Dream Drive Ch. 06

He was halfway to class when he heard music.

His shoes were loud, so he stopped. Jackson cocked his head. It was a piano. The keys were too faint to really make out.

That was weird. The music room wasn't usually occupied until the second half of the day.

Jackson pulled out his cellphone. He was already thirty minutes late for class. His curiosity about the music won out in under a second.

Jackson followed the sound. He reached the stairwell; he took it up, to the fourth floor, then the fifth, then the sixth. He exited there.

The piano was loud, now. The floor was empty; the keys echoed around him, clearly audible.

The music was haunting. If the rain outside was sad, the music was like the Great Flood. The piano moaned through its notes like a chorus of ghosts.

And it was good. It was really, really good. There was an energy that hung in the air along with the music; it drew Jackson in, and his steps slowed, because he was focused on listening more than finding the source.

But he did find it. The door to a music room was open. Jackson leaned on the entrance.

A kid was playing music. He had greasy black hair that fell over his shoulders. A big crutch was propped at the end of the grand piano at which he was seated. He was hunched forward awkwardly, as if too tall for the way the bench was positioned. A black sweater and black pants clung to his limbs.

He flew over the instrument like a master. He banged on the thing, caressed it, and massaged it. His arms, his hands, were awkwardly extended; he had fingers like an alien. He was missing a leg, which explained the crutch. The other leg was skin and bone, and as distended as his arms.

The song ended on a sad whimper. The kid rested his hands on the keys. He sighed.

Jackson started clapping.

The kid whirled. He grabbed for his crutch; it toppled to the floor. Jackson adjusted his pack and went over. "Sorry to startle you. I heard the music, I just came to check it out."

Jackson picked the kid's crutch up and handed it over to him. The kid gingerly took it. "...thanks." He had a surprisingly deep voice; he spoke slowly, ponderously. "Yeah. It's fine. Just didn't expect that."

He edged out from the bench, and stood, seating the crutch under the shoulder that had no leg to support it. And for a kid with only one leg, he was tall - almost like a giant. Jackson was a happy six feet, but he was at least six and a half. It wasn't a burly height, though; he was stretched out. Spindly.

His eyes were beady and black; they were sunk into his skull. His lips were thin and pale. The baggy back clothes hung off his body. He looked a bit like the music he played.

"I liked the song," Jackson said. "What's it called?"

"I'm not sure," the kid said. "I just made it up."

"Shit," Jackson said. "You're for real."

"That's what they tell me." He rubbed his neck. "Uh, my name's Westley Prudeau."

"Jackson Vedalt. Sorry to bug you, I guess."

"It's cool."

"Oh. Cool."

They stood there for a moment, each avoiding the other's gaze.

"I thought there were classes now," Westley said.

Jackson shrugged. "There are. I was late. Your music sounded more interesting."

Westley smiled. "Yeah? I felt like playing, so I came up here. But, actually, I'm a freshman...so...well, I couldn't find my class, and when I saw the pianos, I just figured I was here for that anyway, so I might as well."

"Oh yeah, music scholarship?"

"Basically."

"Cool," Jackson said. "I'm here for optical engineering and biophys."

"Wow," Westley said. "You must be pretty smart."

"That's what they tell me," Jackson said. "I don't think I believe it, though."

"Makes two of us."

Jackson made a small smile. "I guess I can help you find your second class, right?"

"If you don't mind." Westley looked around the room. "This place is built like a maze."

"It's basically a big square. Once you know what's on each floor, it gets easier."

****

"Look, it's Jack and the beanstalk."

"Holy shit," James said, "that was actually clever."

"Thanks, I came up with it myself."

"Maybe West will start shitting golden eggs or something."

"That's right after their Sunday sodomy sessions. Everyone knows that."

"Triple S instead of triple X?"

They gaggle of idiots laughed.

Jackson and Westley were making their way across the school's courtyard. The hallways were bad enough, but in the open space outside the doors, the bullies had free reign. Most of the teachers hardly cared about hazing inside the school - the official motto of the boys-only institute was "boys will be boys - and should be".

It was the worst in winter. They had snow and ice on hand.

They did make a sort of odd pair; Jackson looked short and stout compared to Westley's gangly height. Jackson was wearing subdued browns, but Westley was in black. He always dressed in black. Jackson just figured that was his style. He was a somber sort of guy.

They walked at an extremely slow pace. Westley had to be careful with his crutch.

