by Graeme Hurry
“Mr. McCaul, remember: please do not address the subject.”
“Sorry! Sorry! Just muttering to myself! I’ll try to do it less!” But this is too thrilling to abandon. This contravenes everything I’ve been told about my naked friend here. “Can you… can you open your mouth for me?” He blinks. Does nothing for about five seconds. Then he opens it. Nice and wide. Glistening pearly whites inside. Not a cavity or stain to be seen. And the tongue… well, the mere sight of that organ makes me dizzy for some reason. Sets the blood pounding against my veins.
“Mr. McCaul!” Comes the voice from above. Dammit, they’re onto me. Not much time left now.
“What’s your name?” I hiss quietly.
“Mr. McCaul, we’re going to have to ask you to move towards the door, please.”
“Come on, don’t freeze up on me now! What is your name?!”
“Mr. McCaul. Move away from the subject and leave the room. An official will be waiting for you in the corridor.” I’m growing impatient, and the spots in my vision have begun to blossom again
“What. Is. Your. Name?” And finally, he opens his mouth, even as the door behind me opens.
“Mr. McCaul. Your time is up.” It’s getting hard to hear now—the rushing sound of blood fills my ears, and the thumping in my chest reverberates throughout my head. But just as a hand closes on my shoulder, my subject—my naked Adonis—utters a single word.
“Flesh.”
* * *
I come-to in an unfamiliar bed. A uniformed attendant is doing… stuff. You know—the stuff they do to look busy when you’re in a hospital bed. When he sees I’ve awoken, he’s right there, talking softly, asking this and that.
“What happened?” My eyes trace an IV line from my arm to a suspended saline bag.
“You suffered a mild myocardial infarction, and lost consciousness. You’re stabilized now, nothing to worry about.” No, nothing at all, except I don’t recall any actual chest pain, or passing out, for that matter. Best not to mention that, though. No doubt they’re listening, even now. “When you are ready, Director Sorbonne wants to see you.”
“The director? Me?” Again? “When will she be here?”
“Oh, she won’t be here in person.” He points up to the monitor on the wall opposite my bed, currently showing scenes from within the torus. “She’ll contact you in a few minutes.” He leaves, and I lay waiting, feeling less like a privileged octogenarian client of an exclusive off-world organization, and more like an errant child outside the principal’s office.
Denise Sorbonne flickers into existence on the screen, looking down at me from what appears to be a well-appointed office overlooking a waterfall. Swanky. I clear my throat and try to look dignified as I lay propped on a pillow, wearing nothing but a hospital robe.
“Mr. McCaul. You are feeling better, I hope?”
“Yes, thank you. You didn’t need to check on me personally…”
“There’s something we need to discuss. A matter of some delicacy.”
“Look—I didn’t mean any harm by talking to him, I just…” I trail off, because the look she’s giving me is almost… amused.
“Every client talks to the subjects. We expect and understand that.”
“Then why…”
“We warn you not to, for imprinting reasons. Until you’ve chosen your candidate, each and every one of them needs to be… unadulterated. And even should that occur, well, they only have a limited brain, as you know. You cannot permanently harm them simply by talking.”
“Ah.” Yes, they’d told us about that. Each candidate possesses only the most rudimentary of brains—no more than brain stems, really; just enough to allow for proper accelerated development. No higher reasoning. No capacity to think, to feel, to understand, or… talk.
Flesh.
I blink the memory away.
“As it is, you only had contact with one subject, and I get the feeling you are… taken by him?”
“Oh, yes. Most definitely.”
“He is your choice, then?”
“My…” My choice. My subject. My candidate… my new body. That’s why we’re here, of course. Out of the old, into the new… An empty vessel in which to install our recently rejuvenated brains, and carry on… an empty vessel who apparently knows his own name. I swallow. The Director is arching a painted eyebrow. “Y-yes. Yes, he’s my choice. Of course.”
“Excellent. Now, onto the other matter. Tell me all you know about Harvey Trenton.”
