State of the Art

This month's lore post will dig into Ortega post-Heartbreak, and the new generator powering them.

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There are no windows in the testing facility, no mirrors hiding hidden viewers. This is the high security boost rehab wing, reinforced for whatever can happen when people with too much power go out of control. I suppose I am one of them now.

"How do you feel, Charge?" Dr. Sam is making an effort to look relaxed, but I know she's as excited as I am. First time without safeguards. Without simulated tests.

Still, that's a question I'm not sure I should answer honestly. I feel too great for it to be real. Like I could climb a building without safety gear, like leaping off a plane in flight would be a good idea. My skin tingles like a limb that's fallen asleep, I want to scratch it, tear out the micrometal weave that's been painstakingly inserted. Instead I flex my hand, synthskin fusing nearly perfectly with flesh. "No tension around the ports. Do you mind if I stretch?"

"Go ahead, we want to know any issues you might have."

"Sure," I say, biting back a smile. This feeling can't be safe, I shouldn't be allowed to feel this good. What have they done? When will I land?

Keeping my thoughts to myself I walk over to the bars. It's less of a gym than a rehab facility, but it will do to test out how well this old body can move. The grip is great, no soreness and no stretch as I pull myself up. I know I'm heavier than I should be, my retirement meant putting on weight even if I hadn't been drinking. I might lie to everyone else but I don't like lying to myself. I was on the verge of becoming a joke, a failure, an ignoble end to an illustrious career. Another casualty of the Heartbreak incident.

I bite down hard on the side of my mouth, tasting blood but not ozone. Huh. Good control. "Did you do anything to the power distribution?"

"Oh yes," she says, the voice filled with excitement. "We needed to. In order for the generator to function to full capacity we needed to integrate it fully into your autonomous nervous system. You won't need the old failsafes anymore. At least in theory." She admits the last with a nervous smile.

"Is that why you've put me in the reinforced wing?" I pull myself up again, holding the position as long as I can until my arms starts to ache. Still, the grip is great, reconstructed flesh and bone. No expense spared. "In case I wasn't able to control it?"

"Just a precaution. Insurance, you know." She watches me hungrily but there's nothing sexual in it. "I trust my work, that's why I'm here."

"Not scared of a fusion reactor overload?" Am I? The glow in my stomach feels warm, but also like a vague pain. It reminds me of a bad fall, where the true pain initially is cushioned by adrenaline. My body knows it's compromised but does its best to compensate. Like I always do. Unique. One in a million. Flattery to make me agree to experimental surgery that was as likely to kill me as empower me.

"We have a portable cooler. If you are starting to experience anything out of the ordinary, let me know and we can plug you into the overload system and bleed off excess power."

"There's nothing ordinary about me," I say with a teasing smile as I let go, checking the back of my hands for any sign of tears or stress. Nothing.

"You know what I mean." Her voice is sharp now, I can see a hint of fear that I'm not taking this seriously. "I need you to tell me how you feel so I can see if we need to make adjustments."

"I feel great," I admit. "What are your instruments telling you?"

"So far the systems are green, but..." she hesitates. "Now that control is handed over to your nervous system there are limits to what we can see. We don't have control anymore. We can't see your inputs. Only the results."

"Huh." I touch my stomach, realizing what that means. This new generator is entirely under my control. No override codes. No command prompts. The skin on my lower arm is synth-skin smooth, but there's no sign of the battery meter that used to be there. No hidden access ports for plugs, or nearly imperceptible buttons for power settings. "Do I still need external units for tuning?"

"In theory, no." She walks over to me, reaching out to touch my arm with the invasive surety of a doctor. Checking my pulse. "I would still recommend static grounding before interacting with computers."

"What about excessive bleed-off before swimming?" It had always been a hassle.

"Without the charging ports, that shouldn't be needed. Unless you're hurt, the seals should be tight."

"The emitters?" I look at my hands again, trying to pick out differences in design.

"The default position is inert. It will take a conscious effort to activate them. We theorize that under water they will be harder to activate, a bit like a diving reflex."

"You theorize." I walk over to one of the insulated poles. The whole room is covered in rubber mats, someone didn't want to take chances. "I assume you want me to do another power check?"