James and his friends lingered by the frozen-over fountain in the center of the courtyard. They weren't cracking any more bad jokes; they were just watching. Several of them were packing ice into balls.

Jackson exchanged a glance with Westley. They kept their distance from the middle, where most of the snow had been shoveled into one big pile.

The first snowball went wide. Westley grit his teeth and tried to manipulate his crutch faster, but there had been a storm the night before, and the stone courtyard was poorly salted. If he went any faster, he'd fall over. For someone with his condition, that was a trip to the emergency room.

The next snowball hit Westley's crutch. He wobbled.

"Hey!" Jackson said. "Fuck off! He could fall!"

"Oooh!

"Whoa!"

"I think you made him angry!"

James strutted toward Jackson with a snowball in his hand. Westley paused. "Keep moving," Jackson hissed. "Seriously."

Westley hesitated, then swung his crutch around and went for the alleyway exit to the courtyard. James was focused on Jackson; Westley would be able to get away well enough. The drug pushers that lingered down there didn't look twice at a cripple. There were plenty across the river.

James was just about everything Jackson hated about the Craig Johansen Institute wrapped up into one person. He was ignorant, stupid, loudmouthed, and only got into the school because of money. For some reason, he'd gotten all the genetic luck in the world; he was twice Jackson's size. Most women would probably say he was at least twice as good looking, too.

James tossed his wad of snow up into the air and caught it. He did that several times. "So, you were saying? Something about your boyfriend?"

"At least we don't have group orgies like you faggots."

"Shit, did you grow a pair of balls last night?" James asked. "Must be all the dickings you're getting lately."

"James, seriously," Jackson said. "Westley has Marfan's syndrome. If he falls, he could get seriously hurt."

"I dunno, might be funny."

Jackson had the sudden urge to hurt James very badly.

Dealing with him and his posse was a touch-and-go state of affairs. Toward the end of his first year, Jackson kept his head down and slid away; they seemed to grow bored of him over time. Actual physical assaults were rare. But Jackson's combination with Westley had renewed their interest. Cue the gay jokes.

"You think it would be funny," Jackson said, "if Westley broke all his bones?"

"Jeeze, not all of them," James said. "Just half or so. I think half would -"

Jackson reached down, dug his hand into a bit of wet snow, and chucked it up at James as hard as he could. It struck his cheek and sprayed in an arc over his face.

James coughed, spluttered, and dropped his snowball. Jackson went for another handful of snow, but James was on him a second later, grabbing hold of his jacket collar.

Jackson tried to worm out of it, but James was stronger. He scooped up more snow with his free hand, dragging Jackson along with him; and then he turned and rammed the clod under Jackson's neckline. Icy wetness soaked Jackson's undershirt.

And then James's elbow struck Jackson in the face. He flew to the ground. The back of his head smacked into the snowpack. His nose throbbed.

Others had already gathered around them, forming an impenetrable border of feet and shoulders. Jackson curled up as the blows started to rain down.

He could hear chanting between flashes of pain. The onlookers called for blood. Jackson thrashed and kicked at his assailant, fending off the worst of the attacks, but the weight of his backpack worked against him, keeping him from getting out from under James.

There was a sharp crack. The weight on top of Jackson lessened. He kicked himself back through the snow, scrambling to sit upright.

Westley was standing over James, raising his crutch for another strike. James was bleeding from the forehead. He looked dazed; he gave his head a hard shake.

Westley's crutch came down. James blocked it with his forearms, then grabbed it and started to pull.

Jackson leaped forward just as James's friends arrived to back him up. The fight morphed into a tug-of-war over the crutch. In the snow and the ice, Jackson and Westley didn't lose their grip - they were just dragged forward.

James, still on the ground, kicked at Jackson's legs. Jackson fell down on top of him, but that left a one-legged Westley to pull back against three others. He slid across the ground like an ice skater up on one foot.

James punched Jackson's side. Jackson grunted, but it wasn't a strong hit. He did the simplest thing he could - he lifted himself up, then let his body fall on James's chest, elbow first. James coughed; he struggled to get air back in his lungs.

"Hey! What are you doing!?"

Teacher.

James looked toward the sound. Jackson took the opportunity shove a handful of snow into his face, then kneed him between the legs for good measure. James's mouth opened, and then he groaned and clenched up.

