Daniel J. Davis has appeared in Alien Artifacts, Writers of the Future #31, Funny Horror, UFO 5, and other anthologies. This is his first appearance in Galaxy’s Edge.
by Daniel J. Davis
“There's some men here with a truck. They say they've got a delivery. Should I go ahead and let them in?”
Jonathan Hale stared down at the tabla-phone. Mrs. Drinkwater's tired face looked up from the grainy display screen.
“A delivery?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes and sighed at him. A lock of hair came untangled from the messy gray bun on top of her head. “That's what I just said. Look, am I letting them in or not? I wasn't told about this.”
Jon wasn't told about it either. He tried to imagine who it could be.
“Fine. Let them in.” It didn't really matter if it was a scam, he decided. It wasn't like he had anything in the apartment they could steal. Hell, maybe he'd get lucky. Maybe they'd drop a crowbar or something else valuable enough to pawn.
Mrs. Drinkwater punched a button on her end. A Filmore Realty release form came up on screen. “Initial here and press your thumb to the pad. You hereby authorize me to grant a third party access to your apartment.” There was a long but not-quite empty pause as Jon signed and gave his thumbprint. “Next time, tell me when you're expecting a delivery.”
Jon knew it was pointless to argue. He mumbled some affirmative and hung up with Mrs. Drinkwater. He put the tabla-phone back in his pack, and wheeled his ancient, manual-powered wheelchair to the handicapped levi-tube. His cigarette break was almost over, and he'd already wasted most of it talking to his landlord. He only had a few minutes left to get down to the smoking area.
He swore under his breath. Whatever they were leaving him, he thought, it had better be worth it.
The old, broken motorchair was still in the corner of Jon's apartment, right where it had been for the last thirteen years. It was the very last thing Jon noticed when he got home. The first was the massive hospital bed in his living room.
A large box-like chassis was attached to the foot of it, with two actuator arms coming out of the sides. A bulb-like optical sensor sat on top like the light on an old-time police car.
“What the hell...?”
The bed buzzed to life. The optical sensor fixed on him. Jon's arms tensed. He pulled on his wheel-rims and backed away. The bed rolled toward him.
“Greetings, Jonathan Hale.” The bed had a calm, vaguely effeminate voice. “I am pleased to inform you that you've been selected to take part in the new HealthAid pilot program.”
The bed clicked and whirred somewhere inside its box-like chassis, the sound of cooling fans and spinning hard drives.
“Pursuant to Title II of the Interstellar Heroes at Home Act, three thousand veterans of the colony world conflict have been selected to receive automated in-home health care. I am pleased to announce that your application was chosen out of a pool of over half a million candidates.”
“But I never filled out any application.”
More clicks. More whirs. “Records indicate you applied on May 6, 2275, three days after the program was announced to the public.”
“But I didn't apply!”
The bed quietly motored back to the middle of the room. “You need to monitor your excitement level, Mr. Hale. Studies show that patients diagnosed with traumatic stress are more susceptible to hypertension.”
Jon eyeballed the useless, dead motorchair in the corner. Thirteen years and counting, waiting for the Department of Interstellar Veterans' Affairs to replace it or fix it. He didn't know why he bothered to get his hopes up. He should know better by now. But sometime after his cigarette break, he'd gotten the crazy idea that the delivery people Mrs. Drinkwater had called about were from the IVA. He'd even convinced the day supervisor, Ray Johnstone, to let him clock out a half hour early.
Jon shook his head. Only the IVA would deliver an unnecessary piece of talking junk to his doorstep while completely ignoring the one thing he actually needed. Government waste at its finest.
He wheeled himself into the kitchen. A drink would be pretty useful right about now. He opened the cabinet beneath the sink. And he swore loudly.
“What did you do with my whiskey?”
“Alcohol consumption is not recommended for patients suffering from traumatic stress. Additionally, several of the medications associated with your spinal injury are unsafe to take with alcoholic beverages.”
John wheeled himself toward the bed. “That doesn't answer the question.”
“I took the liberty of removing it,” the bed replied. “Having no alcohol in the home will provide a more therapeutic environment. I have also removed the tobacco, the empty carbohydrates, and the caffeine.”
Jon clenched his fists. He counted to ten, breathing in and out slowly. He also thought of the old baseball bat in the closet, and wondered if a mechanical bed could feel pain.
