nervous system
was receiving essentially random signals from the chip.  The damage was
massive and probably would have been excrutiatingly painful if your pain
editor had not still been functioning.  When you came to the clinic three
weeks ago your CNS was undergoing a total breakdown, another few hours and
you would probably be dead.  We removed the neuralware and stablized your
condition, but as you may know nerve tissue cannot be repaired.  Your CNS
is not strong enough to handle any cyberware that requires major neural
interfaces, that cyberarm will be enough of a strain as it is."
	Hart was sure he hadn't heard her right, "So what does that mean
exactly?"
	"I'm afraid it means no neuralware," she said.  "It means no
neuralware processor, no pain editor, no tactile boost and I'm afraid, no
enhanced reflexes.  I know what that must mean to some one in your
profession. I'm sorry."
	Hart felt his guts turn to ice.  He saw the black clad demons
moving so fast they were just a blur.  The speed demons cut down his men
like helpless babes.  Was that what it was going to be like from now on,
with every G.I., Cop and Gangboy sporting wired reflexes?  Hart didn't
much like the idea of facing life on the sprawl streets as a solo for hire
without the edge of wired reflexes.  Perhaps it was time for him to retire
to some low-tech isle in the south pacific where they still lived in
thatch huts.
	Dr. Ishita saw the effect her news had on her patient and wished
she didn't have more bad news for him.  "I was glad to see you regain
consciousness today, I've been hoping to see up and around for the last
several days and was nearly ready to try more drastic measures.  You see
over the last six weeks your medical bills have depleted your credchip
somewhat."
	SIX WEEKS?  Hart was stunned.  Had that much time really gone by?
"How much do I have left?"
	"After your pay for the new arm, you should have just under fifty
thousand American Standard Dollars on the chip."
	Ouch! When he hit Chiba, he'd had nearly a quarter of a mil.
Well, there went any plans for a retirement island, 50k Ambucks wouldn't
last long.  Guess good medicare doesn't come cheap.  Of course while
you're lying unconscious you can't really argue about your bill.
	"Also," She continued "we need this bed space, and you have
recovered enough to be discharged.  You will be released in the morning.
	Hart had to laugh, sometimes history did repeat itself.
	"What is it?" Ishita asked.
	"Nothing Doc.  I've just heard this song before.
	"Well, we really do need the space, and it will be easier on your
credbalance to continue your treatment on an outpatient basis.  Well, I
must be going, I have other duties which require my attention."  She
stopped halfway out the door, "I'll have an orderly bring you something to
wear and then we can pick out your new arm."
	
			*	*	*	*	*

	Outside the door, Mariko tried to get a hold of herself.  Normally,
maintaining professional detachment was not a problem for her, but
something about this case had gotten to her.  She didn't know what it was;
hard luck cases were common and she'd patched up dozens of cybersoldiers.
Maybe it was another example of corporate heartlessness that got to her.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Hart was standing in the bathroom examining his new face and
contemplating his "new life" as a solo without wired reflexes.  How long
would it be before he ended up dead in an alley, cut down by some snot
nosed gangboy?  Of course, there were alternatives, adrenal pumps,
designer combat drugs, but they all had their prices.
	The door to the outer room opened.  That would be the orderly with
his clothes, probably another of the disposable paper jumpsuits.  Hart
exited the bathroom and surprised to find Dr. Ken Moriarty putting some
real clothes down on the bed.  The doctor looked up as Hart entered,
"Hello Mr. Hart, or can I call you Je--"
	"Hart is fine," he interupted.  "You can drop the 'Mister'".  Since
he'd left home at 14, only Sims had called him by his given name.  To
everyone else he was Major Hart, Corporate Security - defender of the
Corp's assets and public image.  That didn't win you many friends to
begin with, and now the few he had were all dead.
	"Okay Hart it is." agreed Moriarty. "Oh, here.  I brought you some
of my old clothes.  I thought you would like them more than the latest in
hospital release wear, although they are doing some amazing things with
recycled newsfax this year.  Hart was grateful for the thought, even if
the old blue jeans and short sleeve button-down oxford weren't exactly his
style.  Getting dressed one-handed was an exercise in frustration.  Hart
managed to squirm into the jeans, but buttoning the shirt and lacing up
his combat boots was beyond him.  Having to ask Moriarty for help was like
twisting a knife in his gut.
	"Damn! I can't even dress myself, how am I going to make it on the
streets?" Hart yelled and sent a lamp crashing into the wall.
	"Look, don't take it so hard. Once you get your new new hand fitted
you'll be fine."  Moriarty tried to console him.
	"I'm afraid not Doc," said Hart.  He sat down on the bed, massaging
his temple - trying to wipe away the stress.  "You see, even with two good
hands I'll still be *slow*.  And to a soldier, slow means *dead*.  Being a
soldier is all I know, it's the only thing I have ever been really good
at. I could never take a job driving a desk or flipping burgers, that would
just be a slower form of death.  So you see, either way I'm a dead man."
	"That is just bullshit!" Hart was surprised by the vehemence in the
normally mild Doctor's voice.  "You're never dead unless you give up.  You
can give up if you really want to, but what about your friends that really
are gone?  I think you owe it to them to live.  Life isn't always easy and
it is very, very... fragile, but that is what makes it so precious.
You're right about one thing - you will die one day, so you'd better make
something with the time you've got left."
	"What do you know about it?" sneered Hart.	
	"Do you think you're the only one that life has kicked around?  I
see people die on the table here every day!  Do you think I like being in
this hellhole of a city?  I had a real life once and ... "  Moriarty's
voice dropped to a whisper, "..a family.  Damn.  Why do all my
conversations seem to come back to this? "
	Hart felt like an idiot and the Doc looked like somebody had just
shot his puppy.  He remembered that first night in the bar, overhearing
Moriarty talking about is wife had sounded sappy and dumb.  But Hart had
been running on instinct and amphetamines, all that had happened hadn't
really reached his brain yet.  Now Hart understood, Sims and the others
were gone and there was nothing he could do about that, but maybe there
was still hope for him. "Maybe you're right Do....Ken.  I think it's about
time that I pulled my head out and started facing life instead of dwelling
on death.  Let's go meet Dr. Ishita, 'cause I'm gonna need two hands to do
it."

<End>

Copyright February 1994 by Russell T. Brown
Hart and Dr. Ishita Mariko are mine.
Dr. Moriarty and the Kawai clinic belong to Dan McDonald:
danmcd@itd.nrl.navy.mil
Thanks for letting me use them Dan!

Comments, criticisms and random ravings welcome at: rtbrown@nyx.cs.du.edu

--
Russell T. Brown      * Definition: Egotist. A person of low taste, more
rtbrown@nyx.cs.du.edu * interested in himself than me! -Ambrose Bierce
It's not denial. I'm just very selective about the reality I accept -Calvin
Alt.Cyberpunk.Chatsubo Character & Author Database Archiver >> That's me!