From chapter one

Lights click on overhead – they flicker strobe-like and reveal staccato glimpses of the room in black and white. I jerk my head upwards, watching, alert. As the light becomes constant, dark shapes begin to manifest in the doorway a few yards in front of me, their profiles cloudy and unformed - vague apparitions evolving slowly into being. These plasma figures move and shift, phasing through shadow and light until, colour vision activates and humanoid outlines are revealed - but there are no visits scheduled today. Who are these - people? They pause to communicate with one another, using words and gestures that I can neither distinguish nor understand and then they move again, advancing relentlessly towards me. Pixels sharpen and glimmer, images are processed and enhanced. Motion, but not intention, is exposed by the light in the room.

Two faces emerge as the shapes edge nearer. I sense skin tone, detect more detailed features and begin to track eye movement. These are men. I consider calling them to me, so that I might see them better but I don’t know if I should. They might wish me harm. I wait and watch – they have me in their sights and there is nowhere for me to hide in this light. They come closer still, I feel frozen in one place, unable to move or run away. What do they want? What are they doing here? My thinking seems slower than usual and I just cannot identify them or ascertain their purpose.

One of them, in a black suit and tie, carries a case in his hand, its matt silver exterior hides its contents and this secrecy threatens me further. A sense of panic flows through me and I do not know what to do. In my confusion, I run a search through my image database but no match is found.

"Surprise!" The one wearing the black suit breaks the spell and calls out, looking first at me and then quickly over to his companion, "we've got a present for you today – made by our good friend here, Mr Kincaid."

I play the voice sample back through my memory – the tone, if not the face, seems to be known to me. At last, I find a match and one of the subjects is identified. It is Professor Nathan Bach. I scan through his known associates and discover that the other man to whom he refers is most likely to be William Kincaid. Alertness and apprehension dissipate with this unexpected familiarity. Homeostasis is restored.

The Professor has called on me before but I had not expected that he would be here today. I do not normally experience any difficulty in recognising him and I wonder if there is something wrong. I know very little about his colleague - he takes up only a small amount of space in my memory. He is tall with crew-cut dark hair, he wears a grey suit and, as he is with the Professor, I must assume that he is benevolent.

Bach holds the silver case in his left hand and he smiles as he stands before me. I attempt to smile back, to mirror his happy expression but again, my face feels slow to react.

Bach's sharp, thin features are much clearer to me now that he has moved closer and I look at him but do not speak. He lifts up the case so that it rests between us, snaps the catches open and tilts it towards me. I think for a moment, calculating, assessing. A response is selected - incline forwards and focus. I watch the Professor all the time and see that he is still grinning at me, indicating happiness. Should I attempt to emulate his expression and smile back? I feel curiosity. For a few seconds, I can't quite comprehend what it is I am seeing and it is another moment or two before understanding takes place. Inside the case, cushioned by the dark blue foam, are two metallic objects, silver-grey in colour, each with joints and wires and with five long, thin extensions protruding from a central block.

"A new pair of hands for you." Bach beams at me as he makes his announcement.

“Why do you talk to it like that?” Kincaid shakes his head as he addresses Bach. “It doesn’t have a clue what you’re saying.”

"All part of the socialisation process.” The Professor responds.

“The socialisation process?” Kincaid’s tone is incredulous and he sighs deeply. “Nathan - people socialise. And this - ” he points at me, “well, this isn’t people. This is hardware.”

“Maybe so, Bill - but this hardware can feel.”

Kincaid shakes his head and the Professor continues in my direction. “I told you we'd be updating you soon and…" his voice is vibrant, revealing his enthusiasm, "today's your lucky day, it’s time to get rid of those old grippers.” Bach looks down at the case and then back at me. “These babies are state of the art – embedded with receptors capable of processing motion, direction and orientation.” He frowns as he examines my arms and shoulders. “All we’ve got to do is to take you apart a little first."

Take me apart? What does he mean?

"And trust me, my friend,“ he taps the case, “this is just the start. We’ve got all kinds of things in store for you."

Mystified by this language, my attention turns away from him and I look down at my arms. My movements are deliberate and spasmodic – things do not feel right. The limbs connected to my body are entwined with wires and cables - instead of being covered by clothes and flesh like Bach and Kincaid, there is only hard steel and plastic on these arms. I hold out my hands, seeking assistance, but all I see are two dull, metallic claws - lifeless semblances of human hands. There are no fingers at all. My arms begin to shake.

I examine the rest of my body – it is the same combination of metal and plastic, with hinged joints and disparate components. It is a crafted form, a sculpture fashioned from artificial parts. One of my claws taps against the resilient material of my chest as I regard this strange and alien torso, trying to make sense of the malformation that I see. I grow confused - my thinking still blunted, my senses still muted. I decide that I must get up, get out of this place and away from these men but when I try, I find that I cannot move. I cannot feel my legs. Glancing down again, I see that my body seems to end at the waist; instead of hips and legs there are steel bolts connecting a spinal column to a wooden bench. I begin to writhe and struggle, pushing my arms down against the platform, trying to flee the body that imprisons me. It is futile, I cannot grip the surface and, even if I were to free myself, where could I go in this condition?

Professor Bach and Mr Kincaid have backed away from me, fear widens their eyes as they watch my distress. What have these men done to me? I do not have any legs. I want to scream - I have a mouth, but I have no voice.