“Harvey?” This discussion is moving too quickly for my drugged, fuddled head. “He’s retired, like me. He’s cashed-in most of his retirement funds to get up here, like me. He’s about to die. Like me. What else is there to know?”
“Has he told you where he’s from?”
“Why is that important? You told us not to get to know our cottage-mates. But obviously, you expected us to, just as you expected us to talk to the… subjects. So if I know where Harvey is from: so what?” I bristle, but the effect is no doubt dampened by the image of me, reclined, in ill-fitting starched pyjamas. I expect Denise to argue the point, but she surprises me by moving on to a different tack.
“Other than the scheduled events, has Mr. Trenton been gone from your cottage for any period of time?” We’ve been here a day and a night now, yet I have to rake my memory for the details. I wonder sometimes if the re-plasticity hasn’t worked on me quite as it should. Which makes me wonder if I should mention it…
“Yes. Yesterday after supper. He asked me if I wanted to go for a walk, but I’m not as mobile as I used to be, and… Is Harvey ok? Where is he?”
“Did he say where he was walking to, last night?”
“No, I…”
“Did you happen to watch which direction he headed?”
“No, I… I’m not sure I’m going to say anymore, until you let me know what this is about.” We share a digitized stare – I’m better at it than Denise is; decades of practice are on my side. Finally, she blinks, and gives in.
“In the excitement of having the ambulatory staff come to take you to the clinic, Mr. Trenton has gone missing. We are becoming a bit concerned for his well-being.” Statements like this come across better if you show some emotion; Denise hasn’t quite mastered this yet, it appears. But it’s not for me to comment. I’m more intrigued by the possibility that she’s lying. Probability, actually; I’d stake the final day-and-a-half of my life on it.
“Well, I don’t know what to say, Director. I want to help any way I can, but I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer. Surely, you have this whole station monitored. Harvey’s in good shape; sound mind, too. He’ll turn up.”
“I sincerely hope so. Thank you for your time, Mr. McCaul.” Her image blinks off, replaced by more lovely scenery.
I lay back and close my eyes, savouring a few shallow, painless breaths. The analgesics they must be dripping into me were top-rate, clearly. My serenity lasts only a moment, though. I realize I’m hearing that damn hum again, and then I’m annoyed. I came here to die and be reborn, not to get involved in some human drama or Company conspiracy. That type of business was best left to a Robert from thirty years ago. “Just one more day,” I mutter, “then I can get back to living again.” I look around for a button or switch to call the attendant, and press it repeatedly and mercilessly until three of them come rushing in.
“Ah. Hello there. I’ll be leaving now. I wonder if you could help me with my things?”
* * *
Back on the patio. Simulated evening on the station. Nice little breeze. Lights twinkle against the dark backdrop of the curved ‘ground’ up to either side of where we sit. I’m at a table with Sue/Susan again. There’s an empty seat beside me. I suffer a couple minutes of being fawned over, until my sour mood drives off even the most sympathetic of old dears. Now, we’re listening to a young woman summarize the procedure that’s about to take place for us in a little under twenty four hours. It’s hard to stay grumpy while she talks about it. To be
honest, I’m a giddy school girl inside. I even forget about… oops. Spoke too soon.
“I’m very sorry to interrupt, ladies and gentlemen,” says Denise, striding to where our presenter stands, caught half-way through a phrase. “I’m afraid we have some sad news to report. As some of you already know, one of your fellow clients—a Mr. Trenton—went missing earlier. One of our staff has found him. It appears Mr. Trenton wandered off the designated trails and had a fall. He suffered serious injuries to his head and back. We were not able to save him.” Gasps and sobs rose about me as people looked to one another in shock. I have eyes only for the Director, however. She gazes back at me, face relaxed, fingers intertwined loosely in front of her. It’s my turn to give in, and look away. It wasn’t just one woman I was staring down, I realize, belatedly. It’s the whole bloody Company. There’s a twisting in my belly, and my sweater-vest isn’t keeping me warm any longer. Denise allows the lot of us another moment before continuing.
