Gods Without Hands

The egg-shaped machine rested at the center of an otherwise rustic-looking office. Tendrils of wires and tubes snaked from it to other devices, to the wall, and to a small, helmet-like device sitting upon a cushioned burgundy armchair. Flashing lights and monitor displays illuminated the various facets of the array, casting eerie shadows across the otherwise dim room. Bookcases, chairs, and a brick fireplace lined the walls, and varnished hardwood floors glimmered in the half-light. Nestled between two of the bookcases stood a single door, closed; no windows or other portals could be found within, except for the one allowing a slight view into the contents of the egg.

And within the egg? Well, I will get there in a moment. For now, you must also know that two women stood within the room. One sat upon the chair nearby the helmet-device, her legs crossed. Her brown hair had been wound tightly into a bun, and thin-rimmed glasses adorned her mouse-like features, matching in an odd way her sterile white lab coat and plain slippers. The other woman stood before her, a few feet away, hands clasped tightly in front of her. She shivered, as though winter had suddenly taken to the room, and curly locks of red hair slid across her wrinkle-lined face. She seemed dressed too warmly to be inside, in a ruby-red petticoat, white blouse, and long skirt.

"Are you sure this will work?" the standing woman asked, her eyes turning downward to the seated figure before her.

"As I've told you already, Ms. Parkman, I'm not sure," the seated woman replied. "This technology is still new to us, and this is the first time it's been tested on such a... special case. There's no telling what could happen."

Ms. Parkman took a few steps over to the egg. Her heels, colored blood-red to match the rest of her outfit, clapped on the floor, producing a sound like distant gunfire. "But there's no danger to him, right? My son won't be hurt?"

"No, there's no danger," the seated woman replied. "Think of this as a simple look-see. I'll be an observer, and that's it. I couldn't interfere with him even if I were inclined to."

Ms. Parkman finished her last step over to the egg. Unclasping her hands, she placed one on the glass.

"My boy..." she whispered to what lay inside. "My beautiful boy..."

In fact, what lay inside was not a boy, but instead a man. Or, at least, as far as anyone could tell. You see, this particular man possessed no facial features whatsoever - no mouth, ears, eyes, nose, or hair. A small, clear tube ran from a hole in his throat, and the huff-puff of a nearby machine betrayed its purpose as a breathing tube. Several other wires, attached to tiny devices scattered all over his body, lay scattered haphazardly around the chamber, a tangled spider's web of rubber and copper.

"Ms. Parkman?" the woman in the chair said.

Ms. Parkman snapped out of her reverie. "Yes, Doctor?"

The woman smiled. "Please," she said, "Call me Julie, or at least Doctor Maxwell if you really need to be formal."

"All right... Julie," Ms. Parkman said, her face a portrait of sorrow. She backed away from the tank, her hand tracing the outside of the window until distance forced it to leave.

"I need your permission to begin," Dr. Maxwell said. She picked the helmet up off of its resting place and placed it in her lap.

Ms. Parkman hesitated, glanced over at the egg, then at Dr. Maxwell, and back to the tank again. She closed her eyes, winced, and breathed a deep breath.

"You... may begin," she said as she exhaled.

"Very well," Dr. Maxwell said. She reached up to her bun and pulled out a long hairpin, causing cascades of brown hair to fall around her. "This process should take no more than a few minutes. This is just a trial-run, after all; if it works, then we can take a better look at him at a later date."

"You mean at what he's dreaming?" Ms. Parkman said.

Dr. Maxwell nodded. "In a way, yes. Frankly, there have only been a few cases of your son's... unique condition in medical history. To be quite honest with you, we have no idea whether he can dream or not, whether he can think in terms of spacial relations or sounds or... well, anything." She brushed a few strands of hair out of her face. "Please, sit down, Ms. Parkman. You look uncomfortable."

"All right," Ms. Parkman said. She walked over to a chair across from Dr. Maxwell's and placed herself there, at the edge of the seat. "But, anyway, there is a chance, right?"

