Patches

Had she the capacity, the Surgeon might’ve felt something like guilt. She picked up the small heart-shaped locket and pressed the tiny release on its side. Its gilded coverlet sprang open, clapped against the meat of her palm. She considered the photo inside, then clicked the locket’s mechanism shut and placed it on the Donor’s meager pile of possessions, where it shone bright against the drab, threadbare tunic and coarse Foundation-issued canvas trousers. How the Donor had kept it from Patrol Corps was anyone’s guess.

Had she the capacity, the Surgeon might’ve felt a touch of compassionate curiosity at the identities of the couple in the locket’s concealed photograph. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a printed photo. The smiling pair were surely related to the Donor, the Surgeon could see the resemblance, though years underground had stolen that sparkle from the Donor’s eyes. No matter. Her eyes were not the Surgeon’s concern – the Recipient still had both of hers.

Two original eyes. A rare luxury. This Recipient could evidently afford the necessary protective equipment. Fitted goggles cost a Foundation labourer a month’s rations on the black market. Starve or go blind. Some chose the latter. The Recipient’s wealth was likewise evident in her choice of Donor. A vanishing few could afford Donors younger than fourteen. Likely a Foundation Council member, or one of their wives.

The Surgeon resumed her preparations. She recalled learning that, in a bygone era, most surgeons had been men. Had she the capacity, the Surgeon might’ve barked a derisive laugh – such folly, to trust this fine art to brute hands. Let them concern themselves with the coarse gestures of war and industry. Skin was a far less forgiving medium.

She glanced at the hourglass, its turning mechanism primed by the last few grains tumbling into the bottom lobe. She recalled learning of a bygone era when the sun was still reliably visible, how time was sometimes kept with the shadows it cast. Once, in her early childhood, she saw groups of people much larger than the Foundation-mandated five maximum running outside together to catch a rare breach of clear sunlight through the typical brownish haze. She watched the Patrol Corps formation smash through the crowds, a slow black wave that left bodies in its wake – some convulsing, some still. The daily TruthCast would later report of Foundation labourers crushed by a stampede of their compatriots. The instigators of this unauthorized exodus would be found and punished. The hangings happened three days later, just as the Foundation Hub’s hourglass pitched over its fifth rotation. Viewing was mandatory for all citizens, and all labourers.

The door pitched open behind her. The Surgeon’s assistant muscled two creaking gurneys into the operating room. Powerful air filters whirred into effect, a constant reminder of what lingered outside.

The Surgeon fingered her tools, chose a skin pen. Tissue damage was most evident on the Recipient’s left cheek and forehead above her left eye. Another surgeon’s work appeared as an oblong patch, paler than the Recipient’s skin tone, between her neck and shoulder. Recently, in keeping with evolving trends, surgeons had begun to shape their patches to resemble simple geometric forms, or sometimes stars, crescent moons – objects rarely seen these days, except on TruthCast banners.

The Surgeon considered the Donor’s flesh for a moment. She recalled the old fashioned telephones she’d seen in images from a bygone era, the shape of their handheld receivers. Yes, that would do nicely. She lifted the shroud from the Donor’s sedated body, prepared to sketch the design onto her pale, unblemished skin. Had she the capacity, the Surgeon might’ve pitied this young woman, seeing the halfmoon scar on her chest from a previous extraction, poorly healed judging by its ragged edges. She skirted the gurney and reached for her scalpel. The cassette that held the thin cable bonded to the Surgeon’s fitted steel collar whirred softly along its track.