Upgrades

Specialist Dune sat in the doctor’s waiting room inside the 166th Transportation Unit’s headquarters. Captain Stevens served as its physician and psychiatrist.

Dune, since she took a bullet in the sandbox two months ago, often saw Stevens as both.

She, during her first two sessions with Stevens, defensively dodged his questions. They eventually decided that Dune did this because her first-grade teacher humiliated her students whenever they incorrectly answered her questions.

Another soldier sat across from Dune in the waiting room. He grinned. A lump of chewing tobacco bulged his cheek. “Ain’t you that female got herself shot last January?” His grin widened. “You must be one tough, little cookie.”

She frowned.

He rolled his eyes. “Come on, now. That was a compliment.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she said. “I did my job and got hurt. You shouldn’t find that cute.”

She doubted anyone would call a recently wounded, male soldier a “tough, little cookie.”

The door to the doctor’s main office opened. “Specialist Dune?” Stevens asked. “You ready?”

She entered his office, sat at the edge of its small bed while he checked her blood pressure.

His television sat on a nearby counter. Onscreen, Alice and the Mad Hatter rested beneath the sheets of his bed.

“I do wish you hadn’t yelled, ‘Change Places’ every time you wanted to switch positions,” Alice said. Fake laughter echoed from the television’s speakers.

Stevens nodded. “Your blood pressure improved, Dune.” With twin tears of Velcro, he removed the blood pressure monitor’s cuff from her arm. “Do you still dream about the mission? The one where you took a bullet?”

Her gaze fell upon the ugly scar that decorated her left arm. She would never again silently pass through a metal detector. “I just wish we wore more armor.”

“I just wished you hadn’t cheated on me,” Alice told the hatter. More fake laughs from the TV.

“What makes you think I cheated on you?” asked the hatter.

Stevens straightened. “You know, Specialist, we have access to some new technologies. We’re looking for volunteers who want to try it.”

Dune’s eyes narrowed. “What sorts of technologies?”

Steven used a tiny flashlight to check inside Dune’s ears. “One involves a medication that strengths your skin. After a few weeks of treatment, you permanently thicken it to the point that it becomes bulletproof.”

Dune blinked. Seriously?

Alice told the Mad Hatter, “I saw the white rabbit running about in a panic. She said that she was ‘late for a very important date,’ and when I asked her what she meant by that, she told me that you impregnated the poor thing.” Fake laughter.

Stevens set aside his flashlight. “Would that sort of treatment interest you?”

“Side effects?” Dune asked.

“Your skin will lose sensitivity,” Stevens said. “You won’t feel soft things or light touches.”

*                      *                      *

Dune, about a month after her final treatment, performed morning PT with her squad in front of the motor pool. She and about twenty other soldiers labored through push-ups while they arranged themselves before an audience of Hummers.

Dune marveled at how little she could sense the rough pavement beneath her hands and knees. The treatments she endured had thickened her skin, but she could no longer feel the softness of her pillow or the warmth in a hug.

“Iiiiiiiiiiiiiin cadence,” their drill instructor shouted.

“Iiiiiiiiiiiiiin cadence,” Dune and the other soldiers agreed.

They performed their exercises while they counted off their movements. “One. Two. One! One. Two. Two! One. Two. Three!”

Dune’s mind returned to the unfortunate news she heard earlier. An IED took out a convoy of soldiers from her unit. Whoever detonated the bomb hid it beneath a simple, cardboard box, about six inches high.

“Relax!” the drill instructor said once everyone finished.

“Never!” Dune and her coworkers yelled in union.

*                      *                      *

Dune sat at the edge of the bed in Steven’s office. He sat across from her. His TV player The Wizard of Oz. The Wizard commanded Dorothy to steal the witch’s broom.

“How did you feel after that bomb wiped out our convoy?” Stevens asked.

Dune faced the ceiling. “I just wish that . . . I could trust my eyes to spot that bomb, no matter how well its maker hides it.”

Stevens treated her to a strange look. “There is. Another new technology. We surgically replace your eyes with mechanical versions that better spot potential threats.”

Dune snorted. “Side effects?”

“Well—” Stevens shifted a bit in his seat “—these cybernetic eyes work because they dull your ability to see things that do not serve as a threat. Also . . . you might see, on occasion, images from your past, such as people you’ve watched die.”

Dune’s gaze drifted towards the TV. Dorothy and her freaky friends stumbled through a scary forest as they foolishly sought the Wicked Witch’s palace.

Better to live with side effects than to go home in a box. “When can I have the surgery done?” Dune asked.

The Cowardly Lion said, “I do believe in spooks. I do. I do. I do.”

*                      *                      *

Dune, a few weeks after she installed her new eyes, led her platoon in morning PT.

“Iiiiiiiiin cadence,” she said.

“Iiiiiiiiin cadence,” the other soldiers shouted.

They performed sit-ups. “One. Two. One! One. Two. Two! One. Two. Three!”

Her new eyes never noticed dangerous distractions, such as beautiful birds or flowers. Her thickened skin felt numb.

“Relax!” she said, once everyone finished.

“Never!” her fellow soldiers yelled in union.