“Hi there, baby girl,” said Grandpa. His arms reached around the brat, pulling her into the hug, one hand on the back of her head, patting her hair in a soothing manor. “There, there. What’s this I hear about you not wanting to get married? That’s a mighty fine young man you’ve picked out and he’s been standing in tight shoes waiting for you.”

“Oh, Grandpa, it’s this dumb idiot and his android. They’ve messed everything up. I wanted Daddy to walk me down the aisle, you know, perfect wedding, but that’s all spoiled. The dinner last night was ruined and everyone will laugh at me now if I let that thing walk me down the aisle.”

The old man looked over at Jeffrey and the android. He turned back to the brat and kissed her on the forehead.

“I know I’m not your father, but he was my son. What do you say we leave these two here and I walk you down to that young buck? That is, if you’ll have me.”

“Oh, would you, Grandpa?” said the brat. The tears were gone and her eyes happy and bright.

In response, Grandpa turned around and extended his elbow to the brat. The brat tucked her hand inside his arm and her head on his shoulder. Grandpa led her to the door and held it as she left the room. The door closed behind them and Jeffrey could hear the bridal march music begin.

Jeffrey sighed. Contingency clause fourteen. Size seven android with a grandfather program plug in and quick makeover for facial feature match had saved the wedding again.

ALIEN VOICES by P. R. Frost

‘ J’accuté comme…’ my nurse whispered to the trailing student nurse.

I heard that the last three patients who had this surgery went insane and committed suicide, I translated in my head. My many years in the ballet studio had forced me to learn French. I understood every dire word she said.

The student nurse proved that she had heard the same rumor. They left notes saying the alien voices from the nanobots…

“Enough idle gossip.” The surgeon’s looming presence in the doorway to my private hospital room cut short the women’s whispered confidences. “Mademoiselle de la Marachand must rest without anxiety.” He spoke in English for my benefit, but with a decided French accent. He’d been practicing medicine for many years in this Caribbean haven for money launderers, drug smugglers, and off-the-wall medicine.

I’d done a lot of research on him and his unique treatment for worn-out knees before committing to this strange and peculiar treatment. The AMA said it was unsafe and ineffective.

For me and other dancers staring at the end of a too-short career, his new technique looked like a miracle.

At twenty-eight I’d neared the pinnacle of success in the world of ballet. At twenty-nine I was close to losing it all because my knees were torn to shreds by the dance.

Faced with the prospect of never again melding my soul with movement and music into the glorious art of ballet, I searched for options. Even now, with the cold steel cage of the bed frame around me, my body twitched with the need to move with the canned calypso music filtering through the hospital.

Without dance the music was incomplete. Without dance I was less than half a person.

The drowse of pre-surgery drugs could not remove my need to dance.

“So will I kill myself?” I asked the surgeon as he lifted my gown to look at the markings made by the nurses on my knees. Perhaps the conversation I’d overheard was merely the product of my overactive imagination under the influence of those drugs.

“You speak French?” His eyebrows went up. He placed a warm hand on my foot. “Do not worry your pretty head about what these ignorant cabbages bandy about,” Dr. Bertrand reassured me. “They merely seek to thrill each other with tales of science fiction.”

So I had not imagined the whispered conversation.

“I do not fear voices.” Could these alien voices be worse than those of the mad choreographers, dictatorial ballet masters, and critics who think they are God?

“Yes,” Dr. Bertrand chuckled. “I have heard that dancers do not fear. You welcome pain as a necessary part of your art.”

“If it doesn’t hurt, you aren’t doing it right.” I tried to grin, but the drugs were making my face as well as my tongue numb.

“If you had not avoided treatment to your poor abused knees for so long, you would not require such drastic measures.”

“If I’d undergone corrective surgery sooner-a stopgap at best-I would have missed three of the most important years of my career. I might never have danced again.”

“Ah, but soon, I shall put that all right. My nanobots will repair all the damage you have inflicted upon your knees and keep repairing it for many years to come.”

“How long can you promise me?”

“My nanobots will last longer than the rest of your body. When you die of old age, your knees will remain as limber and strong as those of a teenager.”

“When can I dance again?”

“You will need a few weeks for the nanobots to work. Then you will feel the youth pouring into you.”

“I’m scheduled to open in London in eight weeks.”

“Eight weeks?” Dr. Bertrand shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Possibly you will be better by then, but I cannot promise peak performance in eight weeks.”

“We’ll see about that,” I said. The music played as I let the drugs carry me off. I could hear the music. I tried to move to the music. To dance.

Always, the dance.

Two days later, before breakfast, I ignored my physical therapist’s orders and rose up on tiptoe to test my balance. A big smile creased my face as I realized that Dr. Bertrand’s treatment had indeed worked a miracle. Pain-free, except for a tightness around the small incisions, I raised my arms and spun in a circle.

My body swayed and threatened to tumble. I caught myself on the bed railing and forced my feet to stay under me.

Someone sighed in relief. I looked around for the source of the whoosh of air through clenched teeth.

I was alone.

Perhaps I had made the sound. I certainly was relieved that I had not landed upon the still-healing surgery incisions around my kneecaps.

A few hours after that I tried again and accomplished five steps and a turn on tip-toe, then five steps back to the bed.

Étienne, the physical therapist, whisked me away to his gymnasium-or torture chamber-as the aides cleared away the lunch trays.

“You are a lot more limber this afternoon,” he said as he pushed my bent leg toward my chest.

I smiled at him but said nothing.

“Tell me when the muscles begin to protest,” Étienne said as he pressed a little harder against my leg. I loved the way his French accent slid from his mouth, almost like music. I could dance to his voice.

I let my kneecap brush my breasts before I squeaked a protest. Etienne gently straightened my leg and let it rest upon the hard therapy bench. In truth I’d felt the burn in my thigh fifteen inches before I said anything. I needed to push myself harder and faster than either he or Dr. Bertrand thought prudent.

In my experience, all medical people were far too conservative. They didn’t want athletes-dancers-back at peak performance as soon as we could manage. We ceased to pay for their services when we felt ourselves healed, long before they were ready to release us.

“That was amazing, Mademoiselle. But you really should not press so hard,” Etienne é said, shaking his head. He stood back, hands on hips, a stern frown upon his face.

“I am a dancer. I do not interpret pain in the same way you do.” I tried to temper my excuse with a flirtatious smile. Hard-nosed critics had been known to change their reviews when I smiled like that.

“Then allow me to judge the intensity of your therapy. The nanobots need more time to repair the damage to your bone, ligaments, and cartilage before you begin to stress them. Even miracles need time.” He stalked out of the gymnasium-like room.