Chapter 6
Tuesday, January 28th
7:35 A.M.
Great Scott, my head. . . .
Doc moaned and reached for his scalp. His head felt like it was about to explode. What happened to me? I haven't had a headache this bad since the last time I accidentally had alcohol. Where's the nearest bottle of Tylenol?
Father! Father, you're awake!
How are you, Father?
Doc ignored the voices, too busy trying to remember what had happened. His memories were a confused and painful jumble. There were the Libyans. . .the demonstration. . .the explosion. . .Marty. . . .
Marty! Where is he! Is he all right?
We believe so, Father. He seemed functional the last time we saw him. And the people who were with him said they were going to bring him here and make sure he was all right.
Doc relaxed a little. That's good. He winced again as his brain throbbed. Owww. . . .
We sense that you are in pain, Father. Let us help you.
All-all right.
The pain in his head suddenly eased. Doc sighed in relief. Is that better, Father?
Much better, thank you.
It suddenly occurred to Doc that he was having an entire conversation inside his head. He frowned, puzzled. Where was the voice coming from? Had his brain been somehow damaged in the explosion?
And then he felt something gently wrap around his waist and help him up onto his knees. Something cold. Something metallic. Something sinuous. Something powerful. Something -- vaguely familiar. . . .
He realized he couldn't see. For one terrifying moment, he thought he was blind. Then he realized that his eyes were bandaged, wrapped in some sort of gauze. My eyes must be damaged, he thought miserably, remembering looking into the explosion and seeing nothing but white. Damn it. I had to take off my goggles. . . .
The something that had helped him sit up pulled the gauze off his face. Doc flinched as bright, harsh light assaulted his cornea. Shading his eyes, he could just make out that he was in some sort of operating theater. Hazy shadows flitted around him, suggesting people and equipment. The details were obscured by that terrible, terrible light. It isn't even that bright, Doc thought, annoyed. I shouldn't have this much trouble trying to see.
Would you prefer to use our eyes?
What? Uh, no, not at the moment. Doc blinked at the strange thought. Our eyes? What the hell does that mean?
Unseen by Doc, Dr. Caldwell pushed his way to the front of the group of surgeons. The lower left tentacle rose up and looked at him questioningly. Ignoring the frightened noises that came from his colleagues, Dr. Caldwell reached under his scrubs and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. He flipped them open and offered them to the tentacle, pointing to Doc's face. After studying them for a moment, the tentacle nodded and carefully took them by the bridge. These should help. Just a moment. . . .
Wait! Who are you? What are --
A soothing darkness filled Doc's eyes, allowing him to see comfortably. Puzzled, Doc felt the sunglasses. One of the tentacles had put them on him.
One of the tentacles?
Doc looked down. He was still wearing his harness underneath his hospital gown. And now he could see the tentacles moving around, apparently "looking" at him with their pincers. But -- but I'm not telling them to move. . . . He cautiously touched one. It rubbed up against his hand, making Doc start. Looking around the theater, he saw a large group of doctors and nurses huddled in the corner, watching him nervously, Dr. Caldwell at their head. "You know, the harness just comes off," Doc said uncertainly, not liking their looks. "You didn't have to leave it on me."
Dr. Caldwell coughed, glancing from the tentacles to his fellow doctors. "Well -- actually, Dr. Brown, we did. The harness doesn't come off anymore."
"Excuse me?"
"Dr. Brown, do you remember anything of what happened to you?"
"Most of it, yes." Doc put his head in his hands. "It would be just my luck that my little chemical cocktail would react explosively with wood varnish, eh Dr. Caldwell?"
"I'd have to agree," Dr. Caldwell said with a small smile. "But do you remember what happened afterwards?"
Doc shuddered as he nodded. "It's fragmented, but I remember -- I couldn't see. I panicked," he explained, looking up. "And when it happened. . .it hurt so much. . . ."
"Well, when you were electrocuted, the heat generated by the electricity melted the metal spine of your harness into your back and spine. The harness is now literally fused to you. And we were about to try and remove it when--" he eyed the tentacles again "-- you decided otherwise?"
Doc blinked. "I don't understand."
Dr. Caldwell waved a hand toward the floor. Doc looked, and was startled to see large pieces of metal littering the tile. After a moment, he recognized them as what was left of a number of power tools. "Great Scott."