"Please. This is the first time you're fully off grid, so we need to make sure everything works properly. Could you start to try to emulate standard taser settings?"

"Sure," I say, flexing my hand. This is truly climbing without safety gears. In the past, my charge had been easily adjustable by wrist controls. Now it was all up to me. I had spent weeks in bed practicing control and energy levels, but being able to see the curve on a screen and try to match it is different from trying it in real life. No visible feedback. If I messed up on a person, I might kill them.

Or myself.

It's still hard to grasp that there's a miniature fusion generator housed within my guts. It's even harder to imagine that the only thing that's keeping it from killing me is my own powers. Inertial electrostatic confinement. The electricity I can generate is only a fraction of what it's capable of, the rest is used to shield and contain it. I never asked whether it would give me cancer, because let's be fair, a long life is the least of my worries. I assume that it might, at least considering the new testing regiment. But, they'll catch anything early. I'm too expensive to let go to waste.

I can feel it. Inside me. Drawing on the generator gives a thrill not unlike the first moment's of free fall. A tingle in my nerves, like tensing muscles I never had before. I reach out and gently touch the pole, feeling the zap passing between us. A faint scent of ozone, a crawling sensation over my skin as if it was covered with spiders as the excess is dissipated safely over the Faraday web.

"Good. It's within the tolerance." She looks at her hand-held monitor. "How did it feel?"

"It tickled. Other than that, not much. Doesn't feel much different from the batteries, apart from the lack of a control system." Some might say this was more of a fusion battery than a generator, but with a battery life twice your lifetime it didn't make much difference. Probably looked cooler in the project presentation to whoever approved your surgery.

"You are the control system," she corrects. "It is as much a part of you now as any other organ."

"Some of them don't like me very much," I joke back. "I think my liver is pretty fed up with me."

"Well, it will be more thankful now that you've stopped drinking."

"Yeah, wouldn't want to operate a fusion reactor while drunk." But would it make a difference if it really will react as part of your body? On the other hand, throwing up is not nice, and I'd hate to imagine what could happen if I lost control of other things than your stomach.

"Exactly." She gives you a stern look. "Try a higher output."

"How high can I go?" I rub my hands together. In the past, a high charge meant a short fight, I'd lose power to my legs fast. Was that not going to be a thing anymore? No more fear of being paralyzed, no more waking up in a cold sweat fumbling for the charger because I forgot to plug it in before falling asleep.

"We have an overload alarm, please stop if it sounds. We don't want to cause a blackout."

"Oh." I look at her. "You're not kidding?" My smile widens.

I start gently, touching the pole with the faintest hint of static shock. Barely any draw, just ambient energy collected in my system. And then I increase the drain. I can feel it in my fingertips first, the tingle, the phantom sensations. The warmth in my gut is almost pleasant, as if pulling a greater charge relaxes some muscle I didn't know I had. The scent of ozone gets stronger, and I pull back my hand an inch because the heat is turning painful. An electrical arc still connects me to the pole, enabling me to feed more into it. It feels good in a disturbing way, like running too fast, feeling my body work perfectly in sync. How long until I run out of breath?

The alarm blares before I have a chance to find out, and I pull my hand away. The arc lingers for a moment, white hot against my eyes.

"I'm going to need sunglasses I think." I still see spots, like welding without the right precautions.

"You shouldn't reach those levels without your helmet and suit," she agrees. "It isn't safe. We still don't know the upper limit of the Faraday web." She looks at you cautiously, then back at her monitor. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah." I rub my fingertips. "Bit scalded, but like you said, that should be fixable with the gloves."

"No, no, I mean the generator. You just drew a lot of power from it." She looks down at the monitor again. "A LOT of power."

"Ah, yes. That." I consider what to tell her. The truth doesn't feel wise, she seems to be expecting that it would be an effort when it's anything but. Still, now that the thrill of the draw has faded, the dull ache I felt earlier is back. Stronger. Like indigestion, some unknown soreness in my gut that I don't know how to quell. A warning that I pulled too much? Or a sensation that will stay with me? Another ache to add to all your other ones. Nothing a few painkillers won't fix when the adrenaline fails. "You told me to try it out." I fake a weary smile. "I don't operate on half-measures."

"So I've been told. Still. Impressive." She looks down at the data, and I walk over to take a look over her shoulder. It's not hard to fake a weary limp.

