Johnny lay in a hospital bed, straining to keep his eyes open as the nurse brought his dinner. She put down the tray and sat beside him.
"Would you like the lights dimmed?"
"No." If the lights went out, or his eyelids dropped for more than a second, his mind would replay the horrible event that brought him here: Angry at stingy club owners, greedy booking agents, and the looming music industry, he had been driving too fast, and too tired. A moment of inattention and he was off the road; somehow his hand had wound up outside the window, and he felt the scrape of pavement against his wrist. When he instinctively reached for the wheel, a bloody stump passed through it, hitting the dashboard. As earth and glass and sparks spiraled around him, Johnny stared in disbelief at where his left hand had been.
"Dammit, I told you not to turn off the lights!" he barked.
"I'm sorry, you just looked so tired. Here, have some pudding." Johnny watched a shiny globule approaching his face. He wanted to complain about being treated like a baby. Although his right hand had escaped injury, the nurse acted as if both were gone.
"Enough." Johhny's voice was raspy. "My throat stings."
The nurse put her palm on Johnny's forehead. "Oh, are you getting a cold?" she asked.
"Let's see, I sang my balls off for three nights in a row, and cried my heart out for two more. No, I don't think I'm catching cold."
"Doctor says you can go home soon. Isn't that nice?"
"Not really."
"Would you like to see the prosthetics now?"
"No, thank you."
"Now it's no use feeling sorry for yourself. Just think, how do other people deal with loss?"
Johnny was about to finally tell the nurse off when he glanced at her name tag.
"Sue."
The first weeks were bearable, only because they were a challenge. As daily tasks became less of an impossibility and more of a pain in the ass, the novelty slowly eroded. Johnny desperately yearned to play his guitar, which lay in its newly-scuffed case. He realized that it might not have survived the wreck, but was not about to find out. The artificial hands he had experimented with could barely grasp a cigarette, let alone make music. Even if I could adapt, he thought, I'd rather write for someone else than be just another freak with a gimmick. He picked up the case, blew off the remaining fibers of glass, and went to sell his guitar. After all, he had already spent the money.
Johnny had a habit of opening the door to the music store slowly, to avoid the obligatory jingle of the attached bells. This time, however, he didn't care. His former suppliers looked up and smiled at the sound of Christmas, but a blankness crept over their faces in the silence that followed. They each tried to express their sympathy and failed:
"Wow, man, we're all real sorry."
"Yeah, that's too bad."
"How are you doing?" and so on.
The one person he actually wanted to see stayed in the back, staring at his computer. Johnny played along for their sakes and cashed in his axe, a cherry red Gibson in surprisingly fantastic shape.
He got almost half of what he had paid for it.
"Johnny? Johnny, it's Chip."
"Hello, Chip." Johnny knew who it was.
"Listen, man, I'm sorry to call you so late. Got a minute?"
Johnny hoped it was a job offer. Not long ago he swore he'd never peddle instruments, but now he needed some income. "I had a whole bunch of minutes the other day. Why wouldn't you talk to me?"
"I'm sorry, Johnny. I didn't know what to say. But you've got to check this out. I think we can get you an...adapter...to, uh, to replace your hand, y'know?"
"I'm not interested. The doctors have tried. It's hopeless."
"Uh-huh, but this is different...Me and this other guy...he's a scientist from Japan...he's into neurology and computers and stuff... I really think he's on to something...Please just check it out, okay?"
Johnny almost hung up. "What do I have to do?"
"Come to Osaka with me...all expenses paid."
"So I'm going to be a lab rat."
"Look, Johnny, I'm not gonna lie to you. But what do you got to lose?"
"Good point. When do we leave?"
After weeks of tests, probes, simulations, and more tests Dr. Kobyashi was ready to proceed, but wanted to wait until Johnny was feeling better: "His emotional state will have a profound impact on our success."
Fortunately, this hospital was much nicer than the last one. The food was excellent (no pudding!), the air was fresher, and there were fewer screams. Johnny couldn't remember when he had felt better, but he was more than a little scared about the procedure. A box would be "installed", they said, with connections not to his muscles, but to his nerves. This was very different from what he had at first expected. His neurological signals would be converted into electromagnetic patterns, which could then be displayed as either light or sound.