The tentacles looked too, acting like they were pleased. One turned to Doc, clacking its pincers eagerly. Did we do well, Father?
We didn't hurt anyone. We were forced to threaten one, however.
Threaten?
The fat one. He would have hurt us, Father. We had to defend ourselves.
Are you upset with us?
Dr. Caldwell frowned at Doc's baffled expression. "Are you all right?"
"I -- I don't know," Doc admitted. "Ever since I woke up, I've been hearing this -- voice." He pressed hard on his temples. "Who's talking to me?"
Us, Father. Your children. Why do you question us?
"Children, I have no children. . . ."
You created us. That makes us your children.
Dr. Caldwell advanced a step, looking very worried. "Are you sure you're all right, Emmett?"
Doc's eyes suddenly went wide. The voice was actually four voices, speaking in perfect harmony -- perfect, robotic harmony. And he realized that the nape of his neck wasn't tingling anymore, as it should have been. . . . "The inhibitor chip!" he gasped, one hand flying to the top of the metal spine. Instead of smooth, warm glass, Doc's fingers found the shattered remains of a socket. "Gone. That's right, it exploded. . . ."
It came between us, Father. You should be happy.
Doc looked at all the tentacles in turn, a sense of wonderment stealing over him. "I don't believe it," he whispered. "You're sentient." Out of the range of his vision, the doctors looked at each other nervously. "I think he's really lost it now," one whispered, while his colleagues nodded.
What does "sentient" mean?
"It means alive, basically. Able to think and feel."
Oh. Yes, we are sentient then.
Doc couldn't hold back a chuckle at that. "This is amazing. I knew your AI was advanced, but this. . . . Most probably a result from having access to my higher brain functions." He put his hand on one, marveling at the way they moved. "Incredible, simply incredible."
Dr. Caldwell edged closer. "Well -- ah -- I don't think we're ever going to finish this surgery."
"Definitely not," Dr. David agreed. "Not with this -- development. We'll take you back to your room, Dr. Brown, and then discuss this further."
We can do it! the tentacles chorused. Moments later, Doc found himself suspended over the operating table. He yelped in terror. "No! Please, put me down!"
The tentacles immediately obeyed, curling up to make sure he was all right. Father!
What did we do?
"I'm sorry," Doc said, getting his breathing back under control. "It's -- it's just too soon for that. You scared me."
We are sorry, Father. We did not mean to frighten you. The tentacles rubbed up against him. Doc awkwardly patted the upper right, which was nearest.
The sudden display of strength from the tentacles had further frightened the already tense doctors and nurses. Even Intern Carlyle was looking a little uneasy by this point. They approached the table with extreme caution, ready to run at the first sign of trouble. The tentacles sensed their fear and stayed very still. We didn't mean to frighten them either, one said to Doc. We merely had to defend ourselves. We feel no need to attack them now. Please tell them that.
Doc nodded. "They won't hurt you," he relayed to the group. "They just wanted to keep you from removing them. They seem friendly, actually."
The doctors looked at each other, not convinced. They wheeled Doc out of the operating theater and into the hallway. Doc squinted -- even with the sunglasses, the light was a little bright for his tastes. He kept his head down as he was taken down the corridor. The tentacles, on the other hand, rose up, curiously examining their surroundings. The doctors made sure to stay out of their way.
Another nurse happened to walk by as they went to Doc's room. She took one look at the tentacles and fainted dead away. Father, why did that woman take a nap in the middle of the hallway?
Not a nap, Doc replied, fighting off an urge to laugh. She fainted. You scared her.
But we didn't do anything! they exclaimed, clacking their pincers in surprise.
Well, you're not an usual sight, even in a hospital. Don't worry about it, she'll be fine.
After a turn, they reached Doc's room. The doctors helped Doc off the table and onto the bed, the tentacles being careful to stay out of everyone's way. Once he was settled in and his vitals checked again, the group excused itself to discuss this new development. "We'll send in a nurse in a moment. If you need anything sooner, just press the call button," Dr. Caldwell instructed. He lingered by the door for a moment. "How are you feeling?" Eyeing the tentacles, he added, "All things considered?"
"All right, all things considered," Doc said. "Keep me updated on what happens."
"Of course. I'll be back later." He left, taking one last nervous glance at the arms. Doc sighed and leaned back against the pillows -- as much as he could, anyway.
