Wild Cards and Iron Horses Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    The waistcoat settled on the back of one of the few chairs in the workshop, shirt and tie neatly folded on the workbench. Jon twisted towards the woman in the corner. “I assume this is adequate?”
    Samantha spun around. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” She advanced on Jon, not meeting his gaze. Her cheeks were as red as his own, probably for the same reasons. Even in a doctor’s office, one did not just shed clothing. And this was as far from a doctor’s office as he could get.
    Her eyes remained fixed on the gleaming brass and small copper cogs and wires running down from his right shoulder all the way to the tips of his fingers. She swallowed loudly. “If you could demonstrate the actions of this brace, sir.”
    “Of course.” Jon began to run through the daily morning routine of checking out the exoskeleton from top to bottom. He didn’t need to think twice—the moves were almost instinctive. The metal bars bent at the elbow, allowing Jon to flex his arm without restriction. There was no visible injury to the arm and hand, other than the scarring from the palm outward. He recalled the droning voices of the physicians echoing in his ears, detailing the fine workmanship and the artistry that created such a device. Of course it went without mention that it was only his father’s stubbornness and Jon’s lack of backbone to stand up to him that created the need for such a thing.
    Her gaze kept darting to his bare chest as he went through his exercises. He knew that it wasn’t just curiosity at his raw form. Sam studied the leather strap fastened to the braces on his shoulder. The thick cordovan ran horizontally across his back then swept over his chest, fastened in the center of his front with a simple belt buckle. The light body hair covered strong, visible muscles on his back and front, the strenuous daily exercises needed to work the device having produced a body that most of his comrades envied and was guaranteed to gain the attention of any women nearby. He had been in good condition before following his father to America and to the war, but the need for constant exercise during his rehabilitation had brought him into fine physical condition. Still, he felt no need to strut like a peacock, given that the intense work had only resulted in his being able to act, well, like a regular man.
    He felt the warm flush under his skin creeping across his body and blamed it on the temperature change in the small workshop. Surely the open furnace on the far side of the room would have given anyone a rush. It had nothing to do with the gentle strokes of the young lady’s fingers, the rough and calloused edges skipping across his arm like a stone on water.
    “May I ask the reason for this creation?” Jake adjusted his eyeglasses with his left hand, moving in for a closer look. “Obviously it serves some purpose.”
    “There…was an accident.” The tightness in his chest increased, as it always did when he thought about it. “I was standing where I shouldn’t have been and my hand was crushed by a cannonball.” There.
    That should be enough information.
    “Ah.” Jake nodded. He reached out a single finger, touching the fine wires running along the frame on Jon’s forearm. “But not enough injury to warrant amputation?”
    “It was not an option.” The words ground out between clenched teeth. The surgeon had recommended it. Jon didn’t remember much of those first few hours, but some images had burned themselves into his mind. His father bellowing at the top of his lungs that no son of his would be a cripple. Officers huddled in a corner of the tent in fear and scorn. The doctor shaking his head as he wrapped the hand, pressing it flat through Jon’s screams.
    Then came the piles of bandages, the salves and creams to keep the skin supple and pliable, the rough wooden splint holding his fingers straight as they healed from the initial breaks. The trip back to the coast, to the first ship that could