Chapter Twenty-Five

Capitulation

General Malcolm Reed

Today, Liz is hoping to start teaching me not to piss myself. I've been aware of her continued kindness in bathing me and dressing me, and I appreciated the fact that I was permitted to wear underpants with my hospital gown because, absurd as it sounds, having boxers on gave me a small sense of dignity. But still I've had to wear a damn nappy underneath them as usual, and I'm living for the day when I no longer need to.

There is some question about the cause, or more likely causes, of my incontinence. Liz says the lingering effects of the drugs I was on and the strain of giving birth probably have something to do with it, but the most likely culprit is the weeks I spent catheterized followed by an extended period of being so fucking high all the time that I was blissfully unaware of voiding my bladder and bowels and lying in my own excrement until someone cleaned me up and changed me. The fact that I was given no physiotherapy to retrain the muscles in question didn't help matters, though if I'm perfectly honest, I doubt I would have co-operated if the opportunity had been provided.

There was no way in hell I was going to do anything to make anyone's life easier as part of The Project.

Whatever the case, I once again find it regrettable that Commodore Tucker allowed Phlox to die in the explosion. I would have found it most satisfying to kill him by inches, or perhaps drown him in my own piss, for what he has done to me.

Bladder training, Liz calls the specialized physiotherapy I am to endure, instead of toilet training, which I suppose is meant to be a concession to my adult dignity; but as kind and professional as she might try to be, there is simply no mitigating my abject horror and humiliation. It is difficult enough, having this young woman whom I used so brutally and so often in the past be in charge of this, one of my most intimate bodily functions, which I once learned to control as a toddler without even the benefit of mature cognitive thought; but the actual regimen, once I fully comprehend all that it comprises, seems utterly degrading.

Without any encouragement from me, Liz launches into a detailed explanation of the process.

First, she shows me a probe. It is oblong, cylindrical, and smooth, about the diameter of my index finger and half the length, made of black plastic with shiny silver metal panels around its middle. Wires coming from one end of it plug into a control box with a couple of knobs, half a dozen buttons, and a small display panel about five centimeters wide by ten in length. Liz shows me how the controller can be adjusted to modulate the frequency, duration, and intensity of the impulses the probe sends to my muscles.

Then she brings out the hand scanner which will be used to monitor the muscle contractions as my body responds to the probe's impulses so that the probe's position and the controller's settings can be adjusted as appropriate. Apparently this bladder training is a rather delicate process requiring a significant degree of precision. Working the wrong muscles, she says, or overworking the correct ones can make matters worse, causing me chronic pelvic pain, an inability to void completely, or both.

Once the probe has exercised my muscles to the point where I have sufficient strength and control to relax and contract them at will, the wires extending from it will be plugged into different ports on the controller, turning it into a biofeedback device and training aid. In this application, the screen can be switched between two different modes. 'Progress mode' will show five lines trailing across the screen which will chart my baseline performance, average, best, current, and goal. Presumably, in this mode, I am to exercise the muscles in question, striving to match my current performance to the goal. In 'Practice Mode', the controller can be programmed with a variety of exercise routines and the display will show a graph representing the frequency, duration, and intensity of contractions I should strive to achieve, sort of like interval training on a treadmill with short, demanding sprints interspersed with long slow periods of jogging.

It will only take me a couple of days to learn to use the controller, she says, then I'll be able to do the exercises on my own. This gets my attention. It has been so bloody long since I have had any autonomy, any choice about anything, that the opportunity to do something on my own, for myself, to improve my condition had seemed a dream I would forever despair of attaining. I try not to show too much, but I've gone from wearily indifferent to eager to begin in a matter of moments.

After a few weeks, I should develop enough control to hold my water for an hour or so. At that point, a voiding schedule will be implemented, with the periods between trips to the toilet (or, till I can actually get to the bathroom, using the jug provided) gradually lengthening until I can sleep through the night without wetting the bed. It apparently doesn't matter so much if I wake up once or twice in the night. It's more important that I am aware of when I need to go so I can take care of it before I have an accident. Once I reach the point where I reliably feel the urge in time to get to the bathroom, I can stop using the controller and just work on the voiding schedule. If I follow the regimen, I should be back to normal, at least in this one area of my life, in twelve to sixteen weeks, give or take.

She makes it sound so easy, so guaranteed to be successful that I am almost excited, despite the stab of dismay at how long it will take. The desire to regain some kind of normalcy, some tiny vestige of self-determination, is so strong, that, when she asks if I'm ready to begin, I agree without question.

