Dream Drive Ch. 06

And then James had to show up.

"You ready for another black eye, Jackson?" James grinned. "Hey, he's finally out of the hospital. Glad to see you lovebirds back together."

"Shut the fuck up, James," Jackson said.

"So West," James said, "how'd you get that new leg? I always figured you were poor as shit to use a wooden crutch."

Westley said nothing. He never responded to James, or anyone else that made fun of him. His policy was total silence.

James wasn't in the mood for it. "Still too good to talk to us lower life forms, huh?"

"James, shut up," said a different voice.

"I'm getting really fucking tired of people telling me to -" James's stopped short. He closed his mouth.

Charles Ransfeld was moving toward them from across the courtyard.

Jackson had seen him from a distance. He always wore a suit, and his gold-blonde hair was always perfect. And he always smiled. Today he was in navy blue; he looked like an all-star football player about to meet with the president for his medal.

James was just a bully. Charles was not; he lived on another tier of existence. Jackson wracked his brain trying to figure out how he was supposed to react.

"...Charles," James said. "What is it?"

"I told you to shut up. I meant it." Charles stepped between him and Jackson without another glance. "You're Jackson Vedalt, right? And you must be Westley Prudeau."

Westley nodded. "And you're Charles Ransfeld."

"Precisely."

And then, they stood there. No one spoke. It was awkward.

Jackson scratched under his chin. "Uh...what's up?"

"Glad to finally meet you two," Charles said. His grin flared on like a miniature sun. If his teeth were any whiter, Jackson would have to shield his eyes from the glare. "You guys made my hospital staff go nuts last weekend. Dr. Chi told me you built a leg for someone with Marfan's syndrome. That's you, right, Westley? Excuse me if I'm being a little forward."

"It's fine," Westley said. "It isn't a secret. Jackson built my leg."

"And against the advice of all your doctors."

"I know what the doctors said. He's just good with electronics."

"I meant that as a compliment," Charles said.

"Hey," James said. His offense at being ignored was starting to catch up to his fear of someone superior in rank. "Charles, we were talking."

"Jackson," Charles said, "Dr. Chi informed me you've had a chronic eye problem lately. What caused that?"

Jackson lifted his chin, indicating the person standing behind Charles. "Three guesses."

"James, James, or James?"

"You got it."

"The little shit deserved it," James said.

It was fast. One second, Charles was moving, and in the next, James was on the ground, curled up and crying. He clutched at his face.

Charles pulled on the bottom of his coat, straightening it, then turned back to Jackson and Westley. "He was really starting to push my buttons."

"So, um..." Jackson glanced down at James, then back at Charles's smiling face. "Class is pretty soon."

"Oh, right. Let's walk."

Westley started ahead. "Good idea. A teacher'll get here eventually."

They continued across the courtyard, weaving around the fountain. The hecklers that dogged Jackson were silent; in fact, their path seemed to open automatically. They took the steps to the front door a bit slowly; Westley was still getting used to stairs.

"I'm surprised you didn't say something about helping James," Charles said.

Jackson looked at Westley. Westley shrugged. Jackson returned the shrug with one of his own. "The little shit deserved it," he said.

"I thought so, too," Charles said. "Getting back to the point, Jackson, you're obviously talented. I'm always looking for talented people. So, come work for me in the hospital."

"That's...well, thanks," Jackson said. "But I already have a job."

"What do you make, if you don't mind me asking?"

"23 an hour," Jackson said, puffing out his chest a bit.

"I'll salary you starting at 500,000 a year," Charles said, "full benefits, access to the Ransfeld Health and Security Network, and three weeks paid vacation. You can earn more vacation over time, obviously. Annual reviews, with up to 10% raises. Bonuses for good performance, stock options - you know, the standard stuff."

"...are you serious?"

"Deadly," Charles said. "You do realize what you did, right? You compensated for the neuro-muscular-skeletal signature of a genetic disorder that directly affects the neuro-muscular-skeletal signature. I'm not a scientist, but even I know enough to appreciate how impressive that is."

Jackson wasn't sure what to say, so he kept it simple. "Thanks."