"There is a chance," Dr. Maxwell answered, placing her hands on the helmet in her lap. "From what we know of how the brain works, whenever someone loses a part of themselves - say, becomes deaf or blind, or has a limb amputated - the part of their brain that normally controls that function sort of lends its power to other areas of the mind. So, someone who loses their sight, for example, might possess a greater sense of hearing than normal, because more of their brain devotes itself to that particular sense.

"In cases like your son's," she continued, gesturing in the direction of the egg, "where the victim has been blind or deaf from birth, the effect is even stronger. The human brain possesses an almost limitless capacity for adaptability from birth. It's very possible, therefore, that, because your son possesses no functional senses whatsoever - no touch, hearing, seeing, taste, or scent - his brain may have discovered a new method altogether for sensing the world around him. Or he may simply be what we call a non-sensor - someone who simply cannot experience the outside world through any means."

Worry lines appeared on Ms. Parkman's face. "But... what if he is a..." She swallowed. "...non-sensor?"

"Then I'm afraid that he may have to remain in specialized hospitals for the rest of his life," Dr. Maxwell said. "But if he can communicate, then there is a chance - however small - that he may be able to lead a normal life, eventually."

"That all depends," she continued, "on what his dreams are. If it is clear that he has some sort of sensory perception, then we may be able to communicate with him somehow. But if not... well, the images I receive will likely be a mess."

"I understand," Ms. Parkman said. "Please, just... just get on with it. I don't think I can take waiting anymore..."

Dr. Maxwell placed her hands on the sides of the helmet. "Of course, Ms. Parkman," she said, lifting the device up and over her head. Her arms then rested upon those of the chair. One hand fingered a small switch engraved into one of the chair's arms.

"I'll drift out of consciousness for a bit," she continued. "This device is deigned to supplant my senses with his. I will, for all intents and purposes, be living his life."

"Wish me luck, Ms. Parkman," she continued, flashing the older woman a smile. The next moment, she pressed down upon the switch, and the machine whirred to life. A visor slid down in front of Dr. Maxwell's eyes and began to flash color after color. Messages, graphs, and diagrams passed across the monitors attached to the egg. The lights around the room dimmed even further than they already had, and then snuffed out entirely.

Dr. Maxwell twitched, and then lay still.

Ms Parkman squinted as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The room fell quiet except for the low hum of the device, transmitting who-knows-what between the seated doctor and the captive figure in the egg. A minute passed. Ms. Parkman shifted her position on the chair. Two minutes. Her fingers drummed nervously on her knees. Three minutes. The chart tracking Dr. Maxwell's brainwaves on a nearby monitor registered a few spikes. A glimmer of hope appeared in Ms. Parkman's eyes. She leaned over to get a closer look at the unconscious woman before her. Four minutes.

Dr. Maxwell stirred. The visor on her helmet retracted, and a second later, her eyes opened.

Ms. Parkman stood up with a start. "Doctor! Wh-what did you see? Did you see my son's thoughts? What did he say??"

Dr. Maxwell, however, simply stood up, a gradual motion which at the same time appeared strained, as though the doctor's muscles had atrophied in her short repose. She half-stumbled over to a cabinet and pulled out a drawer, revealing a bottle of some brown liquid and two crystal glasses.

"Doctor?" Ms. Parkman said, "What did you..."

Still silent, Dr. Maxwell poured an inch of the liquid into each of the glasses. "Twenty year old single-malt bourbon," she said, her voice feeble. "It'll take the edge off."

Ms. Parkman stared blankly at the doctor. "The edge... what are you talking about??"

"I've never seen anything like it," Dr. Maxwell said, notes of melancholy creeping into her voice. "Never a thing. Not even on the most schizophrenic, insane bastards we tested this thing on." She tipped her wrist back and downed the contents of the glass, grimacing as it went down.

