“But why the CID, Dad?”
“That was Jason Richter’s idea,” Martindale said. “You met Colonel Richter in Battle Mountain, I believe?”
“Yes, sir. He helped me do the programming so I could get checked out in piloting a CID. He’s the head of operations for Sky Masters Aerospace now.”
“Your dad was in critical condition and not expected to survive the flight back to Hawaii,” Martindale said. “My aircraft that evacuated him had very few medical staff and no surgical or trauma-care equipment . . . but it did have a Cybernetic Infantry Device on board to help with rescue and recovery on Guam. Jason said the CID could help a victim breathe and control his other bodily functions until he made it to a hospital. Richter didn’t know that victim was your father.”
“Then . . . then you’re okay, Dad?” Brad asked, at first happy. But he quickly realized that his father was far, far from okay, or else he would not still be aboard the CID with his only son standing in front of him. “Dad . . . ?”
“I’m afraid not, son,” Patrick said. “I can’t survive outside the CID.”
“What?”
“I could possibly survive, Brad, but I’d definitely be on assisted breathing and heartbeat and probably in a vegetative state,” Patrick said. Brad’s eyes welled with tears, and his mouth dropped open in shock. Both the robot’s hands reached out and rested on Brad’s shoulders—its touch was light, even soft, despite its size. “I didn’t want that, Brad. I didn’t want to be a burden to my family for years, maybe decades, until they had the technology to heal me, or until I died. Inside the CID I was awake, functioning, and up and moving. Outside, I’d be in a coma, on life support. When I was inside the CID and awake, I had the choice: stay on life support, pull the plug, or stay in the CID. I decided I’d rather stay inside, where I could be of some service.”
“You’re . . . you’re going to stay inside . . . forever . . . ?”
“I’m afraid so, son,” Patrick said, “until we have the ability to heal all of the injuries I sustained.” The tears rolled down Brad’s face even harder now. “Brad, it’s okay,” Patrick said, and his softer, reassuring tone was evident even in the robot’s electronic voice. “I should be dead, son—I was dead. I was given an extraordinary gift. It may not seem like life, but it is. I want you to be happy for me.”
“But I can’t . . . can’t see you?” Brad reached up and touched the robot’s face. “I can’t touch you for . . . for real?”
“Believe me, son, I can feel your touch,” Patrick said. “I’m sorry you can’t feel mine, other than the cold composites. But the alternatives for me were unacceptable. I’m not ready to die yet, Brad. This may seem unnatural and unholy, but I’m still alive, and I think I can make a difference.”
“What about the memorial service . . . the urn . . . the death certificate . . . ?”
“My doing, Brad,” President Martindale said. “As your father said, he was dead for a short time, in critical condition, and not expected to live. No one except Richter thought putting an injured man in the CID would work for more than a few days at most. Once we got back to the States, we tried several times to remove him from the CID so we could get him into surgery. Every time we tried, he arrested. It was . . . like his body didn’t want to leave it.”
“I was pretty messed up too, Brad,” Patrick said. “I saw the pictures. There wasn’t much left of me.”
“So what are you saying? You’re being healed by the CID? How can that work?”
“Not healed, but more like . . . sustained, Brad,” Patrick said. “The CID can monitor my body and brain, deliver oxygen, water, and nutrients, handle waste, and control the interior environment. It can’t fix me. I might get better over time, but no one knows. But I don’t need a healthy body to pilot the CID or employ its weapons.”
Brad realized what his father was saying, and it made his skin crawl and his face contort in disbelief despite the joy he felt at talking to his father again. “You mean . . . you mean you’re just a brain . . . a brain operating a machine . . . ?”