Finally the day came. An acupuncturist worked on Johnny until he resembled a voodoo doll, and Johnny watched as the good doctor attached a silver cylinder to his left arm. As he finished, Dr. Kobyashi attached a few more pieces of hardware, plugged in a pair of headphones, and listened. After a few seconds, he smiled at Chip, glanced briefly at Johnny, and unplugged everything.
"We will wait a few days for you to adjust.", he said.
"I can't wait any longer," said Johnny, later that evening. "Let's try it out."
"You heard what Dr. Dave said, man...the dude knows what he's talking about."
Johnny left the room. "All the gear is right there, down the hall. Are you with me or not?"
"All right, go. Just don't get caught."
"What are you worried about? We're not kids. Besides, it's my arm, not his. Stay here if you want, baby."
After single-handedly reassembling the various bits of equipment, Johnny plugged himself into a nearby stereo receiver, and slowly turned up the gain. At first there were washes of static phasing in and out; then sweeping melodies, like a thousand humpback whales on shortwave radio. The cacophony was slowly getting louder and louder, and Johnny fought to control the noise. He could almost sustain a single note, but the other sounds would dance uncontrollably around it. Soon the walls were shaking with the shriek of twisted metal, and Dr. Kobyashi burst in, ripping the jack out of Johnny's interface.
Johnny sat quivering, teeth clenched, sweat dripping from the end of his nose. "What the hell was that?" he whispered.
The doctor replied, "I think you were feeding back."
If Dr. Kobiashi was upset, he certainly didn't show it. "You will have to learn to quiet your mind. It will not be easy, but you will have help: proper diet, exercise, meditation, and lots of practice."
"I used to practice all the time."
"Good. I have installed a reverse amplifier to filter out the feedback you experienced."
"Thank you."
"If you run into any more bugs, please let me know. Good luck."
Johnny turned on the machinery, and went to work. For several frustrating days he labored continuously, trying to isolate certain sounds. Weeks went by, and he could barely produce a simple scale. Agonizing as the work was, he felt strangely drawn to it, and could hardly wait to finish his mandatory "stillness" practices. Soon he found himself relaxing more and more, allowing time to pass, unattached to results.
One day, after over a year in Japan, he found himself mentally humming a tune all day, rather absent-mindedly. He was surprised to hear it coming from outside his head, from the equipment. Johnny closed his eyes, and surrendered himself to the music. The different textures began to harmonize, and waves of pleasure surged through him. Without trying to control the structure, he found a tempo arising all on its own, a form without design. Johnny felt polarized, energized; he allowed himself just enough consciousness to press the 'record' button.
"That was really something," Chip said, as Johnny entered the wing, "You had them spellbound...I mean, like, the music was there! They knew it was all coming from you, man, I'm telling you, each show just gets better and better!"
It was all true. Johnny could remember when Chip really had to work hard to build confidence. These days it just gushed out of him. The show was really something, all right, but what? Where was it headed? Johnny just sang his songs, and the box played along, reaching into Johnny's brain; almost as if the crowd could take exactly what it wanted, when it wanted. So be it, Johnny thought. Beats the hell out of pushing karaoke or hawking pencils.
The applause was still going. Johnny knew he didn't have to go back on stage, but he wanted to. Young women came up to him, mostly groupies, but some were "'trode'ies", with cerebral implants. These girls were after more than music, autographs, or backstage sex. They wanted the feelings, the raw emotion of a tortured soul. He aquiesced, proferring his deck, and allowed them to download the evening's performance, in its entirety, save for the upcoming encore. One of them just stood and smiled, awaiting her turn.
Eventually, she introduced herself: "Synthia."
"And what do you want?"
"Lessons."
It was at this point that Johnny noticed that she had no hands. She had two "'faces", one on each arm.
"I'll be right back. I promise."