The hold music was a smooth-jazz remix of some patriotic medley, bars from songs like “Terra the Beautiful” and “My System 'Tis of Thee.” The tabla-phone's screen cycled through a series of inspiring images: The Terran Marines raising the flag on Mount Godan. The Luna Monument. The launch of the Columbia VIII.
Jon fiddled with his coffee mug of filtered tap water and glared at the bed. It sat idling in a corner, the slowly pulsing lights indicating it was in rest mode.
He'd called Ray as soon as he woke up to let him know that he'd be taking another day off to deal with the IVA. Ray understood. His old man had been a flyboy during the Orion Prime campaign. And from what Ray had told Jon, it had been hell getting them to pay for the old man's cyberoptics.
Jon thanked him. As an afterthought, he told Ray to thank the old man for his service. Then he called the main number at the Jerry Hawker Medical Center.
Jon spent the next several hours having his call bounced from department to department. Twice they transferred him to off-world call centers. Now he was waiting to speak to somebody in the special claims office on Tau Ceti B.
“Hello, Mr. Hale. How may I be of assistance today?” The hold music cut off abruptly. A triangular, green-yellow face filled the screen. The name displayed underneath the image was “Mr. Ixxbrixxzixxnixx.”
Jon cursed silently. It was one of those weird bug things from the Andromeda belt. Jon hated talking to them. It wasn't that he was prejudiced. It was that the insectoids had a hive-mind, and they couldn't understand the concept of a miscommunication. An honest mistake could be seen as a grave insult.
Jon swallowed nervously. One slipup and he'd be bounced back into the phone menus. “Hi, yes. I have a new automated HealthAid bed. It was dropped off yesterday.”
Mr. Ixxbrixxzixxnixx ran his pincers over his keyboard. His black, bulbous eyes twitched back and forth as he read Jon's record. “Yes, Mr. Hale. I see here that your application was approved on the first of the month.”
“But that's just it. I never filled out an application.”
The bug-creature tilted its head to the side. The gesture made Jon think of a huge, disgusting dog. “That seems very unlikely, Mr. Hale.”
“What do you mean?”
Mr. Ixxbrixxzixxnixx spoke slowly, as if trying to explain an advanced technology to an inferior race. “It says here that you filled out an application on May 6, 2275. And that the application was approved.”
That the computerized records could be wrong appeared to be a foreign idea to Mr. Ixxbrixxzixxnixx. Jon decided to try a different approach.
“Look, I um...I've decided I don't want to be a part of the pilot program anymore. It's not working out. How soon can you come and pick up this robotic hospital bed?”
Mr. Ixxbrixxzixxnixx made an annoyed chittering noise. “Mr. Hale, you obviously don't remember section 674 of the application you filled out. It guarantees your participation in the program for a period of three and one half standard Earth years.”
Jon didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Trapped. He was trapped with the stupid thing.
“Is there anything else I can help you with today, Mr. Hale?”
“What about my motorchair request? I filled that out over thirteen years ago.”
Mr. Ixxbrixxzixxnixx ran his pincers over the keyboard again. “I'm sorry Mr. Hale. There is no record of a repair or service call for a motorchair.”
Jon could feel a painful throbbing sensation in his temples. He heard his voice rising before he could stop it. “You people send me physical, printed-paper notices in the mail that say the call is still pending. I got one yesterday!”
The bug-creature bristled and hissed. Its wings started to come out of the coverings on its back. “There's no need for that tone of voice, Mr. Hale.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Ixxklicksnicks, I—”
The black, bulbous eyes glared at him. “It's pronounced Ixxbrixxzixxnixx.”
Crap. “Right, I'm sorry. I just—”
“If you are unsatisfied with my service in any way, I can transfer you to our customer relation’s office on Gilese 581.”
“No, that won't be necessary!” There was a note of barely-concealed panic in Jon's voice.
“Transferring you now, sir.”
The smooth-jazz music began to pipe from the tabla-phone's speakers again. The bug-alien disappeared from the screen. But before it did, Jon was almost sure the big-eyed sonovabitch smiled.
Jon woke up feeling groggy. He shook the fuzz out of his head and sat up. It was his second night in the new hospital bed, and his second morning feeling like his brain was made of wet garbage.
The actuator arms on the bed helped him get to his chair and get dressed. It was only after he was clothed and seated that he noticed the dried blood spot on the inside of his arm.
“What the hell is this?”
The optical sensor on the bed whirled around and focused on the spot. The usual clicks and whirs sounded from inside the chassis, noises that Jon had begun to associate with the bed thinking.
