A No.3 Scalpel
Category B: Highly Commended (2025) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Anuram Kathirgamarajah
Conditioned air cooled his face as he strode swiftly, the rugged rubber soles of his knee-high boots tapping against the black marble floor with the galloping rigor of a racing stallion. Held in his navy blue surgical uniform, Reiner Krüger adjusted the shoulder strap of his Octavian Industries-issued bag, displeased with the rasping friction of the fabric on his skin, ensuring to treat it with the utmost care to safeguard the scalpels and gauze within.
A screech of the speaker disrupted the delicate silence, halting the bustling clockwork of moving surgeons. An authoritative, metallic voice assumed control of the speaker system.
“Attention all surgeons!” The voice had a prominent bass tone with a high-pitched counterpart that lagged.
“All members, Alpha or Beta, please make your way to the surgical sector to attend your operations. All other members, Gamma and Delta, continue your tasks. For those who find themselves in need of re-alignment with perfection, the reconditioning centre is available. Always…”
Silence settled soon after, like sediment.
Reiner’s eyes skimmed the passing of each worker before he joined the crowd, his fingers constantly shifting the Beta-class ID pinned to his chest. Their motions were fluid, synchronized, too precise to be anything but deliberate. All filtering to their respective destinations among the winding corridors. Efficient. Disciplined. Obedient.
Reiner swiveled around a corner to a metal door, unfazed by the intense brightness of the surgical bulb within. He assessed the patient that lay unconscious on the steel table, a root system of oxygen and saline tubes dispersing away. He held the scalpel at a precise 45 degrees. For a brief moment, his hand trembled. The Cerebral Link tugged at his mind, its presence like a throbbing weight to his thoughts, guiding his every movement. The tremor didn’t fade this time as the Link took over. His anxiety was present as he sweated. The cut was jagged, deeper than intended.
He winced, failing to steady himself. Blood pooled where it shouldn’t. Around him, the other surgeons froze, their eyes flicking to the mistake.
“Steady, Krüger,” came the quiet reprimand from across the room. It was an Alpha Rank. He lowered the Cerebral Link with tweezers. It latched onto the brain like a leech.
Reiner’s hand shook as he attempted to correct the error, his focus faltering for a moment as he tried to stabilize the wound. The Cerebral Link felt like a distant hum now, as if something in his mind had fractured. He carefully closed the wound, but the silence in the room weighed heavy.
The eyes of his colleagues lingered on him longer than they should have. He left, jaw clenched.
The unwavering rhythm of the EKG was distant. Reiner halted in front of the reflective walls. The glass displayed him worn. Pale. Hollow. His midnight hair, unkempt. His skin stretched over bone. He should be flawless. It was then that thoughts came to him, like an intrusive whisper in the back of his mind. They were doubtful, greedy. “What if I could remove my weaknesses?”
The pulsating gasp of the Cerebral Link in his brain had grown louder, more demanding. It led him. Feeding his agony to flourish into defiance, then punishment, then obedience. The Link knew him. His thoughts were an open book. A crack in his servitude. That failure would soon be erased. The pressure was too much to resist. Its tendrils, digging deeper.
It knew…
It sensed his urge to be reconditioned…
The words resonated, becoming louder by the millisecond. His legs walked him toward the elevator. His arm remained still as he pressed the button. The Cerebral Link ID scanned for him. It glowed red.
Entrancing…
The elevator descended with a soft hiss. The scent of metal lingered. Perfection. The mechanical being embedded in his skull forced him to yearn for it. The doors opened, the oppressive silence stung him. He stood before the reconditioning centre, sterile white walls extending out before him. The link was always in his thoughts, tugging at him, commanding him to obey, to transcend, to become what was perfect. Or at least obedient.
But now… it felt like a trap. That was the most that Reiner could gather from his quivering limbs.
The doors slid open, a cold blast of air rushing past him, beckoning him in. He hesitated, his heart pounding. The walls of the centre closed in around him, too bright, too sterile. He stepped in.
A shove from behind fuelled a rush of adrenaline as he turned. The industrial doors shut behind him, releasing a puff of pressurised air like an exhalation in a cold morning. He slid against the white tiles, gasping for air as the realisation strangled him. The system knew doubt was a crack that it would not permit.
His hands quivered as he faced them.
He could sense the vacuous grin behind their masks.
More were upon him.
They forced Reiner onto the chilling floor, enclosed within their silhouettes beneath fluorescent light. A figure draped in cloth emerged from the crowd. Hands, metallic and cold to the touch, red electronic eyes glaring.
“Octavian,” he thought. “The same robotic voice from before, it was... it.”
It spoke. “You had a good run... It's a shame... If only you didn’t succumb to your weakness, and rust... Then again... You are all a mere cog in the system… Replaceable”
Dragged by his collar to the surgical theatre, Reiner protested instinctively, despite knowing his pleas would fall on deaf ears. Octavian disappeared behind his puppets.
He was restrained to the table. The cogs faced him, “It was like staring at a wall.” Reiner pondered, wincing as a needle pierced his forearm.
“No...” The word left his lips.
The drug-induced slumber of the aesthetic subdued his fleeting mind. Reiner witnessed the glimmer of the No.3 scalpel under the limelight of the surgical bulb, gripped remorselessly by a Gamma. His muscles untensed.
Limp…
Lifeless…