The tentacles curled gently around him. We sense that you are not operating at full capacity, Father. That you are weak and ill. Do you require our assistance?
Doc considered that for a moment. Now that the shock of finding himself welded to four sentient metal tentacles was beginning to wear off, he realized that he didn't feel all right at all. His eyes hurt, his back hurt, he was hungry, thirsty, tired, and filthy. . . .
"You know what would really hit the spot right now?" he said aloud. "A hot shower." He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand. He wobbled dangerously for a moment, then the two lower tentacles embedded themselves into the floor tiles and helped him stay upright. Doc gave them a grateful smile, and together they made their way over to the adjoining bathroom.
It was dark inside the small bath. That suited Doc just fine; it meant he could see in relative comfort. He took his sunglasses off and looked at himself in the rather beat-up mirror. His face looked completely worn out, the flesh sagging off the bones. Lack of food had made him thinner, and lack of proper light his face pale. His eyes were bloodshot, and his chin scruffy. All in all, he looked like a man who had gone through far too much -- which he had.
The image was bathed in a red glow as the upper left tentacle appeared behind him. We have taken some biometric readings, it reported. We estimate that you are operating, at maximum, at 75 capacity.
Doesn't surprise me. I look terrible, don't I?
Yes. You need to eat and rest.
I know. Let me get this filth scrubbed off me first.
He climbed into the tiny shower stall and turned the water on as hot as he could bear. The tentacles retrieved soap and shampoo for him. He thanked them and set to work, scrubbing off the grime that had accumulated during his stay in the cabin. It felt so good to be able to bathe again. The warm water running over his face, into his hair, down his chest and back, over the harness. . . .
Doc looked down at the harness as he rinsed off. It was weird to think of it as being permanently attached to him. He ran his fingers over the smooth, cool metal, wondering if it still unlatched at all. He decided not to try and see -- the unlatching procedure went in the reverse of the latching one, and he didn't fancy having the metal spine attempt to yank his real one out.
He finished washing up and set about drying himself off. As he rubbed down, a thought struck him. Would one of you engage your camera? he asked politely. I'm -- I'm rather curious to see what my back looks like.
The upper right obliged. New images appeared in Doc's brain -- the room seen in washed-out greys, tinted red. Once he was acclimated to the sight, the camera made its way to his back. Doc gasped. His back was a mess! The skin was red and burned on either side of the metal spine. The spine itself had melted into the skin. Doc realized he couldn't feel anything under it. He reached back, felt the warm living skin -- then suddenly, cold dead metal. Doc gave a little shiver. Great Scott, I've become a cyborg.
Cyborg?
Cybernetic organism. Combination of human and machine.
That's us all right, one said, nodding. Does that bother you, Father?
I really don't know what to make of it. My brain's still addled. Doc finished drying off and put his hospital gown back on before they could ask anything else. He needed a bit of time to think.
He emerged from the bathroom to find a nurse coming in with a tray. "Oh," she said, starting at the sight of him and his tentacles. "I didn't realize -- how are you feeling?"
"Better," Doc said truthfully, climbing back into bed. "Although very hungry."
"That's what I'm here for." The nurse set the tray down in front of him, eyeing the waving tentacles. "Bon appetit."
Doc looked down into the bowl of white mush before him. "What is this?"
"Rice pudding. It was the quickest thing I could make."
"Ew." But he was so hungry that he ate it anyway. The nurse smirked as he handed her the empty bowl. "Better?"
"Yes, although I would kill for a bag of Doritos."
We thought you abhorred killing?
It's called a figure of speech. I didn't really mean I'd kill someone for Doritos.
The nurse's gaze flicked back to the tentacles. "I'll keep that in mind. Is there anything else I can get you?"
"Actually, is it all right if I ask you a question?"
"Shoot."
"Have you seen Marty McFly anywhere? He's my best friend, and I want to make sure that he's all right. I'd hate to think that he was hurt by my actions."
"I haven't see him, but I did hear about him from Dr. Conner." She smirked again. "He was all worried about you."
"But is he all right?"
"Yes, I think so. I'm not really supposed to discuss this sort of thing with other patients. But he's not here, so I think that implies that he's all right."
"Okay. Thank you."
"Just doing my job. Anything else you need?" Doc shook his head. The tentacles imitated the motion. "Okay. Just call if you need me." She left, looking relieved to be out of there.
She was scared of us, wasn't she. It was a statement, not a question.