“I know this will be hard to accept for some of you. Mr. Trenton sacrificed as much as each of you in coming here, and was equally aware of the risk—of the consequence in following the re-plasticity treatments.” Yep: it rejuvenates our minds at the cost of our already-depleted, decaying bodies. Of course, she’s blaming Harvey’s death on a side effect of the treatment. Smooth move, Denise. “The timelines are tight, by necessity. Too tight for Mr. Trenton, I’m afraid.” The murmur builds again for about twenty seconds. As it dies down, Director Sorbonne looks ready to deliver her coup de grace.
“I understand some of you have not yet made a final decision on your candidates. In light of this unfortunate event, I can’t stress enough the importance of doing so now. The sooner we can get each of you through the procedure, the less chance there is of another… accident.” It’s loud now—a patio full of sheep bleating in fear. Her job done, Denise pivots and marches off, to be replaced by a small army of staff, who descend upon us, to confirm final arrangements. One young man approaches me, and I wave him off.
“Already made my pick, son.” He approaches nonetheless and places a data pad on the table in front of me.
“Mr. McCaul. These are your final instructions. You’ll sleep for the rest of the night, then a team will be by in the morning to pick you up. Do you have any questions?” I glance around me and squint. Something’s off. Can’t put my finger on it though. Painkillers must still have my senses dulled. Or maybe it’s the damn re-plasticity.
“Ah, no. No. I don’t think so.”
“Take these instructions back to your cottage and read them carefully.” He’s leaning in close to me. Closer than a detached clinician should. He slides the ‘pad towards me with two fingers. And then I see it. Old folk are rising out of their chairs and being led away. But not one of them are carrying a ‘pad. I shoot a glance at my tender, and we both drop our eyes to the thin device before me. I grab it, and shove it into my sweater pocket.
“Help me up, young man. These knees are all but useless.” He guides me to the tram that’s waiting to take us back to the cottages, not saying another word. I hobble to a free seat and turn to watch him as the train glides away with a whoosh.
“Isn’t this so exciting?!” Says a tiny dried-up fruit of a woman sitting next to me. I grunt and feel for the thin rectangular ‘pad under the wool.
* * *
I’m not in my cottage. I’m in the last place I thought I’d be tonight: the hub. Gravity is almost nil here, and boy—does it feel good on my joints. Can’t say the same for my head, though. The hum here is amplified, and sounds more metallic. Near impossible to tune out. Plus my face feels puffy and hot. The young man hovering across from me looks about how I feel, plus a great deal more impatient, too. Yep—it’s the same guy who handed me the ‘pad on the patio, now gently bobbing across from me in some dark maintenance corridor. See, I was at my cottage, but another tram arrived for me shortly thereafter, as the instructions on the ‘pad said it would. Instructions that lured me here, to the centre of this giant wheel in space. Lured me with the only bait that could have worked: four little words.
“Harvey didn’t have an accident,” I open with, not wanting to go through some tedious cloak-and-dagger repartee.
“No,” my nameless tender replies. He’s playing his cards pretty close, I see. I wonder if I should be as well. It’s not as if I’ve done anything wrong. Ah… but, the Company may interpret things differently, mightn’t they? I’m pretty sure midnight meetings in the hub were not mentioned on our tour package.
“Why did you get me involved? I want nothing to do with this. Not even sure why I came…”
“I know who you are, Robert. I know who you used to work for. I need your help.”
“I’m retired. This is the beginning of my new life! Why would I want to jeopardize it?”
“Because you heard him speak. Didn’t you?”
“How…” Argh. Never mind. Of course he knows. Everybody knows everything here. Except for me. How ironic that knowing everything used to be my in job description. “What connection do you have to Harvey?” He hesitates, and I wobble towards him aggressively. Well, I try to make it look aggressive.
“He and I were… associates.”
“You’re lawyers?”
“No, of course not.”
“Ah. You’re spies then. The Director was right to be a bit paranoid. You’re looking to steal their code.”
“No!” He splutters for a moment, shaking his head. “I’m not a spy, working for some rival company. I’m with Interpol, Robert.”
