Author : Devon McDonough

“Relax. Breathe through your nose and count backward from ten,” said the technician. She was wearing a white isolation suit, one gloved hand twisting the flow regulator of the anesthetic, the other on my arm in a sterile and entirely unsuccessful attempt to comfort me. Her isolation suit detracted somewhat from her bedside manner, and the fact that her faceplate only showed distorted reflections of the six other assorted doctors and techs gave me a distinct sense of disconnect. Or maybe it was the cocktail of various drugs I had been taking all week to prepare me for the procedure. My body wasn’t sore, but my mind was convinced of some kind of ache; it just wasn’t sure where that ache was.

I took a breath and began to count.

Ten… It was getting colder in the room. It had to be for the procedure. The padded table I was strapped to was the no-temperature of sterile formfit foam. It ensured that my skin would not be damaged by the cold.

Nine… As the diagnostic hood was lowered onto my chest and shoulders, my already limited mobility was further reduced. Not that I really cared; I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.

Eight… Now I could only look straight up at the ceiling. White, sparsely ventilated, sterile. No surprise there. In my tiny field of vision I could see flashes of gloved hands and vent-masked faces: the people who would soon be cutting my head open.

Seven… I had no reason to be afraid, but the momentary twist in my gut told me that what I was doing went against all instinct.

Before I could reach six my lungs seized and I convulsed violently. In any other operating room instruments would have been beeping wildly and doctors would be frantically shouting orders as they attempted to resuscitate me. However, this was not a lifesaving operation, and the doctors had seen this before in almost every integration subject. There was no pain, but my lungs grew heavy and breathing became a chore. Five…

The restraints on my chest, legs, and limbs prevented my arms from flailing as my body fought the anesthetic, which became an oxygenated liquid once it hit the bloodstream. My mind knew perfectly well what was going on. I had, in fact, been preparing for this moment for seven months since I had gotten word that I was a prime candidate for ISM integration. They called it “initial involuntary pulmonary rejection” on official screens, but those who were familiar with the procedure knew it more colloquially as the “ups and drowns.” My lungs were under the impression that I was dying, which was only partially true. Four…

I focused on my breathing. It settled to a steady rhythm once the initial spasms subsided (thanks to the muscle relaxers in the gas). My pulmonary functions would be automated for the next part of the procedure and then stopped altogether until the ISM was integrated. It would take over all involuntary operations from the moment it was activated. Three…

My vision tunneled as my body settled into dormancy. The activity around me began to increase. It was almost time. Lights were positioned and instruments were swung into place. Two…

No more breathing. The anesthetic now filled almost my entire bloodstream, feeding me oxygen and keeping me at room temperature, which was now somewhere just above freezing. One…

Everything seemed to be receding as my heart rate dropped exponentially. My last conscious sight was a gloved hand waving in front of my eyes, and then…

Zero…

I was dead… for now.