"Jackson, get off of him! Shawn, give Westley his crutch -"

Jackson heard a scuffle of feet behind his head. He turned. Shawn had suddenly released the crutch. Having still been pulling for all he was worth, Westley was tumbling backward.

He hit the ground, and there was another snap. It wasn't the crutch.

And then, screaming.

****

Room 104.

Even if Jackson hadn't remembered, the piano would have let him know.

He opened the door. Westley's keyboard cut off as he looked up from his bed. "Hey! It's about time."

"I don't have excused absences, unlike some people." Jackson brushed into the room and dumped his blue duffle bag on the floor. "I brought the stuff."

"Lay it on me."

Jackson unloaded - paper, pens, and several thick flappy tomes of music. Westley always wrote his music by hand. He hated eBooks.

Westley propped the first sheaf of lined paper on his keyboard's stand. It was set across the plastic armrests of his hospital bed like a plank.

Westley was clad in a speckled blue hospital gown. It was odd seeing him out of his usual monotone black clothing. One whole leg was suspended above the bed in a cast that stretched all the way to his hip.

"Now I can write again," Westley said, reaching for the pen Jackson was holding. "I've been dying over here." He brushed his hair out of his eyes and started scribbling furiously.

"It must really suck living in prehistoric times," Jackson said. "How're the dinosaurs?"

"I'm sorry," Westley said, "I can't hear you over the sound of -" He stopped, wincing. "Oh. Oo."

"What? What's wrong? You alright?"

Westley raised a hand. "I'm good. Sternum isn't."

"...you sure?"

"I'm not made of glass, Jack."

"Alright, I get it." Jackson leaned back in his chair. "What do the doctors say?"

"Well, Ransfeld General is pretty good," Westley said, "but even they give me at least two or three months before I'm out. Probably on the longer side. I take time to heal."

"Marfan's sucks."

"Tell me about it. I'm starting to go nuts."

"Come on, you've only been here a few days."

"Seriously man. You're my first visitor that doesn't want a blood sample."

"What about your parents?"

Westley waved a hand. "You know how that is."

"...yeah, I just figured, being pretty serious."

"They don't care. When my dad heard I'd be walking again after a while, he went right back to the biz. Screw him."

"Parents, man," Jackson said. "Fuck 'em. We don't need them."

"Yeah."

"...I brought something."

"What?"

Jackson lifted the scanner out of his backpack.

"Oh, no," Westley said. "Don't start with this again. I told you no on the phone. Twice."

"West, come on," Jackson said. "This is for science!"

"I don't want it. Don't need it."

Jackson set the scanner on his knee. It was a flat, metallic object, a screen on one side, a pressure pad on the other. It detected and mapped the graded potentials of neurons in order to create a 3-dimensional dendritic map of a localized region. It was cutting-edge stuff; he'd borrowed it from the school's biophysical research laboratory. He hadn't exactly asked anyone's permission, but he figured they wouldn't miss it as long as it was back before someone needed it.

"West." Jackson looked up at him. "You're here because you came back and helped me out. I want to do something."

"I don't need payback. We're friends."

"I know," Jackson said. "But what the hell am I studying for if I can't even help you out? I could build you a new leg. I could compensate the other one. This is the perfect time - when you do physical therapy for the muscles, your nerves will be in a compensatory state. The proper stimulus will -"

"You sound like my doctor."

Jackson sighed. "...forget it, then."

Westley tapped a C note on the keyboard. It rung over the room, drowning out the beep of the hospital equipment for a few moments. He lifted a long, overstretched finger. It paused over the keyboard. "You feel that strong about it, huh."

"...yeah."

"I really don't like technology," Westley said. "Robots are even putting musicians out of business. Robots shouldn't be...creative. If they start doing that, what do we have left? What does humanity even do if robots take all the jobs?"

Jackson shook his head. "I don't know."

"...is it gonna hurt?"

Jackson nodded. "I won't lie. Bursts of pain, followed by some throbbing for a while. But that goes away once you integrate. And I can adjust it so that it's not so bad."

Westley tapped the same key several times. C bounced off the walls. "...fine. Let's do it."

****

Jackson let go.

Westley had one hand on the hospital wall. He moved his real leg first, gingerly bending the knee and stepping forward.

His new mechanical leg flashed at nearly four times the speed as the normal leg. He wobbled a bit. "Whoa. This thing can move."

