Chapter Seven
John walked along a darkened street, his step slow and deliberate. He was searching for something and in no hurry to find it. He was bundled in a thick sweater over which was thrown a long coat he had bought at a flea market two weeks ago.
During that time he had been travelling the streets of the scrapyard. Not in search of Mara for he knew she was lost to him, but for something else. He had given it much thought and had decided it was the only thing left for him to do. It was drastic to be sure, but he knew he couldn't go on like this, a man with no direction or purpose.
John glanced up at the signs above the shops along the street. Tattoo parlors and peep shows, places where people went to forget themselves or to find a new identity. But John was seeking a new life, not something that could be had for a few chips or a promisory note. And once it was done there would be no going back, but that was fine with him. Everyone he had cared about was lost to him and he had been responsible for all of it.
John stopped in front of an ugly black door that framed the right side of a magazine shop. Without hesitation he knocked on the door and stepped back, waiting for an answer. After a brief minute a sliver of light came on from beneath the door and John held his breath.
"Who is it," said a voice.
"Are you Doctor Leitchfeld?" asked John politely.
"Yes," came the reply. "It's rather late you know, I don't see patients after visiting hours."
"Yes, I realize that. But I have to see you right now, it's very urgent."
John held his breath, waiting for a reply. After a moment he heard mumbling and the sound of a lock being turned. The door opened and John saw a small man with thinning white hair. He had thick glasses perched on the tip of his nose and a thick mustache that completely covered his mouth so that when he spoke one couldn't see his lips move.
Leitchfeld looked up at John and cocked his head slightly to the right.
"All right young man," he said gruffly. "You wanted to see me well here I am."
"Yes, and I appreciate it doctor. But could we go inside please, I want to discuss something with you in private."
Leitchfeld looked rather disgusted but he turned his back on John and waved his hand for the younger man to follow him.
John stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He followed Leitchfeld to a small room in which there was a small table and two chairs. On the table was a bottle of cheap alcohol and a shot glass. It was obvious that the good doctor had been drinking when John had interrupted.
Leitchfeld indicated a chair to John and he complied. The old doctor sauntered over to a cabinet and removed a shot glass, returning to the table and setting it next to the other.
"I want to thank you for seeing me at such a later hour," said John.
Leitchfeld tipped the bottle and poured two equal amounts of whiskey into the glasses.
"Normally I wouldn't," he said casually. "But I'm a good judge of character and you don't seem like the dangerous sort. And besides, it gets rather boring when you drink alone."
Leitchfeld raised the glass to his lips and threw the liquor down with one gulp. John did the same and felt his throat burn as the alcohol seeped into his stomach.
"Now what did you want to see me about?" asked Leitchfeld as he leaned back in his chair.
John took a deep breath and ran the prepared speech over in his mind.
"I've talked to several people in the last few weeks," began John. "All of them have been patients of yours and told me the same thing. They all said that you're the best cyber-physician in the scrapyard, and if one had to undergo augmentation then you're the man to see."
Leitchfeld showed no emotion as he responded.
"Well it's nice to hear my former patients speak so highly of me," he said "But I fail to see what this has to do with you. By all accounts you look pretty healthy to me. Early twenties, strong body, and you don't seem to be weak in the head."
John leaned forward and looked the doctor squarely in the eye to add emphasis to his words.
"I want to become a cyborg," said John solemnly. "And you're the only one who I would trust to do the operation."
Leitchfeld stared for a moment and then rose from the table. He stepped back and folded his arms in front of him, looking at John as if the younger man were insane.
"I take back what I said about you not being weak in the head," answered Leitchfeld. &qout;Do you really expect me to cut away healthy limbs and tissue and replace them with ugly metal components? You're a complete fool, anyone who has had the misfortune of requiring my services would give half their life to have back what you want to throw away."
Leitchfeld leaned forward and put his hands on the table.
"Why would you ask me to do such a thing? Did some girl leave you and now you're heartbroken, or maybe some fellow beat the crap out of you and you want revenge?"
John stood and grabbed Leitchfeld by the collar, pushing the older man against a wall and placing Inoda's sword across his neck. Leitchfeld simply shrugged at the anger staring back at him.
"You're not the type," he said plainly. "Not without reason anyway."
John let the doctor go and put the sword down. Leitchfeld straightened up and looked hard at the young man before him.
"Go home son," he said in the comforting tone he reserved for the grieving. "There's nothing for you here, if I were to do as you asked you would regret it for the rest of your life."