The graph is familiar, I've seen it on the screen for the last month while dialing in your output levels and control. But the way the peak almost surges off the screen. I really can't connect that to any form of effort. If anything, it was easier than holding back at the start.

How powerful have they made me? Do they even know?

"What's my theoretical maximum output?" I ask, keeping my tone light.

"We are not sure," she admits. "Looking at this curve, you could generate a similar amount of power as a regular lightning bolt. Which is three times what your max output used to be."

"And that left me with minutes of movement at the end, if that."

"Yes. I'm not sure how long such a surge could be sustained, but it's unlikely you'd need to do it for long."

"Oh I don't know, I'm sure some penny-pincher would like to hook me up to the desk and have me power the Rangers building to save on the electricity build."

"A regimen of regular bleeding off excess power would most likely be good for you."

"I was joking." I shake my head, but I can see what she means. It felt good to let loose, might as well have that power get to good use. "Just don't have me rename myself to 'Battery.' That doesn't have the same ring as Charge."

"Wouldn't dream of it." She reaches out to examine my hands, satisfied by their condition. "How do you feel physically? Any sign of neural degeneration?"

"None." It had been on the list of possible side effects, more probable than the blowing myself up or having a heart attack. Neural degeneration. Possible Parkinson-like tremors, or even ALS. "So far. How long until I know for sure?"

"We can only do our best to catch any symptoms early." Her smile is kind, as if she cares about you and not just her work. Maybe she does. "Theoretically the neural load on your system is less than in an average Soviet MBW, but we don't know how long those pilots last. Or what other systems they have sharing the load inside their armors. You're on your own."

"I'm usually the most comfortable that way." I flex my hands, then hold one of them out. Steady. I switch into a combat stance, my jabs are quick, practiced. They flow like water, only my aching muscles reminds me that I'm not in perfect shape. "I feel good. Steady. In control."

"Your reflexes were extraordinary," she admits. "Just remember that you're not twenty anymore."

"I feel better than I was at twenty," I brag. It's only half a lie. I'm heavier and with more muscle, my reflexes might be faster but I know I'm not as agile. Yet. A heavier body means more effort to move it. How much can your reaction time compensate? Training is the only way to find out. "Especially my hands. Thank you for letting me talk you into those mods."

"Thank Dr. Halabi, she was the one that sold it to the budget committee. It might have been cheaper to use fully modded hands for the interface, but that might have meant more issues with control since you'd have a double neural interface."

"I like my hands." Would I have said yes if it had meant losing them to copies? Wei's hands are... more and less than human. I know too much of what he gave up to make such a choice easily. "And you needed my precision and nervous system for this. Made no sense replacing my hands."

"They were unsure if the needed circuitry and insulation could be implemented with the titanium bone reinforcement, and the new Faraday web. There was a lot of things to fit on a very small area that needed to have full flexibility."

"Well, it's stellar work." I look over at the obstacle course. "Do you mind if I go for a run?"

"Not at all. We want to see if everything works fine. I think you have to get used to a lot of tests."

"I choose to see it as training." I stretch, feeling my spine move with unnatural smoothness. Did I ever think about my spine back in the day? Did I appreciate it? Probably not enough. Just like I didn't appreciate my youth.

It feels good being able to move again. Being stuck in bed for a month left me annoyed and irritated, and the slow rehab training afterwards didn't make things easier. I'm not fully recovered yet, that much is obvious as I stretch my legs. The incisions on my stomach are still sore, and I know better than to exert myself fully. Just a light jog. Glide over some of the obstacles. Have some fun on the balance beam. Everything feels fine, comparable to what I could expect after a major operation. No. Better. There's a sharpness to my movements now, something I know I need to compensate for in the future. Can't afford to overreact, if I fall on my ass, S...

I break off before I think the name. Before I remember the laugh. Breath hard and close my eyes. Balance with closed eyes was always harder, no visual clues to help me compensate. Only my own body. In my stomach, the generator churns. It's an illusion, of course. There's no mechanical parts. It still hurts, like a too hot engine. Did I overdo it before? Maybe. But it's preferable to remembering.

I can't afford to. I passed the psych evaluation, it wouldn't do to get stuck in therapy.

I can do this.