Short Story: Surrogate Sensor Part 1 of 5

A paralysed executive uses neural links to an able-bodied third party and experiences the physical sensations he can no longer feel. Unfortunately, things go badly wrong.

Here’s part one of my short story Surrogate Sensor, which will be serialised for paying Substack subscribers over the next five weeks. However, I’m making part one free to whet the appetite of anyone who hasn’t yet upgraded to paid.

I actually think this is one of the finest horror shorts I’ve written. It was inspired by a real-life medical breakthrough in which experimental research conducted with a paralysed subject enabled them to experience the sensation of picking up a cup, via a “double neural bypass”, through the hand of a third party. I then imagined an extremely alarming horror version of this technology going badly wrong, mingled with some satirical swipes at corporate greed and negligence (specifically, the corporate greed and negligence of privatised UK water suppliers). I hope you enjoy this.

Image created by author in Canva.

Part One

If that nitwit Ambrose had been paying proper attention, I wouldn’t have tripped, fallen down those icy stairs, and wound up paralysed. He could have grabbed me. He was right next to me. But instead, he watched helplessly as I fell outside London’s Supreme Court, just after we finally beat that wretched group litigation against UK Water. Hence, I’m now in a bloody wheelchair, entirely dependent on nurses. Thank God, I can still talk, but that’s about it.

Obviously, I fired Ambrose. Personal assistants are supposed to assist. Otherwise, they’re no damn good. I’ve yet to find a replacement, but in the meantime, I had Valerie step in temporarily. She’s also helped me with the board, ensuring we don’t take too much of a dip in the stock market. Expectations were managed, and even though the great Milton Penfold is now a paralytic, my financial interests appear to have stabilised. My late father, James Penfold, always said death wasn’t an excuse for not attending to business, so I can hardly offer paralysis as an excuse either.

Then came the bizarre story I’m about to tell you.

According to my research, I was supposed to run a gamut of emotions. Denial, self-loathing, despair, acceptance. The sort of touchy-feely nonsense that allegedly transforms you into a protagonist for an Oscar-bait drama that finally wins for some long-overlooked, oft-nominated actor. But that isn’t my story. I didn’t have to accept this path because I had the money to hire the services of Surrogate Sensor.

One morning recently, in a minimal office featuring magnolia walls and panoramic glass windows, I sat on the other side of a desk from Dr Felicia Wren. A statuesque, blonde, bespectacled specialist in her late forties wearing a smart navy-blue suit, she had an iciness to her demeanour that turned me on. Turned me on mentally, I should clarify. Being turned on physically wasn’t possible at that point. However, it would be possible again soon, thanks to the miracle-working of the Surrogate Sensor corporation.

Looking over my application form, Dr Wren frowned. ‘I see all the relevant signatures and disclaimers are in place. Your assistant Valerie Winters...’

‘Temporary assistant.’

‘... has signed on your behalf, in the presence of your lawyers. You do understand this absolves Surrogate Sensor from any unpleasant repercussions.’

I shrugged. ‘What would I do? Try and sue you if my surrogate stubs his toe?’

‘All the same, we have to protect ourselves from litigation. I’m sure you, of all people, can understand.’

A heavy intake of breath from Dr Wren gave the impression of concealed contempt for me. Possibly in view of the UK Water case. But it was over. I’d won, and she was now professionally obliged to tolerate me. My money forced her to tolerate me. The thought of this made me smile.

I briefly glanced outside, onto the extensive lawns and grounds of Surrogate Sensor’s main facility in the countryside near Richmond. Naked, black-limbed trees stood out as stark silhouettes against bleak January skies. For some reason, I thought of my father. He preferred walking in woodlands beneath leafless trees rather than in summertime, because he said nothing could sneak up on him and surprise him. I didn’t feel like anything could surprise me again, after what had happened to me. This experience had made me fearless. As though I had nothing left to lose. I’d already lost my wife, Cathy, who divorced me six years ago. The children, both teenagers, lived with her. Both hated me. That’s fine. Teenagers are supposed to hate their parents. They’ll come around.

‘Mr Penfold, did you hear what I said?’

