Mindscan

Porter was quiet for a moment; perhaps he was distracted by something. But then he said, "Hundred."

"What?"

"You said 'undred, not hundred. Try to get the H sound."

" 'Undred. 'Undred. Huhn-dred. Hundred."

"Good," said Porter. "It's normal for there to be some differences in sensations, but as long as you're basically feeling okay…?"

"Yes," I said again. "I feel just fine."

And I knew, in that instant, that I was fine. I was relaxed. For the first time in ages, I felt calm, safe. I wasn't going to suddenly have a massive cerebral hemorrhage.

Rather, I was going to live a full normal life. I'd get my biblical three-score-and-ten; I'd get the Statistics Canada eighty-eight years for males born in 2001; I'd get all of that and more. I was going to live. Everything else was secondary. I was going to live a good, long time, without paralysis, without being a vegetable. Whatever settling-in difficulties I encountered would be worth it. I knew that at once.

"Very good," said Porter. "Now, let's try something simple. See if you can turn your head toward me."

I did so — and nothing happened. "It's not working, doc."

"Don't worry. It'll come. Try again."

I did, and this time my head did loll left, and—

And — and — and—

Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!

"That chair over there," I said. "What color is it?"

Porter turned, surprised. "Um, green."

"Green! So that's what green looks like! It's — cool, isn't it? Soothing. And your shirt, doc? What color is your shirt?"

"Yellow."

"Yellow! Wow!"

"Mr. Sullivan, are you — are you color-blind?"

"Not anymore!"

"Good God. Why didn't you tell us?"

Why hadn't I told them? "Because you hadn't asked" was one true answer, but I knew there were others. Mostly I was afraid if I had told them, they'd have insisted on duplicating that aspect of who I'd been.

"What kind of color blindness do — did — you have?"

"Doo-something."

"You're deutanopic?" said Porter. "You've got M-cone deficiency?"

"That's it, yes." Almost nobody has true color blindness; that is, almost no one sees only in black and white. We deuteranopes see the world in shades of blue, orange, and gray, so that many colors that contrast sharply for people with normal vision look the same to us. Specifically, we see red and greenish-yellow as beige; magenta and green as gray; both orange and yellow as what I'd been told was a brick color; both blue-green and purple as mauve; and both indigo and cyan as cornflower blue.

Only medium blue and medium orange look the same to us as they do to people with normal vision.

"But you're seeing color now?" asked Porter. "Astonishing."

"That it is," I said, delighted. "It's all so — so garish. I don't think I ever understood that word before. What an overwhelming variety of shades!" I rolled my head the other way, this time without thinking about it. I found myself facing a window. "The grass — my God, look at it! And the sky! How different they are from each other!"

"We'll show you something colorful on vid later today, and—"

"Finding Nemo," I said at once. "It was my favorite movie when I was a kid — and everybody said it was just full of color."

Porter laughed. "If you like."

"Great," I said. "Lucky fin!" I tried to move my right arm in imitation of Nemo's fishy high-five, but it didn't actually rise. Ah, well — it would take time; they'd warned me about that.

Still, it felt wonderful to be alive, to be free.

"Try again, Jake," said Porter. He astonished me by lifting his own arm in the "lucky fin!" gesture.

I made another attempt, and this time I was successful. "There, you see," said Porter, his eyebrows working as always. "You'll be fine. Now, let's get you out of this bed."

He took hold of my right arm — I could feel it as a matrix of a thousand points of pressure, instead of one smooth contact — and he helped me sit up. I used to suffer from occasional lightheadedness, and sometimes got dizzy when rising from the horizontal, but there was none of that.

I was in a bizarre sensory state. In most ways, I was under stimulated: I wasn't conscious of any smells, and although I could tell I was now sitting up, which meant I had some notion of balance, there wasn't any great downward pressure on the back of my thighs or my rear end. But my visual sense was overstimulated, assaulted by colors I'd never seen before. And if I looked at something featureless — like the wall — I could just make out the mesh of pixels that composed my vision.

"How are you doing?" asked Porter.

"Fine," I said. "Wonderful!"

"Good. Perhaps now is a good time to tell you about the secret missions we're going to send you out on."

"What?!"

"You know, bionic limbs. Spying. Secret-agent cyborg stuff."

"Dr. Porter, I—"