Ms. Parkman strode over to Dr. Maxwell in a flash and grabbed her by the collar of her coat. "What did you see??" she bellowed, her face a few inches from the other woman's. "Tell me, please!! I have to know!!"

Dr. Maxwell's eyes closed for a moment. When they opened again, they were full of anguish.

"Nothing," she said. "I saw nothing."

"No!!" Ms. Parkman screamed, shaking the other woman by her coat. "You must have done something wrong! The machine must have malfunctioned, or... or you got your calculations wrong or..." She stepped back. A tear flowed from each of her eyes. "This can't be..."

"Ms. Parkman," Dr. Maxwell said, "There was nothing wrong. The diagnostic I ran on the machine beforehand showed everything in working order, and it's highly doubtful that a second diagnostic will show anything different. Your son, I'm afraid... is blank. He feels nothing."

"No... no, this..." Ms. Parkman fell to her knees. "This isn't right... I was supposed to see him, to see his thoughts, to... to tell him I love him..."

"Ms. Parkman," Dr Maxwell said, "I'm terribly sorry, but we're going to have to ask you to leave. These results are... they need to be analyzed. Very thoroughly. We'll call you if... when we know something."

"But... but my son-"

"-will be transferred back to St. Anthony's hospital within twenty-four hours, where you may see him again. Until then, we need to run more tests. Nothing harmful, we assure you-"

Ms. Parkman stumbled back to her feet, then sprinted the meter or so to the egg and wrapped her arms around it. "You can go to hell!" she snapped, "All of you! I'm not leaving my son! He can hear me... he can..."

Dr. Maxwell wrapped her fingers around the second glass of bourbon, which quickly disappeared between her lips. She slammed the glass down. "Ms. Parkman, you WILL leave now, or I WILL call security and have them escort you out." She sighed raggedly. "Now."

Breathing heavily, Ms. Parkman slowly withdrew herself from the egg. Then, without a word, she grabbed her purse from a nearby table and stormed out the door to the office, slamming it behind her.

I followed her out to the car. She was always so beautiful when she became upset, perhaps even more so than when she smiled. There, I saw her unlock the door and slide inside, taking off her heels so that she could press the pedals. But she didn't leave immediately; instead, she stayed there and sobbed her heart out, overcome by hopelessness, oblivious to all else.

Oblivious to me.

I stayed and watched her there until she finally worked up the willpower to leave the parking lot. Afterward, I wanted to be alone, so I traveled to the middle of Libya, to the desert. Golden sands surrounded me, and I could see every grain, discern every tiny detail, every nook and cranny and flaw. Each one, so unique. I came here often to reflect on things. Not just here, though, but to any desert: Arizona, Mexico, China, Saudi Arabia, the Moon, Mars, planets and satellites that have no name, no scientific label, just rocks and dust floating in the deep vastness of space... I've seen them all, explored every inch, every nanometer, every atom. The desert must be the second most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Second only to her.

I wish I could tell her how much I feel for her. How much I've always wanted to wrap my arms around her and just feel that sense of closeness, only for a little while. I've seen all that this universe has to offer, seen colors and shapes and heard sounds that no other man will ever see, learned every language and read every novel and history of man and a thousand thousand other sentient races. Some would consider me lucky, if they only knew. Others would think me damned. I still haven't a clue what the difference is; in fact, I suspect that they might mean the same thing in most cases.

I still watch her sometimes as she grows older. Every time I see her, new lines appear on her face, her veins become a tiny bit more prominent, and her voice grows ever more feeble. And I will watch her waste away, and die, and then I will be alone. My mother. Gone. And I will finally be alone. How ironic is it that one such as I should be alone? If evolution, or God, or a random roll of the dice provided me with these tools, then why can I not use them?

Perhaps, however, this is the way that it was meant to be. No single man should see what I have seen and feel nothing, no touch of a woman or embrace of a mother, the feel of a baseball or a fork or a computer mouse or a book in my hand, anything that would make me human, anything more than an all-seeing phantom, a sage and a cripple, a god without hands.