"Now, if I put all my best people on it, we could probably get it done inside of a year, but you did it by yourself in a matter of months. You had big motivation, but still." Charles nodded, and smiled. He was always smiling, but he sort of renewed it every once in a while. "You've got talent. I've got vision, and capital. Let's put it together. You'll have access to the best equipment in the world, full contact with my team of experts." Charles examined Jackson's face. "Is it too sudden?"

Jackson shrugged again, then nodded. "It kinda feels a little sudden."

"That's fine," Charles said. He held the door for Westley, who nodded his thanks and stepped inside the school. Charles and Jackson went through after. "Sleep on it. Here, I'll send you my card."

Charles tapped his foldout and offered his arm. Jackson swept his phone near Charles's computer. Charles's business card blipped over to Jackson's screen.

"Anyway," Charles said, "I suppose we part here. I've got Stage Plays of the Ancient World first."

"Is that class any good?" Westley said, taking a valiant stab at casual conversation. "I was thinking about my electives for next year the other day."

"It's the best class I've had here so far. I actually want to show up for it." Charles turned and waved a hand over his head. "See you two at lunch."

And then he was gone. A firecracker that detonated inside their lives, a brief burst of light and sound, then nothing.

"That guy is..." Westley looked at Jackson. "Did you see what he did to James?"

"Nope."

"Me neither. But it must have been pretty brutal."

"What do you think?" Jackson asked.

"Dude, he might be the coolest guy I've ever met," Westley said.

"I dunno if I'd go that far. He seems a little...he talks fast. Too fast."

Westley shook his head. "He knew what he wanted, came over, and said it. And that was it. Seems like our kind of guy. No BS."

"...I guess."

"Jack. Take the money and play in electronics Disney World. And move out of your apartment already."

"Heh." Jackson nodded to himself. "Yeah. Maybe."

****

"Why do you want me to build you a leg?" Jackson said. "You've already got that."

Charles looked at his prosthetic. "I'm tired of this piece of crap."

They were below the hospital, inside the relatively new Ransfeld prosthetics laboratory - a branch that had opened at Charles's behest. The space was all clean white tile stamped with steel tables, machining devices, computers, and filled to the brim with scattered electronics.

Westley was leaning on a nearby desk. Charles was in a metal chair; Jackson was next to him, holding a scanner. He didn't have to borrow from the school anymore - this was his personal measuring tool.

"I think that's the Ransfeld logo on your piece of crap," Jackson said. He pointed at the loopy cursive R stamped inside of a triangle.

"It's our mass produced model," Charles said. "Being the person pushing it, I'm almost contractually obliged to use our products. I've got to keep my father thinking this is working."

"Is it?" Jackson asked.

Charles sighed. "We're behind the competition. Our production model is cheap, but low quality. That's the honest truth. When people actually decide to go for augmentation, they tend to avoid cheap."

"So," Jackson said, "if it doesn't sell, dad cuts off your funding. And it's not selling."

"Correct."

Jackson brushed the scanner over where Charles's flesh joined with the electromechanic receptors at the top of the prosthetic. "How'd you lose the leg?"

"Car accident, two years back," Charles said. "We were in-flight at the time. Lucky I got away with just this."

Jackson nodded, then kept scanning. It would take a few minutes and several dozen passes. The scanner picked up nerve signals to map them out, but they didn't all fire all the time.

In many ways, replacing an established prosthetic was more difficult than building a new one. The body "grew into" a prosthetic over time, a process often accelerated by NGF therapy. Charles was pretty far along in his adaptation cycle.

A replacement was, no matter how precisely built, somewhat out misaligned. That caused problems - inflammation, pain, scar tissue buildup, nerve damage. It was a delicate process. If Charles was another decade or two older, they couldn't have even tried it.

"So, your dad doesn't like prosthetics?" Westley asked.

"Not really," Charles said. "He's old school. Insists on a firm mental separation between man and machine."

"But that's the way the market's going," Jackson said. "Since they developed recombinant nerve growth hormone injectables, the prosthetics industry got into the hundreds of billions, and it's increasing every year. I thought Ransfeld would be armpit deep in the tech by now."

"I feel the same," Charles says. "My father and I have...conflicting views. He thinks that the trend as a whole - making ourselves cyborgs, essentially - isn't healthy for the human race. But you know how it is."

"What do you mean?" Westley asked.

"You can walk again," Charles said. "Do I have to elaborate?"