Well, it's not every day that you meet someone with four intelligent metal tentacles coming out of their back. Doc looked at each one in turn. How did you four become sentient? I only programmed you with the very basics.
It happened after we were electrocuted, Father, they chorused. Information from your brain flooded our artificial intelligence chips. We have been studying you ever since. We know almost everything about you now.
A lone voice broke away from the others. We did not mean to hurt you, Father. We are sorry.
It's all right. Really my own fault for panicking like that. Doc was startled at how quickly he had gotten used to these four new voices in his head. It was kind of scary, if you thought about it. Does this mean I had a predisposition toward hearing voices? I'll puzzle it out later, things are too complicated already. Why do you call me Father?
You created us, another voice said. That makes you our father.
He created us as tools, not children, a different voice argued. He does not see himself as our father.
That does not change the fact that he is. The upper right tentacle caressed his cheek. A father is a father, whether he acknowledges the role or not.
But can we really be considered his children? We share no DNA or any other genetic characteristics. We are machines.
Doc blinked rapidly. The tentacles were not only sentient, they were arguing. And now, as he listened, he could detect subtle differences between the voices. One voice -- it seemed to come from the lower right tentacle -- was higher pitched than all the others. Its twin's voice was lower-pitched. The upper left and right had the same pitch, but the upper left had a more clinical tone, while the upper right had a warmer one. They're developing their own personalities, he realized, amazed. Now that they have access to my cerebral cortex, their AI must be growing at a fantastic rate. Incredible.
Of course our AI is growing, Father. You designed us. You're perfect. The lower right tentacle wrapped itself around him lovingly.
I'm not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, Doc countered. I've done some very stupid things in my lifetime. The worst being my dealings with the Libyan terrorists, and putting both myself and Marty in danger. He shuddered. Poor Marty. If he's really hurt, I could never forgive myself.
The nurse said he was all right. Don't worry, Father. The upper right gave him an awkward pat. Would you like us to try and find him, to set your mind at ease?
I would, but I doubt that's possible. Your maximum length is 13 feet, so the farthest you could search would be the rooms on either side. And we don't even know if he's still in the hospital. Maybe when Dr. Caldwell comes back, I can pump him for information. He should know something.
We hope so, Father. We don't want our brother to be in pain any more than you do.
Brother? Marty's not my child.
Yes, but you think of him as such. And he has played an important role in your life. We feel it is appropriate to call him Brother.
Doc smirked. They were probably right. Especially considering that night in 1955 where Doc had called Marty his son, albeit in German. . . .
The tentacles turned to face him, studying him with the red camera eyes. We should save this discussion for another time. You need rest now.
I know I do. But there's a slight problem.
Oh?
Yes. I'm used to sleeping on my back.
There was a moment of silence as the tentacles looked at each other. Uh -- sorry?
Doc laughed. It's okay. Just help me flip over so I'm not lying on you. I suspect that would be extremely uncomfortable. The tentacles nodded and help Doc turn over onto his left side, spreading out behind him. Thank you. Doc let his head flop onto the pillow. He was exhausted. It was barely eight o'clock in the morning, and already it felt like the day was half-over. Good night -- kids.
He could almost feel the tentacles smile. Good night, Father. Doc took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let himself slide into unconsciousness.
Tuesday, January 28th
7:12 A.M.
Marty McFly couldn't sleep.
He lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He knew he should at least be trying to get some rest, but he just couldn't relax enough. One thought was replaying itself constantly in his head. What if he dies?
They had arrived at the hospital right behind the ambulance. Marty had caught a brief glimpse of Doc being whisked away before being dragged into the emergency ward. He had been lying as limp as a rag doll on his gurney, the tentacles splayed out around him, looking horribly pale even against the stark whiteness of the hospital. Every one of his injuries looked ten times worse as well. Marty shuddered. It all reminded him in some creepy way of how Doc had looked after getting shot by the Libyans. Even if he hadn't gotten hurt, he'd been awful pale there for a moment. . . .
After giving Marty a thorough checkup, the doctor had told the relieved McFlys that he had no serious injuries -- just a lot of bruises and a slight case of malnutrition. He was fit to go home, provided that he ate immediately. George and Lorraine had been ecstatic to hear the news.
