Half-body

[rix_scaedu]

 This was written to my Trope Bingo prompt “Half-body.”  This was an art prompt, but I am not a visual artist….  I don’t believe that this 1,405 word piece happens in an existing world.  I hope that you enjoy it.

Athan Rednough had almost died the Saturday that Cheg Nudwhich and his gang raided the Grey Tower Gold reserve.  Theoretically, the Grey Tower was impregnable.  Unless you distracted a lot of resources.  So Nudwhich had provided a lot of distraction.  To do that, he'd delegated.  One of his delegations had been to a group that was ideologically opposed to the drilling of the inter-metro underground trainline along the route of the old Argo Street between Port Aran and Dalekirk.  When the bomb with its shaped explosive charge and seismic-activated trigger system had gone off, it had dropped thirty metres of rock on top of the drilling machine Athan had been controlling.

 

Athan hadn't died, but he had lost sufficient of all four limbs to make up two complete ones and when he got his prosthetics they made up half his body weight.   He'd spent a lot of time in rehabilitation and on deciding what he needed and wanted out of his new personal equipment. He'd wound up in a military hospital thanks to the side effects of Nudwhich's planned chaos, and he'd met a lot of people with practical advice on the subject:

"What do you want to do with them?"

"You are allowed to have more than one set, you know."

"Make sure they've got casings to keep grit out of the workings."

"If you avoid the computerised stuff, it can't be hacked and it can't be bricked by a software update or glitch."

"Avoid the powered stuff - if you run out of juice it can be more than awkward."

"If it has to be powered, make sure that you can change the batteries yourself, and that they put the battery access somewhere that you get to without taking everything off."

"Have you seen the casing personalization options?"

He was walking independently and doing his own self-care, but still in rehabilitation when his psychologist took him back to the work site where the accident had happened.  The drilling machine in the shaft now was Pimp because the one he’d been in, Yan, had been removed for repairs after Athan had been extracted from its innards.  Work had long since moved past the location where Athan had been injured, even with the delay that had been needed after the sabotage to remove the debris and damaged equipment and then put in another drilling machine.  The actual incident site had been well and truly stabilised, and plans were under way to use the unexpected space around the line for something useful, like a passing line or an emergency refuge.  The psychologist stayed at his elbow, but the tunnel and the machinery didn't provoke any strong emotion or upset - it was interesting to see how much further they'd gotten but he'd been unconscious from the time he’d been injured until well after he'd arrived at the hospital.

Athan concentrated on where he was putting his new feet and trying to get some idea of what modifications he might need to his new limbs to be able to return to work.  Some of his old work mates were uncomfortable with his injuries but most seemed fine.  One, Emile Brockhurst, said, "Pity about your tatts, mate. "

"Well, I could do something about that," commented Athan, and he pulled up his right sleeve to show the other man the inlay work on the right forearm casing.  "They were able to reinterpret them for me.  It's mainly wire and alloys.  My original tattooist, we went back to him for the original artwork, was surprised at what they managed to do with his stuff."

"I can see how that might be."  Emile nodded and they moved on to other things.

At the end of the visit, they returned to the surface and because it was warmer out of the tunnel, Athan removed his jumper and carried it over his left arm.  When they walked out of the works compound Athan noticed the protesters on the other side of the road, brandishing their banners with 'medieval' lettering, some of them in dead languages.  The readable ones said things like, "Save the Sleeping King!"  and "The Half-made King shall not be Undone!" 

As Athan and the psychologist turned towards where their car was parked down the road, the sunlight gleamed off his metal-finished right arm and a man with a long dirty-grey beard shouted out, "They've woken the Half-made King and they're taking him away!  Save him!"  He surged across the road and the line of protesters followed him.

Before anyone had realised that they needed to react, Athan was surrounded by an overly close group of people he would normally have crossed the road to avoid.  The man with the beard was speaking, but a lot of them were so none of it made sense. Then the bearded man grabbed Athan's forearm and that focused Athan's attention.  "...we did our best to stop them waking you.  I tried to stop the digging."

Something in the other man's tone and delivery made connections in Athan's mind.  He turned to face the older man, jerking his arm out of the man's hands, and bellowed, "You're the one who dropped the tunnel on me!  You almost killed me! You cost me my feet and a hand!"  He took a step towards the bearded man and shouted at him, "Get the police to take you away and put you in a cell now, before I put my new hand around your throat and start squeezing, you stupid waste of space!"

The psychologist was behind him saying, "Don't touch him.  Take deep breaths.  Yell as much as you like, but don't touch him."

Athan continued, venting his pain and the frustration he'd felt with these protesters even before he'd been injured.  "Everyone knows you're not from around here, with your plummy, marsh-bound university accent.  You'd never even lived on a river that drained down to this coast before you came down here, trying to stop us making our lives better.  Everyone who grew up around here knows that you're stupid, carrying on about the Sleeping King being here."  He gave a harsh laugh.  "You don't even know that the Argo Street goes on past Port Aran, what used to be New Port Aran.  What do you think they built the pier on? Haven't you listened to the stories about the bells of St Lawrence's or the Reman and Fokie stuff the fishing boats pull up sometimes out at Hermit's Rocks?"

The bearded man was backing up, which was an improvement, and spluttering, "But, but, but."

Athan didn't follow the man, but he did shout louder.  "Yeah, the Sleeping King was never here.  His hills, if he was ever in them, are under the sea out at the Hermit's Rocks.  You blew me up for nothing."  He looked the man right in the eye and added, "You tried to kill me for no reason at all."

It was probably a good thing that the police stepped in at that point.

The next issue of the Port Aran Echo had two related items.  The first, in the legal notices column, read:

“A man, aged 58, has appeared before Dalekirk Magistrate’s Court and been remanded in custody on charges related to the sabotage of the Argo Street inter-metro rail tunnel earlier this year.  The Police Prosecutor advised the Court that investigations are ongoing and further charges are expected.  Bail was denied as the accused is considered a flight risk and his passport has been ordered to be surrendered to the police.”

The second was in the Aunt Agatha’s Ondits column, a gossip section in a faux-Regency style meant to appeal to those who enjoyed a certain popular television series:

“It has come to your Aunt’s attention that a certain erudite gentleman who has spent the last twelve months accusing local authorities and construction companies of deliberately endangering important historical and archaeological sites was truly unaware of certain local history facts.  One is of the opinion that if a person does not know of the land losses along this coast during the reigns of Curthose and the Pretender, then perhaps that person should not be making pronouncements on the location of items of mythic landscape.  Your Aunt’s circle of intimates has divided feelings on whether ignorance is a better excuse for the gentleman’s behaviour than being miffed that he was not selected to conduct the paid pre-construction historical survey.”

Comments

[kengr]

Way too plausible.

I'm reminded of the gits who conduct "Revival" meetings in places their faith never *was*.

[rix_scaedu]

Someone who is so convinced that he's right and knows better than everyone else.

[kelkyag]

Go Athan! But also how did no one call out this jackass on his errors earlier?

I am quite curious about the tattoo and inlay versions of his selected artwork, and whether that (and not just the metal arm) fed into the "you're the half-made king!" nonsense.

[rix_scaedu]

The bearded man is self confident, a little charismatic, persuasive when he wants to be, and he BELIEVES. That small group of followers of his protesting with him (less than 50 on their best day) aren't from around there either.