Westley nodded to himself. "I know. But I still don't like robots."

"If we can augment ourselves, we won't need them," Charles said.

"What if we turn ourselves into robots?" Westley said.

"What if we turn into fairies and fly to Never Never Land?" Jackson said.

Westley harrumphed.

"Don't laugh, Jackson," Charles said. "He made a good point."

"I did?" Westley said. "I mean, obviously, I did."

"The possibility is there," Charles said. "If we begin to modify our limbs - if we begin to merge electronics and nerves - how far away are we from changing our brains? How far can we dip into machines before we start to impact the soul?"

"I always hated that word," Jackson said. "What the hell is a soul supposed to be? It's so vague."

"Who knows?" Charles said. "But if it's a thing that's inside of us, an intrinsic part of us - do we stand to lose it?"

"I thought you were a proponent of augs," Westley said. "Why all the philosophical questions?"

"I can only have confidence in what I believe after I've asked the hardest questions of those beliefs," Charles said.

"...yeah," Westley said. "I guess so."

"Jackson, when you design my leg," Charles said, "I want you -"

"I want my patient to stop moving around so much," Jackson grumbled.

Charles settled back into his chair. "Right. Anyway, when you do the leg, I want you to think about how to generalize the design - how to mass produce it. I want your insight as the centerpiece of Ransfeld's next generation prosthetic."

"They're always coming out with new ones," Jackson said. "Think I'll be able to keep up?"

"With you on my team, hopefully." Charles looked at Westley. "How do you feel about doing music for the marketing side?"

"Me?" Westley said. "Can't you just outsource to robots?"

"It has to be a merger," Charles said. "Man and machine. We can be the men, our legs will be the machine. You've got to have vision." Charles made a square with his fingers and peered through it. "Me, on stage, walking forward in front of the investors with my new leg. Music plays in the background - something dark, moody. The dawn over an ocean of possibilities. The designs and developmental stages are shown in a montage. Maybe a picture of Jackson doing something interesting in the lab. And then you're lifted up from backstage, playing the piano, live, also wearing Jackson's design. And then I wrap their wallets up in my fist."

"Damn," Jackson said. "You really plan these things out."

"Knowing how to separate a man from his money is key to running any business."

"I could never do that," Jackson said. "Talk to people, convince them. You either have it or you don't."

Charles smiled, but didn't add anything else.

Westley folded his arms. "You know...that might be pretty cool. I'll work on something." He frowned. "Oceans, and technology. I can feel something like that. Dark, but...it should have lighter bits. Sun poking through clouds. Or maybe, moonlight? No, that's night, too dark. Submarine? That doesn't make sense. Maybe..."

Westley kept mumbling to himself; it turned into a low sort of rambling. He folded his arms behind his back and started pacing. He hopped from word to word, from image to image.

Charles gave Jackson a look.

"He does that," Jackson said. "At least he's not limping around like a cripple anymore."

"I heard that."

Charles chuckled. "This is how it should be."

"This?" Jackson asked. His scanner blipped in his hands.

"Young men," Charles said, "the next generation, discussing how to change the world. We don't have to accept the future. We can make it."

Jackson thought on that for a long time.

****

They always ate lunch with Charles, now.

Eating with Charles began with all the love and warmth of the out-of-body experience induced by a stroke.

And then, somewhere between complaining about their bland cafeteria food and discussing the merits of various porn stars, the situation slowly drifted into the realm of normality. Jackson was even starting to get used to the bodyguard that always stood near their table.

He was rather surprised to find that Charles even had a favorite porn star. He couldn't possibly have trouble finding women; he was the total package: rich, handsome, brilliant, famous.

But then, maybe that's why he had trouble. Jackson had always grudgingly accepted that he looked like a nerd, walked like a nerd, and was judged on-sight by most people to be just that. It was only after a fair bit of introspection that he realized that he'd done just the same thing to Charles - just in the opposite direction.

Charles didn't have a clique, either. He seemed to enjoy their company; he always sat with them at whatever table they picked. They migrated around the cafeteria at will.

Westley was a bit more reticent, usually, but Jackson didn't care about how powerful Charles was. Maybe he was just ignorant about the whole social status thing, but he came to think that Charles appreciated being treated like just another person.