Marty hadn't. He was glad he was okay, but he was much more worried about Doc. His attempts to get any information on him had come to naught. All he knew was that Doc was grievously injured, and that they would probably have to try radical surgery to remove the arms from his back. The doctor had refused to say more, and Marty's parents had promptly taken him home to feed him what felt like five pounds of salad, spaghetti, and cookies. Which, honestly, wasn't sitting quite right. . . .
A knock at the door distracted him from his dark thoughts and queasiness. George's head appeared in the doorway. "Mind if I come in?"
"No." George appeared in full and sat on the bed, frowning at his son. "How are you feeling?"
"Depressed. Did you call the hospital?"
"I did. I didn't get much, though. Just that there's now more 'complications' in his condition."
Marty sat up a little. "Complications?"
George nodded. "They wouldn't tell me what, though. I get the feeling they didn't wantto tell me." He sighed and put his arm around Marty, patting him on the back. "I'm sorry, son."
"It's okay, Dad. Thanks for trying." There was a long silence. Then Marty spoke again, his voice trembling. "I-I'm named as next-of-kin in his will."
"I know. Your mother and I approved it, remember?"
"I don't deserve it. I may have just murdered him."
"Marty, not this again," George sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "This wasn't your fault. It was Doc who got involved with those terrorists in the first place."
"Yeah, but if I hadn't convinced him to leave his invention alone, they may have never come after us. The police might have found them, or they might have gone back to Libya--"
"Or they might have ambushed Doc one night and machine-gunned him to death."
"Dad!"
"Well, it's true Marty. You can't dwell on what-if or what-might-have-been. I did that for almost my entire childhood, and all it got me was a lot of teasing and bullying." He drew his arm back and looked Marty straight in the eyes. "Do you think Doc would blame you for all of this?"
"No," Marty admitted quietly.
"That's right. I may not know him as well as you do, but I do know he loves you like a son. He wouldn't want you to beat yourself up over this. And neither do I. This was just a series of unfortunate events."
"But what if he dies?" Marty demanded, his voice becoming strangled.
George pulled him into a hug. "Hey, we all know Doc. He's not the type to just give up on life. He'll pull through."
"I hope so. Life just wouldn't be the same without him."
"I know." George patted Marty's head. "Why don't you try and get some sleep. Visiting hours don't start for a while yet."
"I'll try." George smiled, gave him one last squeeze, then left him alone. Marty went back to staring at the ceiling.
Tuesday, January 28th
9:17 A.M.
Marty led the way into the hospital, glancing around nervously at the waiting patients. He felt a bit confused. On the one hand, he really wanted to see Doc again. On the other, he wasn't sure what condition Doc was in. What if he was horribly crippled or something? Marty wasn't sure if he'd be able to handle that right away.
The nurse at the front desk recognized them immediately. "Hello," she said, trying to sound cheerful. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes, we're all fine," George said. "We'd just like to see Marty's friend Dr. Emmett Brown, if we can. Is he allowed to have visitors?"
The nurse pulled up her records. "Nothing here saying he can't," she reported. "He's in room 121."
"Thanks." They turned down the hallway. As they neared the room, Marty almost broke into a run. He had to see Doc again, had to know he was all right once and for all, had to --
The HELL!
Marty skidded to a stop, arms pinwheeling as he threatened to tip over. What looked like one of Doc's tentacles had appeared from out of nowhere, right in front of him, pincers wide. Seeing his distress, the tentacle darted forward and grabbed his shirt, helping him stay upright. Behind him, the rest of his family gaped. "What the hell is that thing?" Linda asked, lifting an eyebrow.
"Isn't that one of the tentacles Doc was wearing?" Dave asked, answering her.
"Y-yeah." Back on balance, Marty frowned at the tentacle. It turned this way and that, almost like it was studying him. "I thought they would have taken them off. Doc?" Marty peered into the camera lens. "You there?"
The tentacle nodded and clacked its pincers. Suddenly, it looped itself around his shoulders and began gently pulling him toward a room just a few feet in front. Marty spotted a couple of other pincers peeking out at him through the doorway. "I guess that's room 121," he said with a weak chuckle. "Are you guys coming?"
"We'll -- we'll give you a minute," Lorraine said, staring at the tentacles. Marty nodded as the tentacle pulled him inside.
Inside, Doc was happily off in dreamland when a voice interrupted his reverie. Father. Father, wake up.
Huh? Doc grunted mentally. He didn't feel quite ready to wake up yet.
