That Elusive Cure 39

“Power restarting. Diagnostics initiating. Pressure in the nanoparticle chamber is 99% and functionality is restored. Nanoparticle density is 50% and not high enough for functionality. Estimated time to recharge nanoparticles is fifteen days. Recommend recharging with MicroHealth nanoparticles. Please contact MicroHealth representative.”

Sat quietly, propped up against the wall and staring into the half closed eyes of Jesus, I didn’t react at first to the machine.

“I’ve done it!” Bob shouted out. He sounded more surprised than I would have thought. Didn’t he know what he was doing?

“It’s fixed?” I joined him beside the machine. “Not the nanoparticles, at least not yet, but the nitrogen vapour issue?”

“Didn’t you hear what it said?” Bob was almost jumping up and down.

Jimmy and I glanced at each other then simultaneously shook our heads.

“The pod said what it always says, didn’t it?” Jimmy asked.

“How did you miss that? This is… wow.” Bob hopped about, one hand on the hull.

“Can you make it repeat itself?” I pointed to the back. “Open and close the hatch.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Bob was going to have a heart attack if he didn’t calm down. The scientist dashed to the rear of the pod and opened and closed the panel to the engine. “Listen,” he said, and stood there, arms crossed, beaming at us.

The voice started to speak: “Power restarting. Diagnostics initiating.”

No difference there.

The machine continued: “Pressure in the nanoparticle chamber is 99% and functionality is restored. Nanoparticle…”

“That’s fantastic…” I was cut off by Bob.

“Shush, keep listening,” he said, one hand up to silence us.

“…not high enough for functionality. Estimated time to recharge nanoparticles is fifteen days. Recommend recharging with MicroHealth nanoparticles. Please contact MicroHealth representative.”

For a moment no one spoke. Then Jimmy let out a whoop and ran over to Bob. He gave him a man-squeeze then rushed at me.

“I told you it would be okay, did you hear that?” Jimmy picked me up and jigged about. “It’s self-healing. Now the pressure is okay, it’s growing its own nano-stuff! Fifteen days!””

No words came to me, I couldn’t quite believe the machine.

Jimmy dropped me and back-slapped Bob, the two men grinning manically. “You’re going to be fixed, Kath. All better, good as new!” he yelled back at me. “Two weeks, that’s it, two weeks and you’ll be healthy again!”

I’d collapsed onto one of the pews and sat there staring at the machine. Cured, remission. I was beginning to love those words.

Bob separated from Jimmy and circled the machine, stroking the hull of the pod as he walked. “This is one hell of a machine. I have to know, where did it come from?”

“We actually have no idea. I was given a key to the church and told to fix myself under the agreement that I’d pass the key on to the next person.”

“Does that mean…” Bob looked from me to Jimmy and then back again. “Does that mean you’ve got cancer?”

Not sure how a man as smart as him hadn’t figured that out already, I nodded. “But things are looking much better for me after a few sessions in there.”

“How better?”

“Went from lots of tumours in both my lungs and my liver. Now I’ve only got two left. Even if the machine broke completely and you never figured out how to make enough particles to recharge the system I’ve got treatments open to me now that I could only dream of before.” My emotions threatened to take control. I took a moment to steady myself. “The docs are talking surgery.”

The pod seemed to grow and fill the room. There’d be no surgery. I’d have that last session in the pod to wipe out the cancer and wouldn’t have to face the needles and recovery and fresh scars driving me mad with that itch. No worry about infections or MRSA or overworked nurses. No days in the hospital wondering if one of those terrible complications I had to sign off on would happen to me. No seeing people further down the cancer path than me and knowing that was my future as well.

“Wow.” Bob walked around to the open side of the pod. “How does it work?”

“The patient takes their shoes off and climbs in. Then when they place their hand on the panel,” I pointed to the place, “the lid closes. The machine does a scan and tells the person how many sessions it needs to fix them.”

“That’s it? Does it hurt? Does it use needles?”

“You know, I have no idea how it got the stuff into my system. There’s no pain or injections, just feeling better afterwards.”

“That’s why it has to be self-charging. I bet it pumps the pod full of nanoparticles and continuously grows its own supply. Amazing.” Bob was muttering again. “Have you had a go?” Bob turned to Jimmy.

Jimmy laughed. “No, mate. Not sure I’d want to.”

How could he not want to? I frowned at him. Hadn’t two years of watching the downside of not being diagnosed early been enough for him?

“But it’s probably something I should do eventually.” Jimmy added with a sheepish look.

Ah, I thought. Bigging himself up in front of the scientist.

“Fair enough.” Bob touched the mattress and recoiled as it expanded around his fingers.

“The scanner still works.” I crossed my arms and waited for a reaction.

Jimmy was first. “How do you know that?”

“When I was here with Dad. It confirmed what the MRI said.”

“You mean I could have a go?” Bob was already untying his shoes. He climbed in and lay there as the foam grew around him. “What now?”

I shook my head gently. Hadn’t he been listening? “Put your hand up there.” I pointed.

Moments later, the lid was lowering down.

“Scan initiating.” The voice spoke, as soothing and miraculous as the first time I’d heard it.

“Diagnosing.”

Bob was young. I doubted it would find anything at all.

“Patient is confirmed as having fasted for minimum of eight hours. Elevated blood sugar level of 6.7 mmol/l detected. Diagnosis of prediabetes. One session required to repair pancreas.”

I slid to the edge of the seat, listening. After all the cancer repairs the machine had made, and what it had found with my dad, part of me had decided this machine was for that disease only.

“Session can begin after required recharging of nanoparticles. End session?”

Bob said yes and the lid opened. “Thought I was peeing a bit too much,” he said with a grin. “I love this machine.”

Somehow I had to get Sally out of the hospital. The machine would balance her brain chemicals or something, and she’d be fixed, happy, normal. Fifteen days. That’s all. Just fifteen short days, I thought, and smiled.