"All right then, I need you to turn over on your left side, please," she tells me.

I must be slow today, because I just blink at her stupidly and say, "What?"

"I need you to lie on your left side and pull your right knee toward your chest."

"Why?"

I haven't the faintest idea why it hadn't occurred to me to wonder where the probe would have to go. Naturally, the fucking thing goes up my arse, because that's the best route to access my pelvic floor muscles and presumably the most humiliating way it could possibly be put to use. The anticipation that has been building within me collapses, falling deep into a crater in my soul almost as if someone had detonated demolition charges to bring it down. I won't ask her for pity or mercy, no one in the universe owes me that; but honestly, how much more does she think I can endure?

"It doesn't hurt," she adds reassuringly.

I'm not concerned about the bloody pain! Pain, at least, would give me reason to scream.

My body has been made host to too many foreign objects lately – the alien womb, the monstrous little bastard brat, tubes and wires and sensors and monitors, Commodore Tucker's remote control for my heart, and just yesterday, the wires and needles and tubes and probes attendant with Doctor Salazar's bloody tests. And now she's asking me to let her put one more thing inside me, worse yet, to learn to do it for myself, to myself.

I suddenly realize that I simply cannot cope with this right now. I curl into a ball, as small as I can make myself, with the blankets wrapped tightly around me and my back pressed firmly against the far bedrail.

"No."

That is my final word on the subject.

Liz talks at me a little while longer. I don't really hear what she says, but I assume she's trying to convince me to do this. I'm too busy watching every movement of her hands. With my heart in my throat and my stomach in knots, I am waiting for her to just lean forward, roll me onto my other side, yank my leg up and have her way with me. After all, it would be neither more nor less than I deserve.

I won't be able to stop her. I can't get away from her. If I had the strength to run, how far would I get before Tucker's device stopped my heart? Not very far at all, I'd imagine.

I wonder, if I died, would she bring me back in range of the transmitter and restart my heart?

But it seems Commodore Tucker's promise to not coerce me into doing anything against my will binds his minions as well, for instead of manhandling me into compliance, Liz just gives a very quiet, resigned little sigh and puts her gadgets away in a drawer.

"It's all right, Malcolm," she says gently. "There's no rush. We'll talk about it again when you're ready."

=/\=

As it turns out, that "no" is my final word on everything for the next several days.

I am compliant and obedient in every way.

When Liz brings my meals, I open my mouth obediently for each spoonful. My fingers have the strength to hold utensils, but my hands and arms lack the co-ordination to move them from the dish to my mouth without losing more than I consume, so I must be fed like an infant.

When she tasks me with sorting buttons into separate containers and putting simple jigsaw puzzles together, I do my best. I understand that she's trying to help me regain enough co-ordination to feed myself.

When she asks me to lift my arms and legs or to push and pull against her, I obey. She's trying to help me regain my strength.

When she brings a stranger into the room to help her transfer me from the bed to a chair, I don't resist, even though it makes me feel terribly dizzy and nauseous the first couple of times. My body has to learn how to remain vertical again, and for the moment, sitting up in a chair is as much as I can do to strengthen my core.

When she brings me a recorded message from Commodore Tucker, I procrastinate for more than a day, but eventually, when I'm alone, I play it. He was here, in my room. I recognise the shelves behind him as the ones against the wall opposite my bed, and the recognition brings with it various emotions, none of which are particularly pleasant.

He says he's sorry we didn't get to talk, but I was sleeping the whole time he was here and Doctor Salazar's orders were that I should not be disturbed. Then he spews a lot of good ol' boy platitudes about hope and help and hard work and second chances, and at some point, someone comes in and he interrupts his message to talk with them. By the timecode when he resumes, I know he was here more than four hours that day.

Four hours, out of a punishing schedule. It ought to mean something, but it gives me a headache trying to work out what. My Dark Side sneers that it's a sign of how desperate he is to fool me into believing him, but a small voice I try my best to suffocate whispers that maybe, just maybe, he does actually care what happens to me…

Pah. If he does, it's for a reason! And my welfare doesn't come into it!

The message ends with him earnestly advising me to trust the people who are caring for me. "They're good people, Malcolm, an' they want you to get better. So do I, an' not just because I need your help, but because anybody who's been through what you have deserves a second chance."

As if he means that! As if he could possibly mean it, after everything I've done – after I tried my damnedest to kill him, after I had him tortured for four hours in the Agony Booth!

