Theseus' Body

Sensitive content warning: body horror, violence

My body is sore and aching, but that does not stop the onslaught of morbid curiosity that emanates in droves from my boys. In the mess hall, they poke at my face, and while the touch of human skin against metallic dermic implants registers in my brain as “calloused”, I cannot help but recoil backward in surprise.

“Crazy,” says one of the boys. “That’s fucking crazy.”

Private Haraldson shakes his head. He is blond, cautious, and one of the newer recruits, but consistently proves himself to be dedicated to the cause. Unsurprisingly, he’s taken a liking to me, and clings to my side like a benign growth.

“When’s the last procedure?” he asks, tentative and slow. He’s a good kid, Haraldson; you’d think military life wouldn’t suit a boy like him, but he flourishes in the rain and muck and celebrates the rattle of gunfire with a blitz in his eyes. His hand is on my shoulder, and while the implants tell my brain that it’s there, physically, I cannot help but sense the ghost of a touch, as if my body has been separated from my soul.

“Tomorrow morning,” is my answer to Haraldson. Some of the boys attempt to poke my face some more– as if being their Captain means nothing– and I swat their hands. The other captains think I am too soft, too squishy in my command. Sometimes, I can see what they mean.

Another hand brushes against my cheek and the sensation is so foully detached that it causes my legs, unbidden, to launch me from my seat. These legs are new, too, just like the rest of my body. In some unlearned, uneducated way, they react as if burnt to every touch, and are sensitive to even the gentlest lick of skin.

The boys take a step back. Haraldson remains next to me, seated on a squeaky mess hall chair.

“You shouldn’t have to do this,” says Haraldson. “There’s no obligation.”

I look into his eyes. I can tell he wants to say something else– he always does– but is holding his tongue out of respect. Some of the other boys speak up, agreeing with Haraldson, but their voices are small.

Shaking my head, I sit back down. The seat creaks beneath my newfound, iron weight; at some point, as I lean back and tuck my arms behind my head, it squeals in high-pitched warning of a coming breakage.

“How I see it, there’s two options,” I say. “Option one: I don’t proceed with the procedure. We lose ground, lose battles, and eventually lose the war. Option two: I proceed with the procedure. We gain ground, win battles, and eventually win the war. There is no situation where option one results in our success.”

I look at the boys, so young and so juvenile and so full of hope. Even in their faces, I can see the cling of childhood in their still-chubby cheeks, bones not yet carved by the shaking of shells or scarred from guns. The war has raged for too long, and the people have feared for even longer, but leave it to the young men to believe that they can do anything– that winning is always within their grasp no matter what.

Still, Haraldson shoots, “What about volunteers? There are plenty of less important people to–”

I cut him off. “No. I’ve already agreed to the final procedure. Plus, even if we miraculously discovered some poor sap who wanted to give his life up for the country, he’d have to undergo just under one-hundred surgeries to reach the level I’m at. He’d need new legs, dermic implants, arms and fingers and optics– he would, quite literally, need to be replaced. We’ve wasted enough time as is.”

With those words, I wave my hand to dismiss the boys. They disperse slowly, like pouring milk into a mug of coffee; they swirl around the quiet, midnight mess hall until they gradually slip out of tent-flap doors and into the cool night.

Of course, Haraldson remains.

He always remains.

“Private,” I say. “Return to your bunk.”

“This is so fucked up,” is his reply. “So fucked.”

I have no answer for this. Of course, this is far from my idea of a perfect situation. My skin aches from the last grafting of metallic skin on my face, and while my body appears in the same shape as it has ever been, there is something striking about the way it is both mine and not. Looking into my glass of water, I see the reflecting glare of iron in the liquid mirror.

“You’re a captain. You’re important military personnel.”

“And?”

“And what? We seriously don’t have enough people to go around that won’t sacrifice themselves for this experiment? It has to be you?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I offered, Private. Because I’m willing to do what needs to be done.”

Glancing at the clock, I realize my procedure is in five hours. Dr. Meara likes punctuality, and heavily dislikes waiting. I push myself upward from my seat and wish Haraldson goodnight.

Outside, the night is cold, colder than it should be. My skin absorbs the chill like a sponge, inflating my newborn body with sharp and icy sensations. I press down a chill, step toward my tent, but am stopped by a hand that wraps around my forearm. My brain registers the touch. The skin is soft and warm.

I turn around to see Private Haraldson. His face is flushed with the cool air, golden head a mop of tangled threads. His lips are twisted into a frown.

He looks down to his hand and lets go, the heat of his skin fleeting with the release. “Sorry, Captain,” he mumbles. “I just wanted to tell you…”

He stumbles with his words. His hands flail and he squirms.

“Out with it, Private,” I command.

“I just wanted to say goodbye. And– and that I respect you, and look up to you, and…”

His voice trails off and he kicks a foot out in embarrassment. I chuckle to myself.

“Thank you, Private,” I say. A smile spreads across my face, slow to grow but eventually reaching a full grin. I place a hand on his shoulder and extend the other. “It’s been an honour.”

His hand grabs mine. The warmth returns with a rush. He says nothing, but nevertheless nods his head fervently.

