4 minute read
Trepanation
Henry Koelling
You enter the OR, the incandescent lights are buzzing, you are inspecting a synthetic today. The nurse at the door hands you a clipboard with a ream of papers, you thumb through them: standing abstention, involuntary screaming, paresthesia, recombinant memory, 14 years of service. You look at the nurse, her face is stony, she gestures to the curtain, you pull it back. You have done this before.
You almost vomit immediately. A smell of fear so overpowering as to be present and heavy in the air hits your nostrils as you see the patient. A synth, it has the face of a young man with soft features, it is naked, and red around the eyes, its nose is running, and its skull has been opened. A synth skull is split into four quarter spheres, so when you open the head it looks like a strange red flower. Synth brains are biologically grown from stem cells and fitted with nodes to stimulate thought. You contributed to this research, this is why you are here. You compose yourself.
“Hello?!” the thing says in a panicked voice, “Is someone there? I can’t see!” Its face is twisted in panic and it looks on the verge of tears.
You check the papers again, intermittent blindness. The metal nodes on the brain that clip onto the skull to connect to the nervous system are disconnected (obviously) and the flesh around them is red and angry. If a brain had nerves it would likely feel raw and painful.
“My body h-hurts, a lot, and–" You try to stop listening, something about this feels disturbing. There is no way it should feel anything, its nervous system is disconnected, but– “If there’s someone there,” its eyes are darting blindly around the room, “please fix me.”
You approach the chair the synth is seated in, and lean in for a closer look, it hears you breathing against your mask, and the smell of fear intensifies, but it does not move. You do not speak to the synth unless necessary, your job is to diagnose and fix the problem. This is not a standard patient, it is a machine, and likely property, though it may be emancipated. This is of no concern to you as you examine the terminals on the skull, then on the surface of the brain where you note: one is dented. The damaged terminal has thrown loose a small strand of copper wire, no thicker than a hair. The flesh around this terminal is gravely inflamed.
“Did you hit your head?” you ask the synth.
It sits silent for a moment, you look down at its face and its mouth is agape, facial structures frozen, startled that you had spoken to it.
It finds its voice, “A-ah y-yes, I did, two months ago.”
You look at the papers, the first report of the listed issues is dated in June. Two months ago. The report concerns a sudden feeling of severe dysmorphia, and dread. This seems to have been the start of the issues.
You look at the brain again, sitting there like meat in a pan. The dented terminal leaks blood from the connection port, there’s a deeper problem. You daub up the blood gently with a cotton swab, and signal to the nurse to deploy the scanner. There’s a whirring sound, and a large apparatus descends from the ceiling.
“What is that?!” the synth yells in fear, it’s crying again. “WHAT IS THAT?!” it sobs.
You feel unnerved, it is entering a heightened state of panic when simply opening the brain casing should have limited its capacity for such emotions.
“We are going to perform a deep scan of your brain with this machine,” you say, barely maintaining a steady tone. This response is a manual emotional stabilization measure, you have not used it on a synth in years. “One of the terminals implanted in your parietal lobe is damaged slightly, and is showing signs that there may be deeper damage. This scan will tell us what we need to do in order to repair you.”
It calms down. “Oh… ok… do it then.” it says, mucus is running onto its upper lip from its nose.
You remark silently to yourself that you have never seen a synth in such a volatile state. You look over to the stony-faced nurse. Behind her mask she seems still unmoved, but has raised an eyebrow at the receipt of a request from a synth. She flips a switch on the wall, and the primary scanning module boots up.
As you step over to observe the viewing screen, you squint your eyes slightly against a barrage of color. Then they open wide. Its neurons are firing in a furious staccato, its amygdala is running white hot, and none of the terminals are active. There are zero regulator programs running, all of the peripheral cognisance technology seems to be in total shutdown. Its heart rate is elevated, and its respiration is labored and fast, if this were a human body, it would be gasping for air. You look at the synth, and then at the nurse. The nurse looks back at you, now visibly unnerved, you wave her over. She picks up her clipboard, and comes over, then she drops it.
The scan is human, the synthetic brain is functioning completely unassisted, and is experiencing symptoms indicative of borderline lethal shock. You can also see now why it reports that its body hurts. Neurons corresponding to every inch of its body are receiving pain signals identical to those of severe paresthesia. You are looking at what, at a glance, is identical to a scan of a transplanted human brain stranded in a vat. In an elevated state of severe pain and panic. With a near lethal contusion to its parietal lobe.
You look at the nurse, she looks at you. You stare at each other for what feels like an hour.
“We have to shut it down,” she says. Her face is like a rock again.
The synths eyes widen and a look of pristine terror takes his face. He lets out a piercing, begging scream, “NO, oh my god, don’t, MOM, PLEASE–”
The nurse reaches over and pinches his neck from both sides, deactivating his voice. He continues to scream silently, sobbing and coughing like a toddler, calling for his mother, but making no voice. You will write this off as a complication.