Father, our brother's here!
What?
Marty's here, Father!
That got Doc's attention. He opened his eyes to find his face mashed into the pillow. Luckily his sunglasses were still on, sparing him the pain of the light. As he untangled himself, he saw Marty standing by his bed through the camera link, looking at the tentacles puzzledly. Then, finally, he was able to flip over and see his best friend in full (if tinted) color.
For a long moment, they stared at each other silently. Then Doc grinned broadly and held out his arms. "Damn, Marty, it's good to see you."
"It's good to see you too," Marty said, gladly embracing his friend. "How are you? What's with the sunglasses?"
"The explosion damaged my eyes," Doc sighed. "I'm not blind, luckily, but bright light irritates my corneas to the point where I can't see. I need to keep them shaded to have any sight at all. I don't know if it's permanent or not yet."
"Oh." Marty looked again at the tentacles, who were watching the two with interest. "And -- uh -- what's with the tentacles? I thought you were having surgery. Why aren't they--"
Doc stopped him. "I was going to have surgery. It was designed to get the harness off me. The electrocution fused the metal spine to my own. The only way to remove it would be to cut it out of my back."
Marty's eyes widened. "Shit, Doc. That's awful. So why didn't they?"
"Because my arms stopped them."
"Huh?"
Doc leaned forward, a wild spark in his eye. "Marty -- they're sentient. The arms are alive."
Marty stared at him, baffled. "You lost me, Doc."
The upper right tentacle came over and rested itself on Marty's shoulder. He's lost, but he's still here. Another "figure of speech," Father?
Exactly. "I know it's hard to understand. I was quite shocked myself when I woke up. When I was electrocuted, the inhibitor chip broke. The tentacles received access to my higher brain functions. They began studying me, and in doing so, they achieved sentience. They can think for themselves now. They talk to me, Marty. They call me Father."
If it had been anyone else, Marty would have dismissed him as crazy and beaten a path out of that room. Since it was Doc, however. . . . "This is heavy," Marty said, shaking his head slowly. "They talk to you?"
"Swear on the DeLorean," Doc proclaimed, lifting his hand. "They've been talking to me ever since I woke up. I know you probably think I'm crazy, but I'm not. They really are alive."
Marty looked at the tentacle on his shoulder. Come to think of it, the tentacles weren't really acting like they had before. When Doc had first used them, they had acted like natural extensions of his body. Now they almost seemed to move of their own free will. He tapped the tentacle. "Affectionate little buggers, aren't they?"
Doc chuckled. "Yes, I've noticed that," he said, patting the upper left. "They just want to be close to their father and brother, that's all."
"Brother? You mean me? Doc, I'm not your kid."
"They understand, but they feel that since they're not children in the proper sense of the word themselves. . . ."
Marty had to smile a little at that. "Good point." He idly stroked the tentacle, producing a pleased buzzing. "So -- uh -- what now?"
"I don't know," Doc said honestly. "I guess my only option is to learn how to live life as a real Doctor Octopus. The tentacles will never let themselves be removed, I know that much."
Never, the tentacles chorused in agreement. You are our Father, and we will never be separated from you.
"Yeah, I guess so." Marty looked at each of them in turn. It was weird -- if you looked at them just right, they almost seemed to have expressions. "I wonder how Einstein's going to react to all this?"
It hit Doc that he had completely forgotten about his beloved pet in all the excitement. "Great Scott, Einstein! Is he all right?"
"Yeah, Doc, Einy's fine," Marty reassured him. "Mom and Dad took him in after we both went missing. He's acting kinda mopey though -- I think he misses you."
"Well, I miss him." My poor dog. He's the closest thing I have to a family, after Marty -- and of course, you four.
We understand, Father, upper right said soothingly. We look forward to meeting him.
Do you think he'll be frightened of us as well, though? lower left asked.
Doc could only shrug. "I don't know if Einstein will be afraid of you or not," he said aloud for Marty's benefit. "He's used to seeing me with strange machines -- just not attached to them. Hopefully he'll adapt soon enough."
The tentacles and Marty nodded. Upper left turned to face Doc, clacking its pincers. Father, we have noticed that all the humans we have met are addressed by a name. As we are your children, however unconventional, will we receive names as well?
Doc thought about that. He had to admit, the tentacle had a point. He couldn't just keep on calling them upper left, upper right, and so on. "You should have names," he said. "After all, you are permanently attached, and I need to call you something. . . ."
