Accessing the Future: A Disability-Themed Anthology of Speculative Fiction by Joyce Chng, Nicolette Barischoff, A.C. Buchanan, Sarah Pinsker Page A

can’t,” I say. “I’ve never been a medic without the Pilot. I don’t know how it helps me because it’s part of me.”
    They take notes.
    “It’s part of me,” I say again, suddenly terrified that they’re going to rip it from my head. “I can see everything. Some of the other medics get nervous because when they’re bent over somebody there’s a chance they’re gonna get taken out. But the Pilot lets me treat my patient and stay aware of my surroundings. It’s like—it’s like being able to absorb multiple inputs. Watch multiple channels at once. Ask anybody I’ve worked with. I did great in the blood labs and on the ground. Everybody wants me on their team. Don’t take this away from me. Please.”
    The same technician says, “The Army tells us they’re very pleased with your success in the field.”
    “You’re going to take it.” Defeat tugs at me. I want to run from the room, to hop a freight train. I’d do anything to keep it, but it’s theirs to take. I haven’t paid for it. I can look into whether they can force me into surgery against my will, but I’m guessing I’ve already signed something to that effect.
    I try to think of anything to delay them, and seize upon something. “The concussion.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    I wonder if the other people in the room are just extras, and direct my plea at the only one who talks. “The implants were initially developed as part of a deep brain stimulation project, right? For epilepsy?”
    “Yes.”
    “But it didn’t work.”
    “No.”
    “And you found another use, and since then you’ve been testing them on healthyish volunteers like me, right? No epilepsy, no brain injuries, no disabilities based on structural defects.”
    “Right.”
    “So sooner or later, you’re going to need to know what happens when an implant is put into a healthy volunteer who then gets a brain injury, even a minor one. That’s me, in front of you. Right here, right now. Why would you take it out when this would tell you so much more? You probably have twenty other people you can test the other scenario on, but you can’t manufacture my condition.”
    I keep the triumphant note from my voice, but I can already see their gears turning. I’m right.
    “We’ll take that back to the project director,” one of the silent techs says at last, “but you misunderstand. We’re not going to take it out. We simply don’t have any reason to continue studying you.”
    That wasn’t what I was expecting. They’re not taking it out, but they’re not turning it back on either. Though she did say she’d take it to the project director. Under the circumstances, that’s the best I can hope for.
    They send me back to my apartment to stew. I sit on the lumpy couch and go over a new protocol for surgical cricothyrotomy. I read out loud, following my finger. Practice the procedure in my head, let my hands go through the movements. After ten minutes, I quiz myself; again after thirty. I read the protocol again with a movie on, purpose-fully distracting myself, then type summaries of both what I’d read and the movie. I’m testing myself on the new knowledge, but also on my limits with the dormant Pilot. So far, it doesn’t feel all that different.
    I look online for a grocery store and locate one within walking distance. As I walk, I scan for snipers on the roofs and windows of apartment buildings. There are six other people in my line of sight: a couple at a bus stop, the others walking. I watch to see if anyone has a hand inside a jacket. Ingrained habits, habits that have saved my life more than once, even if they’re not necessary here. Still, it’s reassuring how much I can take in even without my Pilot working.
    The store isn’t high end, but the produce looks fresh enough, and the floors are clean. One of the speakers piping smooth jazz overhead has a whine on the high end. It makes my whole body tense, makes me yawn to pop my ears even though they’re fine. There