Other people avoided them. That suited Jackson just fine. There was no more bullying, no name calling. Being friends with the son of George Ransfeld was like wearing some kind of badge of immunity.

Jackson couldn't believe how much his life had changed in the span of a few months. He'd gone from being a loner to having two friends - two amazing friends. And that's what Charles and Westley were. Friends.

He was the gruff but handy engineer. Westley was the moody Luddite poet. Charles was the philosopher, the front-man of the outfit. He imagined them as the cast of a space opera, visiting strange stars, odd planets, and generally going where no man had gone before.

Jackson worked furiously on the design of Charles's new leg. He could see the curtain call that Charles held in his mind's eye. He could see himself making part of the future. He could see himself helping out his friends - rubbing away their imperfections with his knowledge and ability.

Misfortune and fate were something they had to suffer in past centuries. If you were born with a disease, there was often no therapy - you just had to deal with it. Solutions were piecemeal at best, using drugs to blunt the symptoms while leaving the underlying cause unresolved. If an accident stole an arm or a leg, you moved on, living life as best it could be lived with your new stump. That was how the world was.

But now, they had a new kind of power, a new kind of science. They could overcome fate. They could defy the enslavement of DNA; they could escape the horrible tyranny of a few misplaced nucleotides.

They could build the future. Charles preached it like a religion; Jackson found himself becoming a fervent convert.

****

"What's the expert opinion on Jackson's design?" Charles asked Chi.

They were standing in Dr. Chi's office, just off the laboratory. Even now, Jackson was hard at work a few doors down.

An analogue clock ticked on the wall; a bamboo plant grew studiously in the corner. The walls were monotone brown. It was a quiet, predictable space; Chi didn't like surprises.

The angular woman examined her notes for a time, then looked up. "I've been analyzing the data he sent me. The kid's a genius."

"I already knew that."

"He's writing code to replicate his own techniques as he goes," Chi said. "It's working in the background to construct integration points while he sleeps. He does the heavy lifting while he's awake, builds on the neural nets to increase the program's accuracy, double checks the work it did. He told me he was working on improving the bootstrapping algorithm, but he's not as good with straight programming. He's better with things he can 'feel with his hands', according to him."

Charles rubbed his chin. "Do you have his source code?"

"Right here."

"I'll let Rachel take a look at it."

"Why not just have them collaborate directly?" Dr. Chi said. "They'd be a perfect fit."

"Rachel's condition is worsening," Charles said. "And you know how she feels about...foreign objects. Now's not the time."

Chi sighed. "True. I'll send her the source and tell her it's a challenge for whenever she gets around to it."

"Good. I'll let Jackson know we've got people working on it."

"I don't know what you told him to get him to focus like this," Chi said. "I couldn't turn my back without him trying to modify the sprinkler systems to play in time with Westley's music."

"I just gave him a vision," Charles said. "It's what most people need."

"Even with this, though," Chi said, "I don't think it'll be enough."

"It will have to be."

"We're losing market share," Chi said. "The company name was strong enough to give us a jump start, but our product wasn't good enough for our reputation. It's hurting the share prices. You're father's going to pull us out. I can feel it coming."

Charles ground his teeth in the back of his mouth, but he kept the smile on his face. "Jackson just needs more time."

"We don't have time," Chi said. "Every other company releases a new model every six months like clockwork. We're already a year behind schedule. This is costing us money."

"This is the future. It's worth the investment."

"Well, I'm not sure what to tell your father," Chi said.

Not for the first time, Charles wished his father was not an obstacle holding him back. "I'll deal with him," Charles said. He shifted to the side, peering at the bamboo plant. "There has to be something else. We need wiggle room."

"...there is," Chi replied.

"Yes?"

"Westley."

"...well? What about him?"

"His prosthetic is a very raw version of Jackson's current efforts, but it's had almost half a year to integrate," Chi said. "A biopsy would give us the adjustment-pattern type maps we would need to move to production."

"Biopsy?" Charles said. "Can we do that?"

"...we would need a full section."

"What does that mean?"

"He would never walk again," Chi said. "Neurons can adjust, and they can be stimulated with the right growth factors, but they don't divide. If we take the nerves, they're gone for good." Chi rapped her nails on her desk. "Frankly, I'd want a full biopsy for best results, but that would be lethal."