He strode out from behind the curtain, and the audience exploded. His encores were usually soft, sometimes covers, but he felt one of his early originals creeping up his spine. He knew better than to try and force a different piece to come out, so he set it free. "When the Meat Meets Metal", it was called, a hardcore, thrashy hit that defined his place in the business. Soon the delighted mob was finished with him, and he staggered offstage.
His new protege was waiting, and as they waited for his limo, he let her jack into his sound system. Static. No howling, no sirens. A few breathy moans, but that was it. Johnny was about to troubleshoot, but Synthia stopped him, saying that everything was working fine, except her.
"It took me a long time to learn how to make music this way," Johnny said. He noticed how pretty she was.
"Well, I was hoping you could teach me..." She moved closer to him, resting her arms on his shoulders.
"I'll do my best, but I'm saying it takes time. And dedication." His hand found her hip.
"Oh, we've got time..." She pressed herself against him.
"Let's go get the limo."
Sex was weird, but fun. The usual warm smoothness gave way to the occasional cold scratch, and he bumped his head on her equipment more than once. Fortunately, she was playful and funny. His mood had also improved considerably.
After they finished, he asked her, "So how did you lose your hands? Or were you born like that?"
"Lose 'em, ha! I paid big bucks for these, mister, and you're gonna teach me how to use 'em."
It was the second longest ride of Johnny's life.
"I can't do it anymore, Chip, these kids are crazy! They're mutilating themselves in these cybermalls, and it's all because of us!"
"Whoa, hang on...you got a world tour to finish, pal, you can't just walk out on BMC, they own you...at least part of you. And these kids aren't just kids anymore...they worship you, what you represent to them."
"I don't care. I'm telling you I cannot go out there. This girl had both her hands amputated, chasing a dream that turns out to be my nightmare. You gotta get me out of this."
"All right, I'll see what I can do." Johnny knew that it was impossible, but it was what he wanted to hear. Later Chip would return and tell him that there was no way out, that barring a bullet through both of their brains, Johnny was going to perform in one hour.
Fifty-five minutes later, two huge security goons were at the door, and Johnny went quietly. The roadies checked him out, and pushed him on stage. All right, thought Johnny, but they can't control what comes out. Not even I can do that.
Or so he thought. Somewhere, someone pushed a 'play' button, and Johnny launched into a song he had rendered weeks before. The crowd went nuts; they couldn't tell the difference, and Johnny couldn't stop singing, or dancing, or feeling. He kept seeing flashes of the prerecorded show, and then he saw Chip offstage. He was on his knees, crying. Chip knew exactly what was happening to his best friend. Like a marionette, Johnny delivered a stunning performance, transmitted from an office high in the balcony.
The Behemoth Music Corporation had all the glass and sharp objects removed from Johnny's room, had taken his weapons, and even his belt. Their lawyers had made it clear that if he made any attempt to "breach his contract", BMC was prepared to keep him offline, if they had to, to ensure his safety.
"Hey, at least we get paid," reasoned Chip, "and when you finish the tour--"
"Shut up!"
"Sorry, J--"
"I said, `Shut up!'" Johnny threw a fluffy pillow at Chip. They sat together in silence until Johnny's escort came to the door. The guards came in, lifted the chair Johnny was sitting in, and carried him to the wings. Johnny was thinking about the last year's shows, how the music had been becoming more mechanical, less human. He wondered what had come from him and what might have been programmed. Or worse, was the machine taking over by itself? He wished he could run away, into the previous century. The chair tilted forward, and Johhny hopped down. This time he walked on stage without assistance, and even tried to perform on his own.
He never got the chance. Within seconds, another bootleg had taken over. This time, he tried not to fight it, to conserve what strength he had left. After watching himself perform for two long hours came the moment he had been waiting for. He was suddenly in control of his own body again, as someone was searching for an encore, one that would make tonight's show appear improvised. Instead of walking offstage, he gripped his interface and began twisting it. The flesh touching the metal had already begun to decay slightly, and he hoped it would come off easy. It didn't. He had to wrench it with all his might before it finally snapped off. He threw the 'face into the awestruck audience, and before he passed out, he screamed:
"Is there a doctor in the house?"