***

“I want you to count down from ten, and then we’ll begin with the procedure. When it's complete, you'll be asleep. Actually, probably not. It kind of depends on your definition of ‘sleep.’ I’d define sleep as the most relaxing experience any person can have– you know, cucumbers on the eyes, laying in nothing but your skivvies under cozy blankets. Nothing like the shit you’ll be dealing with. What I meant is that this will be total nothingness: just a black void.”

Dr. Meara places the final prong against my head. I attempt to look up, but realize it is hopeless; the contraption she has me strapped into is some multi-legged head-case that holds its prey firmly. Carefully positioned prongs are located on various locations on my head and, even if I cannot see them, I can feel their push against my rigid, reinforced skull.

“Oh, by the way,” says Dr. Meara, “I took the liberty of making your final moments as peaceful as possible.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Dr. Meara appears in my vision and gestures to the surgery bay's door. Opening, it reveals Private Haraldson wearing a sheepish grin. He’s in uniform, but clearly hasn’t gone through the daily rituals of training. I frown.

“Haraldson?”

“He’s a peaceful enough kid.”

Haraldson waves and pulls a seat in front of me. He says, “This morning, Dr. Meara asked if I would hold some cards up for her.”

I raise an eyebrow and glance at Dr. Meara. “Cards?”

She rolls her eyes. Her red hair swishes through my sight as she disappears once more. “It’s a brain thing– I don’t expect you to understand, Captain, but I’ll give you a rundown. I’m replacing a good chunk of your neurons with three combat implants, which you already know about; you’ll be nothing but a killing machine, the perfect combat android, etcetera, etcetera. It’s important for me to know exactly what’s happening with your brain processes when I begin the procedure, so I got Private Haraldson here to hold some cards up with questions on them. That way I can gauge exactly where we’re at.”

I try to nod, but then remember my head is locked in place.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Begin the countdown, then.”

I count down from ten, and by the time I hit six, I can hear Dr. Meara beginning to drill into the back of my head. It is a strange sensation, nothing like the distant touch of skin or whipping breeze. This is instead a great pressure, but painless.

Haraldson holds a card up which reads, “Two plus two equals…”

“Four,” I answer.

Dr. Meara laughs. “Very good, Captain. I knew they promoted you for a good reason.”

The next cards are just as easy. They’re simplistic questions, things like addition and subtraction and short quizzes about families and sisters and brothers. They’re all simple, so simple; they’re really quite simple. Some include pictures of people, and ask me to identify the colour of their shirts, or hair. Some are just pictures accompanied by no text.

“The first implant is going in,” says Dr. Meara. Her voice sounds far.

The pictures begin to look a lot like battlefields, and I can trace the exact way a body will fly if I shoot a repulsor round at their feet. If done correctly, I can get the body to knock into a few others, and take down multiple combatants in one, well-placed shot.

“So, Private, why’d you agree to this? Not many people want to see their Captain get his brain blown into oblivion.”

The cards change. Haraldson looks at me and then to the doctor. “The Captain is a good man. I just wanted to be there for his last moments.”

“A good answer. It’s a pretty noble sacrifice, don’t you think?”

Haraldson holds another card. I try to answer, but the words aren’t forming. In fact, my mouth has pulled into a snarl, and I pant. I pant. 

“Very.”

“Are you looking to do something just as noble, Private?”

I try to shake my head, but am stopped by the prongs. I can hear the squish of the second implant being shoved into my brain matter. Fuzz fills my sight. Haraldson becomes a blur of straw-yellow hair and green uniform; the room’s light is a shadow in my eyes.

“I…”

“Just think about it, Private. I doubt your Captain will be enough to turn the tides– at this point, we’d be lucky if he even makes a dent in the field. Now, two of you? You could really make a difference.”

I don’t want this, I want to tell him without the veneer of being his big, brave, self-sacrificing Captain. I never wanted it– who wants to be forgotten by their own body? A body which moves on its own while you sit in the background and watch from above, behind, within as it strangles necks and shoots hails of bullets from hands that are no longer your own but still your own and probably will never be your own even if they are your own. It’s a terrible thing, and the drill just makes it worse, makes me want to lash out and grab Haraldson and shake him, shake his thin, limber body and scream and froth and shout that my body has never been mine since I signed those damn papers. Signed them with a hand that was mine– mine! all mine!– and then gave away it as if my limbs belonged to anyone but myself.

“There’s some papers just over there,” says Dr. Meara. “Sign ‘em, if you’re inclined. You’d be the linchpin. You and the Captain.”

No– don’t put down the cards. Don’t put down the cards, Haraldson. Don’t do it, do not do it, this is a command, an order, and you will obey me while I still have some faculties, while I’m not just some machine, a metal man, whose force of will is swayed by the wires and calculations in his head that tell him the exact way to kill a man.

I'm forcing my mouth to form the words, these words that need to be said as little stars crinkle in my eyes.

“Haraldson,” I creak. “Haraldson.”

And Haraldson– he’s looking at me. He’s looking at me and the last implant is going in, a spongy, fleshy sound that ricochets like battle debris in my ears.

He’s looking at me.

At me.

Me.