Fort Clayson’s extensive medical facilities included the Davies Army Community Hospital, its main primary care unit. Back from Colorado Springs and still in civilian clothes, Sly walked under signs for audiology and cardiology towards the blue sign for the Bradley Medical Technology Clinic, a well-worn path since Oversight had approved Peacock’s plan to recruit volunteers.
Entering the familiar puke-ugly, nicotine-yellow annex, he was met by a stern senior nurse who led him to the private suite occupied by Dr Frank Holborn, MD., FACS. In short order the surgeon had him stripped down to his underwear. Three too-young technicians literally buzzed around him, armed with tablets and probes like lollypops.
A slim, elegant man a couple of years older than Sly, Dr Frank, as he liked to be known, sat erect on his stool partly blocking the view of a huge wall screen.
“The array looks in good shape,” he said, folding the ophthalmoscope back into a padded case with long, clever fingers. “Readings from the Clarity biochips are all normal. You notice any problems?”
Sly shook his head and the picture on the wall screen lurched sickeningly, like a drunken kaleidoscope. The screen projected a huge and distorted view of the surgeon’s face from Sly’s optical implant, ‘Clarity’. Clarity was a huge and experimental array of nanoscale light-sensors in a fake eyeball, linked to processors and spliced into the optic disc where the optic nerve connected to the eye.
“It’s a miracle I see anything after losing the eye,” Sly said with feeling. “Clarity works better than I ever expected. I thought my career was over, and sure, it took a while to recover. But now it’s all good. Thank you.”
Dr Frank smiled avuncularly.
“Thank you for allowing the experiment. The brain is an amazing organ, Colonel Harris – Sly. Your brain only needed time to interpret Clarity’s signals.” The surgeon abruptly changed the subject. “And we were already working together on Project Peacock, after all, when I found you on my operating table. Then you volunteered for the original sub-dermal sensor installation, what, eighteen months ago?”
Dr Frank’s smile was friendly, Sly noticed, but his eyes were shrewd.
“I couldn’t ask a team to do something I was unwilling to do myself.”
The surgeon sat back, legs crossed above novelty socks.
“I’ve a poster-sized picture of your upgrade procedure hanging on my office wall,” the surgeon admitted with a small smile. “Hundreds of three-inch delivery pins poking from your skin like a scene from Hellraiser. Definitely one for the album.”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Sly’s sub-skin sensor upgrade had been two months before, and since then fourteen volunteers had been implanted with the same microscopic, hair-like implants. The procedure looked horrendous but was, in truth, no more painful than the over-the-top acupuncture session it resembled.
Some of the implants monitored muscle activation and strength, but most surveyed the blood for hydration, electrolyte and glucose saturation, and levels of various hormones. The skein of bio-lace that recorded his brain’s electrical activity, on the other hand, had taken hours to apply, and weeks to fully absorb into the skin of his scalp. His head still occasionally itched.
“... saw yesterday’s results?”
Sly blinked at another typically abrupt change of subject from the surgeon. Dr Frank’s genius-level mind flipped like a performing seal. He rewound the question.
“Results? Of the pre-op run, cycling, and all the lung capacity tests? Uh, yes. The unit doctor waved me through. I won’t drop dead tomorrow in the snow.”
“Not tomorrow,” the slim surgeon said, with the same small indulgent smile, “it’ll take a while to get to Antarctica, after all. I’m very excited. We couldn’t have designed a more demanding test.”
Sly inwardly winced. That’s what he was to Dr Frank. Another test.
“The HUD has two new icons, last time I looked,” Sly said, yanking on his shirt as he pulled his own conversational U-turn. “Six stat bars, now, not four?”
Input from all the Peacock sensors went straight into Gus, the project’s neural net, and were converted into personal and team measures of health and capability. All the project members had access to Gus and a personal ‘heads-up display’, or HUD. Their commanders could see and compare everyone in their team.
“Yes,” Dr Frank said, expression brightening. “Samson added two new synthetic indicators to the four you called Strength, Dexterity, Constitution, and Intelligence, based on analysis of the conversational system logs. After consultation, we called them ‘Wisdom’ and ‘Charisma’.”
“Sorry for the names,” Sly smiled. “The team enjoys role-playing games – ‘hit points’ are next on their list. What do the new synths track?”
“Wisdom measures perception and insight, while Charisma tracks persuasion, interpersonal influence, and leadership,” Dr Frank said. “If someone positively engaged or swayed the opinions of others, we added points to their charisma. If they were sought out as a source of insight, advice or conflict resolution, they gained in wisdom. Individuals can be both charismatic and wise, but the two qualities together are rare. In some ways, the two are inimical.”
“Yeah, I don’t know anyone with both. You have data for everyone?”
“Benchmarks for everyone, yes, you can track the impact of skill and fatigue on day-to-day performance. I’m confident you can compare synths and skills to choose the right person to knock on a door, knock down a door, or pick its lock.”
“Lock-picking? That would be new,” Sly said drily.
Dr Frank’s eyebrow raised.
“We’re using the standard skills groups, such as essential, executive, thinking, and practical. Lock-picking is under ‘practical’. You can contrast any three members of the team on any three skills, or nine on one skill, as you prefer.”
“Although I won’t see anything else from my left eye, if I do,” Sly quipped.
“I don’t recommend driving, operating heavy machinery,” the surgeon said, giving him a flat look, “or skiing, if you don’t want me to replace the right eye, too.”