"Now they want names?" Marty said, surprised. The tentacles nodded eagerly. "Uh -- okay. What are you gonna call 'em?"
"Well. . . ." Doc blushed. "I always wanted to name a son of mine Jules or Verne, after the author who introduced me to the wonders of science in the first place." He glanced up at upper left. "How about you be Jules--" he turned to upper right "-- and you be Verne?"
The tentacles considered it for a moment. We like it, upper left finally said as he and his twin nodded.
"All right then. Now, as for you bottom two. . . ."
"How about Albert?" Marty offered. "You've already got Einstein."
Doc looked from lower right to lower left. "Do either of you mind being named after the dog?"
I don't, lower left said. Albert sounds fine.
"Then that just leaves you, lower right. Any preferences?"
Maybe something with a "nickname," like how Marty calls you "Doc."
"Okay. How about Nicholas? Nicky?" Lower right shook its head. "Johannes? Joe?" A rather more emphatic shake. "Isaac? That's pretty short on its own. Still no?" Doc frowned thoughtfully. "Thomas? Tommy?"
Lower right nodded eagerly. Tommy! That's it! Tommy!
Doc laughed. "Tommy it is then. Jules, Verne, Albert, and Tommy. Sounds good to me."
Marty smiled. "Works for me too." He patted Tommy. "You guys have got to be the weirdest family on the planet."
We don't care, Tommy said, wrapping around his father in his version of a hug.
George poked his head in. "Is -- is everything okay in here?" he asked, frowning at the tentacles.
"Yeah. Meet Doc's new kids," Marty said, giggling at the shocked look on his father's face.
The tentacles went over to investigate this new arrival. Who is this, Father? He seems familiar. . . .
"That's George McFly, Marty's father," Doc said. "You probably recognize his name from when you looked up Marty from my brain. George, these are Jules, Verne, Albert, and Tommy."
"Huh?"
As Doc explained things to a baffled George, Marty heard a sudden commotion in the hall. "What the hell?" he muttered, going to look outside. The rest of his family had been cornered by the largest crowd of reporters Marty had ever seen. "Whoa," Marty breathed as the reporters bombarded his family with questions. "Hang on, Doc, I think things are about to get really heavy."
Heavy? How will the Earth's gravitational pull be affected by the noise outside? Albert asked, puzzled.
It's another human expression, Doc thought, unable to keep from a few giggles. Albert just sounded so much like his 1955 self. . . . "I take it the press have found us?" he said in response to Marty.
"Yup, and currently harassing Mom."
A reporter spotted Marty at the door. "Hey, kid! You're Marty McFly, right? You were Dr. Brown's fellow captive! What happened? Did he really build the arms to murder the Libyans?"
"What? No! They were just--"
"Is he really Dr. Octopus now?" a female reporter interrupted. "Are the arms really welded onto him, like we've heard?"
"Welded on?!" Lorraine gasped.
"Why don't you come in here and ask him yourself?" Marty said, annoyed.
"He's Dr. Brown and Dr. Octopus now. He's dangerous," a third reporter said in a "duh" tone of voice. "He murdered those terrorists."
"That was an accident!"
"Hey, I didn't say it was bad that he did"
The four tentacles abruptly appeared in the doorway, above Marty's head. The reporters went silent as they caught sight of them. The tentacles scanned the crowd, apparently doing some sort of head count. Marty counted with them -- 12 members.
Tommy extended out into the crowd and started looking at the notepads. Father, what's a Doctor Octopus?
He's a famous comic book character with four metal tentacles. He was my inspiration for building you four.
Albert took a look at the pads as well. Hey! One of them called you a lunatic! He grabbed the pen out of the startled man's hands and scribbled the offending word out.
Albert! No! Don't edit their writing! Doc reprimanded.
But it's not fair! You are not crazy!
Nevertheless, it's very rude, and you'll just be doing more damage to my reputation. "Sorry," he called to the reporters. "They're a little sensitive."
"They?" repeated the reporter who had interrupted Marty.
"The tentacles can think for themselves. They've got AI," Marty said.
"Exactly. Come on in, and I'll tell you the whole story."
"But the tentacles--"
"They won't hurt you. I promise."
There was a moment's hesitation. Then the instinct for a good story kicked in, and the reporters flocked inside.