"Yep," Jackson said. "It'll move as fast as your brain can make it. Focus hard on moving it carefully. It'll respond to instruction."

Jackson eyed his handiwork. The prosthetic leg extending from Westley's hip looked like the outside of the Millennium Falcon, which was to say it looked like patched together junk. Technically, it was - very finely selected junk from a master junk collector. His boss would never know.

As Westley moved down the hall, his steps started gaining more confidence. Swing with the normal leg, then a shift and pump of the mechanical one. He started refining the speed a little bit, and then he was off to the races. "I'm doing it." More steps. "Holy guacamole, I'm walking!"

Jackson groaned. "Holy guacamole? Really? Just say holy shit or something."

"Your mind is cultivated by its choice of language!" Westley called back. He had to raise his voice a bit - he was making good progress down the hall.

A red-haired nurse popped out from a room. "Goodness, what are you two boys up to today?" Her eyes widened. "What is that?!"

"Look, Janet," Jackson said, "I built West a leg."

"Ouch. Ouch. Ouch." Westley was coming back down the other way. "Jackson, it's stinging, a lot. Ow. Getting worse."

"Hold still for a second." Jackson bent down with the scanner.

"I'm getting Doctor Chi!" Janet shouted. She took off down the hall.

"Interference from the nociceptors," Jackson said. "That can happen." He punched in a few adjustments into the leg's control board. "Alright, try one step, slowly."

Westley started to move, and then he cringed. "Ow! That's worse, way worse. Hurting. Fix it."

Jackson rapidly dialed back the other way. "Whoops. My bad."

"Whoops? Did you just say whoops?"

"It's fine now, I just hit up instead of down. Go ahead."

"I swear I will haunt you if this goes wrong."

"Just try it."

Westley closed his eyes and took a step. He sighed, opened them. "Phew. Alright. Hey, back to normal." He kept on down the hall. "Man, okay. I can get used to this."

"Told you so," Jackson said. "Told you and a half. Ice told. Apply told water to burnt area."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

"Come on, I deserve a little gloating."

Dr. Chi rushed around the corner with Janet at her shoulder. "Jackson Vedalt! I told you not to - oh my God."

"Look, doc," Westley said. "No hands!" Westley let the wall go entirely and moved to the center of the hall. He loomed over the small Asian woman.

"This is - your NMS signature can't support this kind of prosthetic."

"Jackson's good with electronics," Westley said.

"I told you," Jackson said. He smiled at Chi. And it was a rare smile for Jackson - ear to ear, a full, toothy grin. "Less like a human, more like a computer. I just had the right background for the situation."

"That is not flexible enough! He'll need constant adjustment!"

"So? I'll be there. The static will get disregarded over time as his thalamus gets used to the false signals. I know what I'm doing."

"You are a 15-year-old boy, and you certainly do not know what you're doing!" Chi said. "I'm paging his primary care right now. Both of you get back into the room."

Jackson rolled his eyes at Westley. Westley shrugged and started walking back toward 104.

After a few moments spent tapping out a message, Chi had put down her foldout. She was walking toward them. "Mr. Vedalt. What happened to your eye?"

Jackson glanced at her. The swelling was going down, really; he could hardly see the bruise. If he'd avoided her for a few more days, she wouldn't have noticed.

"I fell down some stairs," Jackson said.

"I'm tired of being evaded. Is it family?"

"It's none of your business. I cite M-HIPAA."

"Jackson, I'm a doctor. I've already written you three NSAID scripts this month alone. What's going on?"

Jackson turned away from her and walked into the room. "Shit happens."

****

Jackson and Westley arrived at school in Westley's limo. Perks of having a rich buddy - Jackson had a ride. No more subway trains.

Westley extracted himself out of the car. His new leg was as long as his other leg - and that was pretty long. He was used to only dealing with one of them. Jackson gave him a shoulder to balance on.

And then they walked across the courtyard, together, Jackson in a bright blue hoodie, Westley in black jacket and dark slacks. His mechanical leg shifted in time over the stone. The path was clear; it was late spring, and the snow was reduced to little icy patches still clinging to life in shady spots. Jackson could see little red buds peppering the trees.

"...I feel taller," Westley said.

"Newsflash: you're really tall."

"No respect."

"So," Jackson said, "how's walking?"

Westley inhaled the city air. He looked up at the towering buildings that surrounded the institute, enclosing the courtyard. He looked at Jackson. "Feels pretty good."