Free The Anarchists by Brian Thompson Page A

forgiveness. 
    Damario’s eyes tightly squinted. The first occurrence of phantom pain happened following the amputations. Damario moaned in terrible agony then, though machines routinely pumped his body with medication. The sensation of missing appendages would not totally subside until the robotic prosthesis process took place. That could take days, or months, depending on his body’s reaction to the new drug his psychiatrist had introduced to the daily regimen. But not even that comforted him.
    Nothing gave him relief, save for the presence of Dr. Nandor Adharma – the sole human cog among Ellis and the androids tending to her husband. He reminded Madison of a man she hated, though she could not remember why she disliked him. Obviously intelligent, Adharma spoke with a calm, superior intellect – especially when it came to Damario’s treatment.
    Perhaps what bothered her was the way Damario’s face lit when Adharma arrived, for relief would soon come in the form of a psychotropic drug. The substance, which Madison stumbled in pronouncing, contained the addictive base chemical that produced sniff. In controlled amounts, it did wonders, but uncontrolled on the street, it killed.
    The doctor inserted a tube of aqua-blue liquid into Damario’s bloodstream feed. As it drained, Damario’s left iris matched the color of the drug. Madison tapped her foot.
    “Questions, Missus Coley?”   
     
    The sterility of his tone bothered her. “N. . .no,” she stuttered. “Why do you ask?”
    “Each time I administer this particular drug, you appear nervous.”
    “I don’t like it,” she spurted out. “Isn’t there another you can use?”
    “He’s experiencing a great deal of inflammation that will keep the prosthetic eye and forearm from bonding with his nerves and muscle tissue.”
    “What about anti-inflammatories? They work.”
    “Not with simultaneous neurotransmitter application.” Adharma docked his eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose. “Your husband’s full recovery will take weeks; a fraction of the time that it would have under normal circumstances. You’re doing the right thing.”
    Madison rubbed her eyes. Adharma convinced her to do it in the first place, and again to up the dosage despite her misgivings. “And the side effects?”
    Ellis flashed a lightscope across Damario’s intact eyelid, which fluttered.
    “The dreams?” Adharma asked. “We’ve been over this. Maybe if you see the ADA’s report on the research being conducted on the psychoana. . .”
    “Just explain it to me again,” she interrupted. “In layman’s terms.”
    Adharma sighed. “Your husband’s dosage is the maximum allowable and without the customary side effects of high usage; hives, dehydration.”
    For once, through Adharma’s condescending tone, she understood exactly what he said.
    “The enhanced brain activity comes from an additive, an artificial protein, if you will, that simultaneously suppresses those symptoms but also reactivates the dorsal lateral prefrontal cortex and neurotransmitters to a degree. In other words, Missus Coley, his brain has the ability to control what he sees and remembers in his dreams. It’s temporary and harmless.”

    Damario’s bare feet sunk a bit into the moist, dark brown loam. It had been turned and contained no rocks, insects, worms or foreign bodies. He knelt and squeezed some between his fingers. The soil squished and turned to patties of earthen clay. He returned them to their native home, rose, and inhaled. The farm-like aroma reminded him of summers at his grandmother’s country house in Georgia. That place lacked every modern convention of the mid-21 st century, and she refused to conform to them. He hated visiting there for any extended length of time because of its remoteness.
    “Hello there. Offer you some lemonade?” An elderly black woman approached him with a sweating mason jar of pale yellow liquid. Damario’s grandmother looked just the way he remembered