match your size and skin color.” Jim used his left hand to detach the Terminator prosthesis from the neural control unit on his shoulder. Then he grasped the prototype arm and inserted it into the unit. After locking the arm into place, he tested it by wiggling the fingers. “Now, Steve, the big difference between you and me is that you need two prostheses instead of one. And that complicates the process of attaching and detaching the arms. If you want to do it by yourself, you’d have to sleep with at least one of the arms attached, and I know from experience that’s not so comfortable. So I designed a solution. Watch this.”
He unclamped the prototype arm from his shoulder and placed it on the linoleum floor. Then he stepped back and stared at the detached arm. After a moment, it bent at the elbow and snapped its fingers.
Henry nearly fell off his stool. “God Almighty! How did you do that?”
“I boosted the power of the radio transmitter in my neural control unit. Now it can send my nervous system’s commands to the arm even if it’s across the room. And I put some adhesive material on the fingertips, so the arm can pull itself along the floor. Here, take a look.”
Jim lay down on the floor, face-up, about six feet from the prosthesis. He mentally sent the command to straighten the arm, which was just as easy to do as when the prosthesis was attached. Then he pressed the mechanical fingers to the linoleum and bent the elbow, dragging the upper part of the arm across the floor. “It works on carpets, too,” he said. “You just have to dig the fingernails into the weave.” He straightened the arm again, moving the prosthetic hand closer to his body. Then he wrapped its fingers around his right hip, grasping it firmly, and swung the upper part of the arm toward his shoulder. Once the prosthesis got close enough to the neural control unit, a self-locking mechanism clamped the arm into place. Jim ended the demonstration by standing up, raising the prototype arm in the air and extending its retractable knife. “If you want, I’ll put knives in your arms, too,” he said. “They’re great for chopping vegetables.”
He turned to the Dugans to gauge their reaction. Both were silent for a couple of seconds. Then Henry shook his head. “Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick,” he drawled. “That’s the damnedest thing I ever saw.”
Steve didn’t say a word. He just looked at Jim and beamed.
Satisfied, Jim detached the prototype and put it back on the workbench. Then he came back to the table and reattached his Terminator prosthesis. “I told you you’d be pleased.”
“So when can I get them?” Steve asked.
“Once you give me the go-ahead I can build your prostheses in a month. But the adjustment process takes a little longer.” Jim put a serious expression on his face. “First, the doctors at Walter Reed will implant the microchips in your shoulders. Then you’ll start the biofeedback training with the arms. Your brain has to learn how to use the new connections. It’ll take at least three months to gain control over the prostheses and read their signals correctly. But I’ll be there to help you, every step of the way.”
Steve nodded. “You got my go-ahead, Mr. Pierce. Let’s get it started.”
The rest of the consultation was routine. Jim took measurements of Steve’s torso and made clay molds of his shoulders. Then Henry signed the authorization papers on behalf of his son, and they scheduled their next appointment. The only notable thing happened at the very end, after the Dugans said goodbye to Jim on the doorstep of his home. While Steve walked toward their car, his father suddenly turned around and clasped Jim in a bear hug. “Thank you,” he whispered in Jim’s ear. “You saved my son.”
Then Henry let go and followed Steve to the car. The whole thing happened so quickly that the kid didn’t notice.
After they drove off, Jim returned to his workshop. He figured this would be a good time to work on Dugan’s prostheses. The consultation had gone well, and that usually inspired him. He loved to see those flabbergasted looks on the faces of his customers. But as he stood beside his workbench and stared at the prototype arm lying there, he got a sinking feeling in his stomach. At first he wasn’t sure why. Then he realized it had something to do with what happened at the end, what Henry Dugan had whispered to him.
Jim turned away from the workbench and busied himself with clearing the coffee mugs off the table. It didn’t make sense. He should’ve been gratified and touched by the older man’s words, but instead he felt awful. He recalled the sight of Henry Dugan holding the coffee mug to his son’s lips, but the thought of this loving, wonderful father just made him feel like a failure. Because Jim wasn’t a good father. He’d bungled the job.
He looked down at the table where he’d talked with the Dugans. Only an hour ago he’d told them that raising his daughter had been the best thing he’d ever done, but he’d neglected to mention an important detail. Two years ago, his daughter Layla had dropped out of college and broken off all contact with him. He didn’t even know where she was living now.
Jim frowned. He didn’t want to think about Layla. Returning to his workbench, he turned on his computer and started reviewing the circuit diagrams for Dugan’s prostheses. But he couldn’t focus. He was too agitated to think straight. And he was tired. It was past 4:00 P.M., which was late for him, and he hadn’t slept well the night before. Time to call it a day.
He crossed the room and opened one of the cabinets above his workbench. Reaching past the coffee mugs, he pulled out a shot glass and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. This was his end-of-the-workday ritual, a single shot of whiskey. But today he drank two shots, downing them quickly as he stood by the bench, and while the liquor seared his throat and pooled in his stomach he realized there was another reason why he felt so agitated. Without meaning to, Henry Dugan had reminded him of something he’d tried hard to forget. Jim had once had a son, too. A wife and a son.
He was about to pour a third shot when the doorbell rang.
Jim was puzzled. He knew the generals who ran Walter Reed, but this guy was from an entirely different branch of the army. Cyber Command was in charge of defending the U.S. military’s data networks. It worked closely with the National Security Agency, which was responsible for intercepting and analyzing foreign communications. Jim had spent the last five years of his military career on a special assignment with the NSA, but that was nearly two decades ago. He couldn’t imagine why any of the new Information Warriors would want to talk to him now.
After checking his breath to make sure it didn’t smell of whiskey, Jim opened his front door. “Can I help you?”
The general held out his right hand. “Good afternoon, Colonel Pierce. My name is Duncan Yin and I’m with Cyber Command’s headquarters staff at Fort Meade.”
Yin was in his early forties, maybe five years younger than Jim. He was handsome and in great shape and had a Midwestern accent. One of the bright young stars of the modern army, Jim thought. But he still couldn’t figure out why the guy was here.
“Pleased to meet you,” Jim said, shaking the man’s hand with his prosthesis. He still wore the Terminator arm, and the right sleeve was still rolled up, exposing all the electronics. But General Yin didn’t seem fazed.
“I apologize for coming here without calling first,” he said. “This is a delicate matter, so I thought it would be best to talk face-to-face. Can I come in?”
Jim considered the possibilities. Cyber Command was always on the lookout for breaches in military security. Especially breaches perpetrated by unhappy soldiers. Maybe General Yin was snooping for information on one of Jim’s customers at Walter Reed. In which case, Jim had to be very careful. “I’m sorry, General, but can you give me some idea what this is about?”
Yin nodded. “It’s about your daughter. I’m afraid she’s in a great deal of trouble.”
They went downstairs to the basement workshop. General Yin sat down at the square table while Jim perched on one of the stools, too anxious to sit still. Both his hands trembled. Because his prosthesis was connected to his nervous system, it was equally subject to the jitters.
“I don’t normally do this,” Yin started. “We usually rely on the FBI to track down the people we’re looking for. But when I saw your daughter’s name on the list of cases, I decided to get involved. I work closely with the
