Pressed Against What Used to Be My Heart

My existence was devoid of feeling. I marched down hard, angular, precisely-constructed corridors that had no windows, my strides mechanically even, through a monstrous space-station that drifted purposefully through the dark, cold chasm of space. All was white, gray and black, plastic and metal; regulated steps, regulated breathing, artificial speech that hummed deeply through my head when I gave my strained vocal chords the command to vibrate.

For almost two decades, I had been encased completely in metal and leather and duroplast. Two decades, I had not used my own eyes. I had not felt wind against my face, boots on my feet, clothes on my back---skin against my skin. I had not smelled real food---how could I eat it? I had not tasted drink, for my verbal articulator pressed thin wire-like fingers intrusively between my scarred lips and rested against the tip of my tongue. I heard nothing that was not filtered through the hard, skull-like black helmet that fitted around my head, and even though I could scarcely remember what it ought to sound like, a naked human voice to me now carried a hint of digital unsteadiness. But I rarely heard a naked human voice. Most of my curt, businesslike conversations I carried out with storm troopers, who also wore helmets similar to my own, which made their voices sound tinny and hollow. But at the end of the day, when they returned to their barracks, they could take their helmets off and lie down in bed.

I never could.

Some nights, in the beginning, as I sat there in an orthopedic chair designed to give me the most comfort possible while still sitting up, I had been overwhelmed with the agonizing desire to rip it all off of me---all of this machine, all of this artificial material that was acting as an impenetrable barrier between me and every true outside sensation. But then what? I had no arms. I had no legs. The very falseness---the machine---that I despised, allowed me to walk on constructed legs, and fight, gesture and dismiss with man-made arms. I could not escape it. Never. Not without escaping my own body. And so I chose not to fight that agony. Instead, I absorbed it, and siphoned it down to the pit of my stomach. Then, I gradually pushed all desire for feeling out of my head.

I became a machine myself. Nothing quickened my heartbeat. Nothing made my breath catch. Nothing softened my tone. Nothing made me stammer or hesitate. My face no longer moved, for there was no one to see my expression---and then there was simply no emotion to express.

At long last, I accepted the numbness, the insensitivity---and when I did, I made the most miraculous discovery: I found that it was infinitely easier to think, to calculate, to act, when I felt nothing. Finally, after all I had been through, I had conquered my weaknesses and was in complete command of my entire being. I felt nothing. Nothing for more than ten years.

That is, until I strode into the docking bay aboard the Death Star five minutes after a certain Alderaanian counselor ship had been towed aboard. As soon as I crossed the threshold strange---but very, very slight---invisible pressure was exerted against my chest. That was strange. I slowed to a stop, absently wondering if my breathing regulator was having difficulty.

"Sir?" my storm-trooper commander inquired, halting beside me. I considered for a moment, my hollow breath echoing in my ears as always, then straightened.

"Nothing, commander," I rumbled. "Go ahead. Kill anyone who resists."

I stayed where I was while the troops jogged ahead, their booted feet clanking on the metal. I took a deep breath, and my breather responded correctly. No---this pressure was not mechanical. But it was familiar. I ignored it. Blinking once, I strode after my troops toward the captured ship.