Tim says: the following Sci-Fi story was published by Starshore Magazine in its premiere edition in 1990. Our friend, Rich was Starshore magazine’s Editor-in-Chief. Starshore was a slick, high-quality quarterly magazine published by McAlpine Publishing, a division of London Bridge Publishing. The Tuneup was my first serious attempt at science fiction. When I read it now I get a chuckle. After all, it was written 20 years ago and lots of things have changed since then. Back in 1980 I was somewhat of a computer geek, which is evident in the story, particularly to me now when I read back over it and recall that era in my life. About 6 years ago The Tuneup was published again in the Recipe du Jour newsletter.
At any rate, I will be presenting it here as a weekly 3-part serialization. Hope you get as much of a kick out of it as I still do.
The Tuneup (Part 1)
I watch the square patch of sunlight that streams through the hospital window; first, the flowers on the dressing table, then the mosaic tiles on the antiseptic floor, then the folds of the sheets at the foot of her bed: they had all taken turns in the yellow light patterns which now outline our hands as they lay loosely intertwined.
“We had such a fine time,” she says, moving my hand out of the daylight and closer to her face.
“Yes,” I agree in a whisper. By her gesture I know she understands more than my lack of movement. She presses my hand tightly against her cheek. I can feel the warm hum of her life, caught up in a great passing of some vacuum, circulating at my fingertips. Even this close to death she remains wildly alive.
I recall in an instant her silhouette and how it formed harsh angles, back-lit against the schooner’s taut mainsail. Years ago that seem like minutes. Now, the wrinkles in her face form those same dancing shadows, not at all harsh or unbecoming.
“Are you afraid?” she asks, and smiles. At the sound of her voice, the sunlight blinks out and is gone.
“We have shared many fine memories.” I try to return the same slight pressure as she squeezes my hand, but am unable to respond with any meaningful motion. “I am sad, not afraid.”
“The Avalanche Team,” she comforts, “. . . don’t forget the Avalanche Team.”
Long ago we had watched the sleek Swiss figures carving a path with their skis, plummeting down the mountainside. Even from this distance I can see their white suits and red crosses plainly. They were planting explosives to insure safe skiing, rushing ahead of the avalanche that was soon to follow. “Look at them,” I remembered her saying, “All that fresh snow and they’re the first to disturb it.”
Her hand slips from mine and I know she has moved to a very dark place. A tear trickles down from somewhere underneath my faceplate. I manage a low moaning sound.
The hospital room doors fly open; I hear the whine of two security drones as they glide across the smooth floor. Mechanical arms grab me roughly, without effort, and from voice synthesizers comes an excited chuckling modulation. The drones move into my field of vision.
“I am ready,” I say simply. The drones’ twittering instantly stops, my human syntax confusing their primitive receptors. Gently this time — because they have recognized the importance of their cargo — they load me into a vehicle that whisks off towards a sunburst horizon.
I am arranged carefully for this shipment, neatly propped up and lashed to a padded seat. A huge children’s gyroscope whirls inside my head, inaccessible, powered by some external source. I follow a balancing wheel that teeters by degrees, and am nurtured by the constant breeze of calm security. My circuits have been sabotaged by the Avalanche Team, who tinkered long ago, making last minute adjustments: this is the way we both had wanted it.
They take me to a room and I am here for a long time.
Time passes.
“Take a look at this one!” It is a pink-faced human who speaks as he motions to the space I occupy. He wears the green braid of an Engineer, Second Class. A drab mechanic drone spins around nervously at his feet. “Damn, a real live Genie – – I don’t believe it!” The human is pleased.
The mechanic whines over and scans my identification code. “G-Droid, Bio-genetic — extremely early model,” it reads in a monotone.
“I can see that, idiot,” snaps the Engineer. He kicks the mechanic. “Can it SPEAK?”
“Last maintenance performed by this office in August of twenty ninety-four,” I respond. “Precisely sixty three years downstream. Mechanic — can it subtract?”
Speech functions: ON LINE.
The mechanic makes a clicking sound.
“When was your last tune-up, Droid?” snarls the Engineer, moving closer. Obviously, the Engineer cannot subtract.
“No data is available on this unit,” offers the mechanic.
“None?”
“Affirmative. No data is available.”
“Tuneups were against my Companion’s religion.” I try to smile, but fail. The sadness returns.
The Engineer lights a cigarette. “That’s impossible.” A cloud of blue smoke is forced out between his teeth. “Maintenance every ten years is the LAW!” he hisses.
“And a law we can certainly live with.” I laugh this time, because I know my laughter is unsettling to humans.
The Engineer narrows his eyes and approaches to within millimeters of my faceplate. He raps a knuckle sharply on the side of my head. “I want you to know I’m going to enjoy reprogramming you,” he says slowly. “Yeah, I’m gonna REALLY enjoy sucking your memories right out of your head.”
I attempt to unlock my eyes from their frozen position to meet his gaze defiantly, but genetics have long since overcome my mechanical natures.
“Look at you,” snickers the Engineer, flicking his cigarette. “Can’t even wipe ashes off your own forehead. What’s the matter – – your GENES ooze out all over your ball bearings?” The Engineer snorts loudly. “Haw, I bet you can’t even wipe your–”
“Affirmative,” chimes the drone. “Advanced mechanical dysfunction is indicative of Genetic Encroachment.”
“Hey, Droid!” The Engineer taps my faceplate with a torque driver. “Ever wonder why they stopped making scumbag Genies like you? Because you can’t play God with genetics. THAT’S why!”
Time passes.
+ + +
(copyright© 1990-2010 by Tim Lee & Simply Tim. All rights reserved worldwide.)
Tim,
Very interesting to read and I always suspected there was something OTHERWORLDLY and SPECIAL about you.
I take it this piece of science “fiction” is partly autobiographical?
I say these things in a caring and sharing way.
Like Marlene, I feel that you never fail to entertain and surprise at the most unsuspecting of times.
I can hardly wait for the further instalments of this weird and wonderful tale of science “fiction”.
Tempus fugit.
tcw
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Purely fiction, Tim. Although I do enjoy skiing. And, I suppose, the Golden Years have certainly “sucked” some of “my memories” right out of my head, too. Otherwise, purely fiction.
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Tim, I just love your commentations, leaving questions yet to be answered. Very enjoyable. You live on one side of the states and We live in Washington In Hoodsport on the large Lake Cushman. not as close to lake as you are tho. Thanks for the enjoyment. Marlene
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