"I have no home to return to," answered John. "I have nothing but the street and I'm too much the coward to end my own life. The only way for me to survive is to become something else. I have a purpose in life and the only way I can achieve it is if I throw away my frail parts and become strong. I have no intention of doing evil, there's already enough in the world. But I need the strength to do what must be done and you're the only one that can help me."
Leitchfeld listened intently and then sat in his chair, letting his chin fall to his chest and closing his eyes. It seemed like an eternity before he spoke.
"I haven't a clue as to why you would want to do this," he said. "But I can tell by the sincerity of your words you really intend to go through with it no matter how much I try to dissuade you."
John nodded and sat in the chair across from him.
"Well if that's the case then I had better be the one to perform the operation," said Leitchfeld. "If not me then you would just find someone else, and I don't like the idea of anyone going under the knife of some back street butcher."
John smiled and felt tears well up in his eyes.
"Thank you," he said humbly. "I knew you wouldn't let me down."
"Well don't thank me just yet," answered Leitchfeld. "There's a lot of work to do and the operation will be extremely expensive. Just how do you intend on paying me?"
John held out both his arms and tilted his palms upward.
"With these," he said.
Leitchfeld shook his head in disbelief and closed his eyes.
"My god," he mumbled to himself. "The extremes to which men will go to become something other than what god has made them."
***
He was going to die this night, he was sure of it. The man chasing him for the last eight blocks was relentless in his pursuit and had driven him into a state of terror where logic and rationale were stripped away in favor of instinct and the will to survive.
He had committed only a minor crime, the theft of a purse of coins from a fat merchant to whom the loss would be nothing but a minor inconvenience, but he'd had the misfortune of being spotted by a hunter-warrior as he fled from the scene.
Faster he ran, his lungs ready to burst and his body soaked in sweat. He had to get away, he just had to. And he swore to himself that if he did survive this night he would never commit another crime as long as he lived. It was a promise he could keep, he was sure of it.
Just as he ran across a deserted intersection he felt cold steel clasp over his mouth and he was pulled into a darkened alley. He was stricken with panic as he was pushed roughly against a wall and felt a blade press into his throat. The owner of the sword thrust his face forward and stared at him with piercing eyes that spoke of violence and a lack of any compassion.
"Do you know who I am?" said the piercing eyes.
The fugitive shook his head as he felt the steel hand drop from his mouth.
"No, I don't know who you are. But please don't kill me, I've only committed a minor crime, it's nothing I should die for."
"I'll be the judge of that," said the hunter-warrior. "I can't play any favorites you see, and if I were to let you go what would people say? That the great Zapan has become soft and that he doesn't have the killer instinct anymore. We can't have that can we?"
Zapan stared for a moment into those desperate eyes. The man was beyond terror, unable to answer for fear that the wrong words could end his life.
Zapan frowned and lowered the blade from the man's throat. He turned his back on the fugitive and let the weapon rest against his thigh.
"I'm going to let you walk away," he said sullenly. "And if you ever tell anyone about this I'll come looking for you, do you understand?"
The fugitive started to cry and clutched his hands together in a thankful gesture.
"Thank you, oh thank you. You'll never hear from me again, I swear it."
"Damn right," said Zapan.
He spun on one foot and raised the blade to shoulder height, catching the man in the throat and cleaving his head away from his body in one stroke.
Zapan smiled as he watched the body fall and the head roll to a stop several meters away. It was a sight he never tired of seeing. For death was a celebration of life, an affirmation of one's own existance and a reminder that each day must be lived to it's fullest because tomorrow was an uncertain prospect.
Zapan grabbed a handful of wet hair and thrust the head into a canvas bag, throwing it over his shoulder and starting down the alley for the nearest factory. The head was worth a few thousand chips at least, but once it had been identified and cross referenced any outstanding warrants could drive the reward up substantially.
As he reached the end of the lane Zapan stopped. The streetlight ahead of him flooded the ground with yellow light, revealing a small flower that stood among the weeds and grass.
Zapan walked over to it and knelt down, putting the bag aside and bringing his face close to the yellow petals, letting a scent so sweet and clean fill him with forgotten memories.
He plucked the flower from the earth, knowing as he did so that he was ending it's fragile life, a battle fought so hard but eventually lost on a whim.
John held the dying flower to his chest, wishing for just once more he could feel the softness and warmth of another living thing.
End
Index