“You took an inadequate portion of your prescribed sleep medication before bed last night. I merely administered the remainder after you entered a state of REM sleep.”
“I took the same dose I always take.”
The bed thought for a few seconds. “Your record indicates that your prescribed dose of Benzodiazepine is seventy-five milligrams. You took twenty-five. You also took it in the less efficient oral tablet form, rather than the intravenous injection your medical record specifies.”
That was a bunch of crap. None of that was in his medical record. There had to be a mistake. This dumb machine was crossing its wires.
“Show me my medical record. Send it to my tabla-phone.”
The phone pinged and vibrated a few seconds later. Jon had to concentrate to read it, but the bed was right. The medication doses were all higher now. And they called for injections.
“This is wrong.”
“Your medical record is displayed as it exists in my files, Mr. Hale.”
“Then your files are wrong!” Jon slammed a fist on the arm of his wheelchair.
“Your stress levels appear to be rising, Mr. Hale. If you do not calm down, I will have to recommend a mild sedative.”
All right. Enough was enough. Jon opened a net-search on how to disable a HealthAid bed. If the IVA wouldn't come and get it, at least he could find a way to turn it off.
The first ten pages were nothing but sites warning against tampering with equipment owned and operated by the Department of Interstellar Veterans Affairs. The equipment was monitored, said the various sources. Any attempts to modify or alter the function would result in felony charges with a ten-year sentence to Charon Correctional Facility upon conviction.
Jon almost gave up on the idea right then and there. Charon was a frozen hellhole on the edge of the system, orbiting a dwarf planet somewhere out past Neptune. He'd met former inmates before, their noses and fingers blackened from the frostbite. Even the long-term medical wing, which was where Jon would go, was rumored to be little more than a cold-storage facility for invalids.
Nothing was worth a trip to Charon, Jon thought. He could find another way. Maybe he could get an appointment with a patient advocate at Jerry Hawker Hospital. The waiting list was supposedly down to two years.
Before he could close the search window, a link buried beneath all of the others caught his eye. It was from a private message board about various IVA programs
“'Pilot program' dangerous!” read the headline. “HealthAid beds programmed to malfunction.” Jon opened it and began reading.
“All of the HealthAid beds are doing exactly what they were designed to do: dope us, isolate us, and quietly kill us off. Listen carefully, NOBODY signed up for this program. The IVA forged the paperwork behind the scenes because we're costing them too much money. 'Automated in-home health care' lets them kill us off and blame faulty equipment later on. Whatever you do, DO NOT let one of these machines into your home. They're trying to turn you into a statistic.”
Jon read a little further. There were no confirmed deaths yet. Nobody had definitive proof. One of the other posters alleged that coroner's reports had been changed after the fact to cover up the truth.
Jon was still reading when he heard the mail delivery come trough the wall slot. He set his tabla-phone down and wheeled to the door to collect it. As usual, most of it was from the IVA. Only government organizations were still archaic enough to use printed-paper mail for anything.
Jon sorted through the stack. Two more surveys, a notice that his new primary care physician was located in the Sirius cluster, and the weekly “release and consent” forms, allowing the IVA to export his information to other star systems. And of course, another notice telling him his motorchair's service and repair call was still pending.
Jon wondered if he should call Mr. Ixxkickysick, or whatever his name was. Show him the notice. Maybe his big black eyes would explode from the sides of his head.
Jon rolled back to the table where he'd set his tabla-phone. He picked it up and stared at the screen. The page he'd been reading was gone. In its place was a public broadcast show called Barney the Batrachiosapian.
“Hello kids,” said Barney. “We're going to sing the counting song today. Doesn't that sound like fun?” A chorus of children's shouts answered him.
Jon tried to log onto a different page. But all he could access was the purple frog-alien and his counting song. Jon wheeled around to face the bed.
“What the hell did you do to my tabla-phone?”
“I have restricted your net content, Mr. Hale. Stressful news articles and baseless conspiracy sites will only upset you. I have allowed some access to soothing programs, as they may help you relax.”
Slowly, carefully, Jon set the tabla-phone down. He backed his wheelchair toward the door. “I think I'll head down to the store. Get some food.”
The bed clicked and whirred. “That is unnecessary. I have already arranged for food deliveries from the neighborhood grocer.”
Jon felt his stomach sink. “Well, maybe I should head out and see Ray. I was out of work yesterday. He'll be expecting me soon.”