I'm so incensed by the load of insincere bullshit he's feeding me that I'd like to hurl the PADD across the room and watch it shatter into a hundred pieces, but I haven't the strength. So I let it fall from my fingers and slide to the floor instead. The clatter as it lands sounds like a crack of bitter laughter.

When Liz comes to check on me, she finds it lying at her feet beside my bed and puts it back on my tray. I wait until she leaves and play it again, furious with myself for my interest in it. This time, however, I drop it back onto the bed and lie back, rubbing my hand across my forehead to ease the tension there.

Liz. Now there's another puzzle. Why is she still here? Why does she help me, not just with the impersonal care of a paid professional, but with the kindness and gentleness of a friend?

When she changes and bathes me, I do as much as possible to help, washing my genitals when she pulls the privacy curtain around me, and shifting my hips as best I can when she puts the hated nappies on me. I know she is only trying to help me, and as much as I wish I didn't need her help, I want it.

I want my strength back. I want my independence back.

I want my life back.

But however hard she might try to engage me in conversation, I can't bring myself to speak.

I can't even nod or shake my head, so I just do what she asks when I can and do nothing when I can't.

And she never loses patience.

Never gets frustrated or exasperated with me.

Never speaks a harsh word.

And still I cannot talk.

If I talk, we're going to have to resume our last conversation at some point, and I'm not ready for that. One would think, after everything I have been through, that tiny probe would be nothing, but it's not. It's very much something. It's something I'm not prepared to cope with, and I can't for the life of me explain why, even to myself, let alone to Liz.

Every time I think about saying something about anything, my tongue adheres to the roof of my mouth, my chest gets tight, and I find it hard to breathe. But Beans is never far from my side, and when that happens, she licks my palm or rubs against me or curls up on my chest and purrs until I am calm again.

=/\=

In my third day of silence, Doctor Salazar shows up. He checks my eyes and declares they are healing well, reads my chart, has me squeeze his fingers and push and pull against him as he holds on to my arms and legs. Everything, he says, is progressing nicely, except for one thing.

"Why haven't you started bladder training?" he asks Liz.

"He isn't ready," she tells him.

"Isn't…the hell?" He can't even form a coherent sentence, it sounds so bizarre to him.

I know it's absurd, but Liz is absolutely right; and I don't even have the words to tell him that.

"General, you're a grown man wearing a diaper for no good medical reason," he lectures me as if this is something I don't already know. "How can you not be ready to change that?"

He stands looming over me, not at all aware of how intimidating his size is just now, waiting for an answer. I want to respond, but I can't. The capacity of speech has left me. I have no way of communicating to them that this isn't just the sullen silence of Phlox's unwilling lab rat. This is something wrong.

I am afraid.

The epiphany is so startling that I open my mouth to share it, but the words do not come. Instead understanding washes over me in a sick wave and I curl into a ball on my bed and moan. It has been so long since I have had to just feel my fears and cope with them that I have forgotten how.

It's not that I've forgotten what fear feels like, of course. Anyone who's as hated as I am lives with it daily to some degree, because fear makes you suspicious and suspicion keeps you alive. But this is helpless fear; I can't even fight off what threatens me, let alone attack and crush it. The people who are oppressing me so overwhelmingly are acting with only my best interests in mind (I exclude a certain commodore from having that motive, because my survival undoubtedly plays into his nefarious schemes or I'd be a cloud of atoms by now), so how – even if I could envisage any time when such plans would come to fruition – can I console myself by plotting revenge against them?

It's utterly impossible for me to articulate any of this. I can hardly wrap my brain around it, let alone put it into words. But Beans leaps up beside me, standing on the mattress with her backside pressed against me, and hisses at the doctor until he backs off. Then she curls up beside me on the mattress and starts licking my hand.

I can hardly admit it even to myself, but her tiny, valiant support makes me feel a little – just a very little – better.

"General," Doctor Salazar says from a few feet away, "Liz and Ah are gonna have a conversation about you like you're not even here. Ah'm not doing it to be rude, but she and Ah need to talk, and Ah think you have a right to know what we're saying about you. If you have anything to contribute, you feel free to jump right in."

I don't even acknowledge him. I am too caught up in the amazement of being afraid.

After Liz tells him how I suddenly clammed up when she explained about the probe, he seems more understanding.

"Ah suppose, after what he's been through, that could still be a big no-go for him," he concedes. "Did you tell him about any of the alternatives?"

"I did," she says with a nod. "But I don't know if he heard me."