“Oh.” That’s unexpected. “Why… oh. You know how they can talk.” It’s coming together now—old habits kicking in, making connections, seeing patterns. “The subjects have full-sized brains, don’t they? They’re just like you and me.”
“Yes,” Interpol replies with a bit too much fervour.
“They undergo accelerated growth, without any type of education or language training, but are otherwise ‘normal’ human beings?” I’m on a roll now.
“Yes,” he confirms again, quivering.
“You’re a mole. And you’re here to build a case against them? Human trafficking, or crimes-against-humanity, or something of the sort? Am I right?”
“Yeah. You got a real knack for this.” He shakes his head, which is enough to gently twist his feet about, so low is the ‘gravity’ up here (or down here? How the hell do they decide what’s up and down on a torus station anyway?). “My superiors should have contracted you instead of that loudmouth Peters.”
“Peters? You mean Harvey.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Look—they got to him, obviously. I don’t know if he told them anything before he died, but if he did, my cover could be compromised. I need to act quickly: I need your help.”
“With what?”
“You need to go through with the procedure, then report back to my supervisors on Earth. I’ll be leaving in a day or so; I’ll meet you there, in our offices in Lyon.”
“But…” And here is the clincher. “How can I go through with it, now I know what they are?”
“You have to. We need proof. Real, physical proof. You’ll be it.”
“I don’t know…”
“If you do this, we won’t prosecute you for your crime; otherwise…”
“Crime?! What crime? I haven’t so much as jaywalked in fifteen years!”
“You’re about to. You’re about to kill a human being so you can inhabit his body.”
“But they’re not…!” I’m buzzing. Buzzing in sync with that damn station hum. My Interpol friend is smirking. But only for an instant. There’s a popping sound from down the corridor, and suddenly, he’s wrapped in a net. That wipes his smirk away. An instant later, each thread of the netting erupts into expanding foam.
Interpol cries out, twisting this way and that in mid-air swatting at the bubbly mix that is slowly enveloping him. I try to back away hastily, but I’m unaccustomed to moving in low-g, and my netted friend bumps into me. I push at hi
m with one hand, which gets coated in the guck. The two of us separate in slow-motion. The foam is starting to sting, and I unconsciously wipe it on my sweater. Instead of removing it, however, my hand is now stuck to my clothing. The foam is already curing. I’m guessing that, when it cures, it won’t be too good for my undercover friend. The stinging increases, even as the foam constricts about my hand. It’s tighter than the tightest handshake I’ve ever had, when two largish fellows reach us.
“Mr. McCaul, the less you struggle, the less it will hurt,” the smaller of the pair says as he coasts over to us. They’re wearing the same company shirt and pants as Interpol (who’s floating just above the floor), but are each sporting a utility belt as well. The larger of the two is gripping the barrel of a type of firearm I’ve not seen before—likely the foam net launcher—while guiding himself with his other hand.
“It’s really starting to hurt!” I say through gritted teeth. The constrictive pain is becoming so severe that I’m worried about my poor old…” There’s a crack and a yell. Both emanating from me. A bone inside my hand has snapped. And the constriction continues to get worse. “When does it stop?!”
“Aiiee!” Interpol shrieks, as a triple-snap emanates from somewhere about his person. Another two quickly follow.
“You have to stop this!” I say, my voice pitched quite a bit higher than normal. I feel my thumb come out of its joint, and a sob bursts out from my chest. “This is inhumane! Stop! Please!” A deep crack rocks Interpol’s body then, centred on his back. He stops squirming after that. Stops moaning too. His body settles gently to the deck and moves no more. The three of us stare at the immobile form for several seconds, then Small-guy pulls out a thin spray canister from his belt and extends the can towards my hand. I don’t even care what it might be for; I rip my crushed appendage away from my sweater and push it out to meet him. The first spurt slices the hardening foam into spaghetti strips, which wave about in the low gravity. Another few sprays, and the last of the foam sloughs away from my skin, easy as that. Meanwhile, Large-guy has pulled out a ‘pad and is talking to someone on its little screen. It’s a voice I’ve come to know too well these past forty-eight hours.