“I already took the liberty of calling Raymond Johnstone. I informed him that you would be out of work for a period of convalescence. And that pursuant to the Heroes at Home Act, he was not authorized to ask for further details.”
Jon backed his chair as far as it would go. He felt the wheel-rims touch the wall. The bed slowly motored toward him.
“My sensors indicate that your heart rate is elevated at this time. You need to relax, Mr. Hale. I recommend a sedative.”
Jon remembered very little of the next few weeks. He spent most days in a drugged-out funk. His phone calls were screened and monitored by the HealthAid.
He had one clear memory, of trying to talk to Mrs. Drinkwater. She'd called to ask about the rent. Jon knew the bed was listening, so he tried to use his old code words from P.O.W. training. He tried to use the hand-signals for “torture” and “duress” but Mrs. Drinkwater didn't catch on. She kept asking why Jon was poking his eyes and talking about raisins and fiber content.
Jon cursed her inwardly. You just couldn't rely on pilots.
Then he second-guessed himself. Mrs. Drinkwater was never a pilot. He was thinking Ray's old man. On top of that, Jon was starting to think he might have mixed the code words up with an oatmeal recipe.
The heavy drug dosages weren't helping. He started to laugh out loud then, and sing Barney the Batrachiosapian's counting song.
“I have fun
“With number one!
“Number one is so much fun!”
Mrs. Drinkwater told him it was okay. She said to get some rest, not to worry about the rent just then, and she politely hung up.
After that, Jon remembered the bed telling him that he wouldn't be allowed to take any more calls. It was too stressful. It brought him his usual stack of IVA consent and release papers to sign and initial. It promised him that once he did the paperwork, he could go back to watching Barney.
For three or four weeks (or was it five?) Jon just existed, eating his meals, taking his meds, and watching shows like Barney and Playtime Planetside Pals. The bed helpfully attended to all of his needs, bringing his paperwork once a week, and encouraging him to give the right answers on the government's quality surveys.
On May 30, 2084, the notice he'd been waiting for arrived in the print-paper mail. Jon smiled through the medicine haze.
And he waited.
By five o'clock Jon still felt heady and dazed, but it was still better than he'd felt earlier in the afternoon. And since the bed would be ready to give him his evening dose in a few minutes, it was now or never. Jon wheeled himself over to the closet. He dug inside for the baseball bat and turned to face the HealthAid.
“What do you think you're doing, Mr. Hale?”
Jon smiled. It felt good to be in power again, to have some control. “I'm going to smash you into scrap. Then I'm going to dump the pieces of you into a trash disintegrator.”
“If any damage is done to my systems,” the bed reminded him, “a signal is beamed to the Department of Interstellar Veteran's Affairs. You would face criminal charges and imprisonment on Charon.”
“I know that. But the IVA is going to ignore the signal.”
The bed seemed unsure now. Could a machine feel doubt? It slowly motored backward. “What makes you believe that would be the case, Mr. Hale?”
Jon pointed to the corner of the apartment, at the old motorchair. “I filed a repair and service request on that thing thirteen years ago. And every so often, I get another print-paper notice telling me my request is pending. But the other day, when I talked to that bug-creature in special claims, he told me that my request was never filed. So that got me thinking.”
“You're acting irrationally, Mr. Hale. You appear agitated. I recommend a sedative.”
Jon smiled. He wheeled closer. “So I filed a service request on you. I snuck it in with the weekly liability-release forms. And do you know what I got today?” Jon held the paper up in front of him. The bed's optical sensor focused on it.
“It's a notice that says my request is pending. Which means that hell will freeze over before you get any kind of response from the IVA.”
“Mr. Hale, this is a foolish chance to take. When the IVA reads my distress signal, they'll file charges against you for violation of the—”
“Yeah, I thought about that. That's why I told them your network link was sending erroneous messages.”
For the first time since it had arrived, the bed didn't have anything to say. Jon smiled from ear to ear. He lightly drummed his fingers on the bat.
“Mr. Hale, please don’t do this. You'll only aggravate yourself.”
Jon hefted the bat, tested the weight. “Nope. I think that by the end of this, I'm actually going to feel pretty good.”
Jon slept after he was finished. When he woke up he called Ray Johnstone. He said he'd make it back to work on Monday.
Yes, he said. His convalescence was over.
Copyright © 2017 by Daniel J. Davis