Johnny had fully expected to regain consciousness in another hospital bed; instead, he found his face pressed against the beer-soaked stage he had impacted moments before. Surrounded by bedlam, feet stomping inches away from his eyes, he felt hands grasping his shoulders and legs. His public was rescuing him. Sounds of automatic rifle fire erupted continuously as more and more goon squads arrived, trying to contain the mob and consolidate BMC's interests. Not one to be consolidated, Johnny relaxed upon the many fingertips that delivered him out into the sea of people.
He heard Synthia's voice amplified above the bangs and screams, at first inciting the riot, but later offering valuable tactical support. Far from squelching the rebellion, the weapons used by the security forces had quite the opposite effect, and soon most of the stadium was in public hands. Fighting continued upstairs, where executives began covering their assets. Johnny swam through the swirling mass, seeking answers and vengeance. However, when he reached the suites it was too late...all that remained was carnage: blood and spreadsheets. Unsure of what to do next, he felt a choppy rythm beating faster and faster.
"The roof!" he shouted, "Helicopters are taking off!" Elated at the prospect of another spree, the newly-formed band launched another assault. One helicopter was away, the other perhaps a yard off the pad when a pack of punks reached it. They crawled their way up, encompassing the chopper like army ants, until it was forced to land, killing a few and injuring many. The third and final helicopter seemed to wait for Johnny, with suits quivering on their knees at gunpoint outside. Johnny hopped in, followed by three lucky contestants, who lowered their weapons at the pilot. "Follow that bird," Johnny said, hoping the pilot would have more sense than resolve.
As they took flight, Johnny saw Synthia and Chip running towards the other helicopter. He wished they were with him, considering the amount of firepower both in the cockpit and mounted beneath it. At least the violence was winding down, bullets giving way to kicks and punches.
"Can I see your weapon?" Johhny politely asked the most nervous-looking passenger. Awkwardness abounded, and she shakily complied. He thought he could break the ice by autographing their Uzis, but there were no pens, no stylus that would work. Johnny sighed and leveled it at the pilot; then he realized how stupid that was, and ordered everyone to disarm. His stump hurt badly, but he was less tired by the time the helicopter they were following touched down on top of the BMC building.
At first, they seemed unaware of Johnny's hostile takeover, but as soon as they landed, the executives scrambled inside, and an impressive array of corporate police prepared to defend BMC's rooftop. The police started taking shots, and as Johnny ducked bits of glass, he thought he heard the pilot say "Duck this", but he was wrong. The 'copter's minigun spat a fiery swath through the miscalculating troopers, who either ran away or disappeared into a chunky red mist. Johnny stared blankly at the pilot, astonished. The pilot smiled and resumed firing.
"I've got all your discs."
Word on the street had spread quickly: BMC was in trouble. Inside the building, Johnny directed and surveyed the damage. By pooling their defenses on the rooftop, BMC had left their doors wide open to the screaming masses below. This was certainly never what he had intended, but it would do. Halfway down the building, he met Synthia and Chip on their way up.
"Wow, man, I guess people listened to your lyrics after all!" Chip could always say the wrong thing.
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
Synthia was serious. "You need to come see something."
They led him to a huge research facility a few floors away, filled with computers and machines. Inside a tall aquarium slept Johnny, or at least someone who looked exactly like him. "Well, I'll be damned," he said, "Looks like they thought of everything." His clone still had both hands, although a dashed line tattooed around its left wrist removed all doubt concerning BMC's plans.
"Johnny prime here looks about twenty years younger," Synthia spoke, "They were going to get their money's worth out of you. And him."
Johnny looked around at the empty faces facing prosecution and looking for guidance from him, their unelected, unwilling icon.
"Trash it."
For the first time that night, nobody obeyed him.
"All right, good thinking. At least keep the hand on ice."
An hour later, Johnny had finished writing. His roadies had BMC's newsroom up and running , delivering feeds from the riot and the truth behind most of the evil. Johnny entered the studio, and the cameras were turned on. Everyone expected a speech, a call to arms, a tirade from El Presidente. What they got was a song.