"Well, this can't be allowed to continue for long," he insists. "You're a skilled nurse. Anybody can change diapers and give a bed bath. Your skills are needed elsewhere."

"I disagree," Liz objects, "and I think you'll find Commodore Tucker will, too. Malcolm will tell me when he's ready."

=/\=

It has to be admitted that I hadn't envisaged Liz Cutler's services being withdrawn.

Probably that's just a hangover from the days when nobody took anything away from me without weighing the consequences in extremely delicate scales, and the realization that this is yet another indication of my powerlessness grinds salt into the wounds. Presumably if Commodore bloody Tucker ordered that I was to be made up like a Punch and Judy doll and pushed around the place in a pram, that is exactly what would happen to me, whereas I can't even control who I want as my caregiver.

I spend a couple of days in a state of seething angst, waiting to see if it's going to happen, before spending an almost completely sleepless night facing how I'd go on if it did. Because no matter how I toss and turn, I can't escape the fact that however I feel about it, I have to co-operate with what needs to be done to, with or for me. If I don't, ultimately the only loser will be me.

Once again, the inescapable facts confront me: I want my strength back. I want my life back. I want my self back.

It's not that I like Cutler particularly, of course, and given how deep she is in Tucker's schemes I'm definitely not convinced that I trust her. But when it comes to looking after me, I honestly can't imagine anyone doing a better job of it. So from a purely selfish point of view (and even I know what a selfish bastard I can be), she's definitely the devil I know – and if I'm going to recover rather than lie here for the rest of my life flapping about like a landed salmon, then whether I like it or not, Liz Cutler's help appears to hold out my best chance of getting there.

Dawn comes – or at least a simulation of dawn, since my room has no windows; there's an illuminated panel high on one wall that slowly begins to glow, presumably reproducing the sunshine arriving outside as it would appear on our own world. I suspect that the light it produces is on the same spectrum as sunlight, helping to offset the miserable sense of incarceration I feel.

Predictably, Liz arrives with breakfast. I want to be glad to see her, and maybe part of me is whether I want to or not, but suddenly the routine is all but unbearable. I know what comes first: I have to be washed and changed, and have another fucking nappy put on.

I endure it without a word to begin with. I don't know if she picks up on my building frustration, but I get the feeling that she's finding it more of an effort than usual to cope with what she probably feels to be my sullen silence.

She hands me the soap gel and washing cloth. I've pissed myself and I stink and I'm fed up to the back teeth of it all. Maybe Alpha and Em were the lucky ones; at least they got to die with their dignity intact.

But then again, I'd already lost that by the time I tripped that switch to release the coolant and kicked the panel that I believed would obliterate us all, hadn't I?

I don't even know I'm going to speak when the lock just bursts open. I hurl the washing cloth into the bowl, not giving a toss that it slops water all over the bed, and hiss, "Please, just go! Leave me alone! I need some time to myself."

She looks at me with those large, clear eyes. She doesn't even bother pointing out that I've been alone all night and that after she's done I'll be alone for most of the morning, so it wouldn't kill me to be civil for the few minutes while she restores me to some kind of respectability and makes sure I'm fed and watered.

"All right, Malcolm, I'll go," she says gently, and I hear beeping. "I'm setting the timer for twenty-five minutes. I'll be back in thirty."

I'm used to the sound of that timer. It makes its presence known quite frequently during the hours when I fight like a demon to bring some strength back into muscles that are currently about as firm as well-used dishcloths.

The door closes softly behind her.

For a bloke who's always prided himself on being a brutal realist, it's taken me long enough to face the cold fact that I'm utterly and completely out of options. I lie on the bed staring into the hard truth that if I want to have a future then I have to hand myself into the control of people who really do know – and for some unknown reason even seem to care – what's best for me.

My own personal tormentor materialises promptly when the thirty minutes are up, and I suddenly understand and appreciate her strategy in setting the timer for twenty-five minutes. I didn't quite break down in the time she left me alone with my thoughts, but it was a near thing. I was feeling just shattered when the timer went off, and the five minutes of grace she allowed me gave me time to correct my dishevelled appearance, rein myself in and get my shields in place; I hadn't realized until just now how bloody sick and tired I am of being emotionally weak and vulnerable, too. When she enters the room, all cool and professional, I'm propped up in bed, as despondently inanimate as a discarded puppet, and with a huge inward sigh I mentally hand over the strings into her hands. "I'm ready now."

Liz, being Liz, knows exactly what I'm talking about, and I miserably succumb to the bladder training.

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