Aware that my attention had drifted, I turned back to Dr Wren. ‘I’m sorry, would you mind repeating that?’

‘I understand you’ve spent the last two months convalescing?’

‘That’s correct, yes.’

‘I’m now obliged to explain the full context of what we offer. Although you’ll doubtless be aware of this, it’s a legal requirement. A recording will be made to prove you were told this information verbally, by me.’

‘That’s fine. Go ahead.’

‘You are, of your own free will, consenting to a surgical procedure, inserting proprietary Surrogate Sensor technology into your brain. A small electronic device, powered by nanotechnology. The procedure is irreversible. Once the chip is inside your brain, it cannot be retrieved or disabled without killing you. Do you understand and accept this?’

‘I do. Wow. This is like a wedding vow.’

Dr Wren didn’t smile. She continued. ‘This chip will allow you to pick up thought transmissions from your designated Surrogate Sensor, as and when you desire to do so. You will feel their physical sensations. If they pick up an object, you will feel it in your hand. If they go walking or running, you will feel it in your legs. If they have sexual intercourse, you will experience that physical pleasure, as though it were taking place in your own body.’

‘So, it will feel completely real? As though it were happening to me?’

‘Yes. That’s guaranteed. The neural pathways in your brain will think this data originates from your own body, when it, in fact, will originate from your Surrogate Sensor. You will be able to experience everything an able-bodied person is capable of experiencing. The vigour and effort of climbing a mountain. The exertion and exhilaration of riding a bicycle. The high one can experience from running...’

‘I get the picture. I’ll be honest: I’m mostly getting this for the sex.’

I grinned at Dr Wren. She returned an icy stare.

‘This is why the surrogate we’ve selected for you is particularly active in this area. He will be able to transmit many experiences to you.’

‘So, he has a chip in his brain that will broadcast to mine?’

‘No. He has a detachable headset that broadcasts to your brain.’

‘If the headset is detachable, could someone else use it, in theory? Let’s say, I could experience what a woman experiences during sex?’

I watched Dr Wren for a reaction, but she remained coldly professional.

‘No. Our central server is firewalled to protect against such abuses. We set up the agreed link between you and the surrogate, and it is then password-protected.’

‘Do I get to meet him?’

‘No. The privacy of our surrogates is strictly guarded.’

‘Is it possible to have more than one surrogate?’

‘No. Our early research, carried out in this very facility, indicated that neural links to multiple people could lead to serious side effects, such as paranoid schizophrenia. But a link to one person provides no threat to mental health.’

‘What if the surrogate stubs his toe, or something like that? Will I feel it?’

‘Only if you wish to experience his sensations in real time. It’s a feature we offer, but typically, we don’t recommend this. If your surrogate gets ill or hungover, for instance, you’ll feel it. Or, if he is impotent during sex and unable to complete, you won’t experience an orgasm. Merely frustration.’

‘But you said you still offer real-time sensations?’

‘Indeed, but only for limited, pre-arranged times. Since you express such interest in sexual activity, perhaps in your case, for example, we could coordinate live interactions on a night when your surrogate will be...’

‘Hard at it, so to speak?’

Still, no grin proved forthcoming from Dr Wren.

‘Indeed. So, we would pre-arrange this live link. For an extra fee, naturally. However, for the most part, you pay a monthly subscription to receive pre-recorded experiences. The surrogate will record these experiences, editing them if needed, and they will be accessible to you. Under the terms of his contract, new sensations will be uploaded on a weekly basis, building up a vast library of sensations for you to experience and reexperience whenever you please.’

‘What do you mean when you say he edits them if needed?’

‘He won’t upload anything bad. If something goes wrong in the middle of an otherwise agreeable sensory experience, he can even edit that bit out from the sensation timeline, so you only experience the good stuff.’

‘Wow. Could he compile a timeline of sexual greatest hits? Just the orgasms from multiple experiences? Imagine that.’

‘That would violate our guidelines, I’m afraid. Such an experience would likely send you into cardiac arrest.’

I grinned. ‘But what a way to go.’

Click here for Part Two

Copyright 2025 Simon Dillon. The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

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