Perfect Flaw

by Robin Blankenship

  Whirrrr

  Does it matter that some little pump evacuates the water from the bottom of his neck into some sort of receptacle? No, water in his mouth still feels good. Finally he releases the tube and Rob-o-Bob withdraws the bottle.

  “Jim Tilson, do you require anything?”

  “N-oo.” He feels the last bit of liquid in his mouth. Good Rob-o-Bob, he thinks.

  “Shutting down,” and the faint hum from Rob-o-Bob is gone.

  Sweet dreams, Rob-o-Bob.

  Whispers and clicks drift over. Three dozen other Heads sit clamped onto their carts facing the stage with their P.R.A.’s standing motionless behind them.

  “Oh, hi! How you doing,” a chirpy man’s voice asks.

  To his left, Jim can make out a vague shape. “F—ine.”

  “Name’s Steve.”

  “J-im.”

  “Still getting your voice back?”

  “Y-ah.”

  “You’ll be good in a couple of days. So what revival is this for you?”

  “W-un.”

  “Ohhh! Must be pretty exciting, eh?”

  “Yeah,” The real answer is much longer, but saying, ‘Y-ah’ is easier.

  “Better than being frozen, eh?”

  “Y-ah,” Feels good to talk to someone.

  Suddenly there is a muffled Thump – Sloosh noise off to the left. Ahead, two rows up and three over, a replenishment tube from a Head Cart snakes free and sprays a stream of brownish-red liquid into the air and then onto the carpet.

  “Help, help,” a female voice shouts, terror creeping into her voice.

  “Leak! Leak!” The cry echoes around the room.

  As the liquid sprays onto the carpet, her P.R.A. revives, grabs the tube and reconnects it. A human female dashes over. “Sweet Fotheringham,” she exclaims as she unconnects the floor tubes, reconnects her Head Cart tubes and then quickly pushes her towards an exit. The P.R.A. strides after.

  Mutters echo around the room.

  “Okay, everything’s under control, people!” a tall man wearing a dark sports jacket announces, stretching his arm up in the air. Some cheery background music fills the air. Two other humans with little vacuums move in and clean up the carpet.

  “Wh-aaa a—bout my t-ubes?” Jim asks. He can see them throbbing away, just waiting to burst.

  “Don’t worry, she could have leaked for five minutes before anything serious happened.”

  Is she really all right, Jim wonders.

  “This is my second.” Steve continues, “Originally I was frozen for thirty-two years; this time it was for fifty-two. Still don’t have hardly any frost damage. Boy, the first time, I was so nervous I wasn’t going to get a body!”

  “G-et a bo-dy?”

  “Yeah, you know? Lots of Heads in the fridge, but only so many bodies. They revive you every so often just to check that you haven’t turned into a mush-ball. So there’s usually more heads than bodies.”

  “M-ush b-all?”

  “Sure. Cell damage from freezing and thawing. Sometimes happens when the antifreeze pools in a funny way.”

  “Wh-aaa d-oes it f-eel l-ike—”

  But the lights flicker, cutting off the rest of Jim’s question.

  A thin man wearing a long flowing robe shuffles out to the center of the platform. He has a smooth bald head and hooked nose. Gold chains hang around his neck. He squints around the room, then clears his throat and begins, “Welcome to this Indoctrination Session. I’m Reverend Hancock, a minister in the Revivalist Religion.”

  There are tongue-clicking sounds around the room.

  “Thank you. I’m sure you’re all glad to see me.”

  Scattered titters.

  “Now, I would like to offer a short dedication to the very first revived Head, Ernest Fotheringham, beloved Green Grocer from Manchester, England.

  “Lord, praise be Ernest Fotheringham for his courage and bravery. And thank you Lord for giving us His example, for giving us the miracle of Revivology that we all may indulge. Through Revivology, the promise of Eternal Life has been achieved. And Lord, give us the goodness to use our New Lives in ways that You would approve. And Lord, when, at last, all of our New Lives here on Earth are finished, make us welcome in Your House. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  “Revivology,” Reverend Hancock continues, “is the final medical procedure. And through the evaluation process, we optimize the benefit to society by evaluating the net worth of each individual. All of us should every day ask of ourselves, ‘How can I best use this new life of mine?’”

  More tongue clicking.

  “Now I would like to conclude this short service with a hymn, Lord Cherish My Body and Let Me Not Do Ill with It.”

  Lights dim. Soft soprano voices begin singing,

  Oh Lord cleave my Head

  From my Body so that

  In the Eternal Fridge

  I may dwell, Awaiting

  That rapturous moment when . . .

  High above a dozen holographic Heads float, all singing the hymn. Faintly, voices around him join in. He moves his lips too, though he doesn’t know the words.

  ***

  A woman enters, flicks on her tablet, taps a few things, and then says, “Mr. Tilson?”

  “Yeah.”

  She makes a few more taps on her tablet and then frowns. “Your happy levels are low today.”

  His answer comes out slowly, “I w-ill work at be-ing happ-y.”

  She stares at him for a moment, her expression uncertain. But then she returns to her tablet device.

  Click-Click-Click, and he can feel the starting tingle of happy drugs starting to circulate. He looks toward the window with its never changing breeze and bird songs. There must be a lawn of green grass out there. “Out-side,” Jim says, “I wanna to go out-side.

  “Sorry,” she glances up momentarily, “that’s not on your schedule. But I’ll notify your Revivologist.”

  And then she leaves.

  Sigh. Green grass. But he’s stuck. What if he could detach himself from the Head Cart? Be free to roam? He tries wiggling just a bit. Nope. Clamped down tight.

  Birds continue chirping in the background as the happy drugs creep into his brain. Just beyond the horizon, sadness is lurking. Or is it anger? He tries to relax and let the drugs do their job. Outside, he can still hear chirping.

  Dr Huter enters. “Okay, Mr. Tilson, you can go outside to Paradise Garden tomorrow.”

  “What?” Outside! Outside!

  “That’s the spirit, Mr. Tilson. Think happy!” Dr. Huter breaks into a smile.

  ***

  Revivologists cluster together, none looking at them, as Jim and Rob-o-Bob roll down the corridor. Here and there, other Heads sit outside their rooms, some with open eyes, others not.

  One Head shoots Jim a pleading glance. Another gives him an impish smile as if to say, Don’t we look ridiculous being wheeled around in these silly carts? The Head has a fuzzy layer of hair; a smooth, small face suggests female.

  Jim smiles back as Rob-o-Bob whisks him by. Should he have ordered Rob-o-Bob to stop? But what would he have said? Is this your first revival? Have you been evaluated yet?

  He imagines her laughing, What a colossal joke, huh? You’re dead. But then you wake up and find all these jerks running around deciding what’s best for you. Makes you want to get a body, then come back and kick the crap out of someone.

  Concentrate on happy, happy, happy. More dopamine, please. And he mustn’t be angry.

  Swuck.

  Double doors slide open and they roll into an atrium.

  Sunlight floods in through tinted octagonal shaped glass panels that stretch upwards to a canopy of converging metal beams. Green leafy plants overflow large red clay pots at the base of each window. Birds chirp overh
ead.

  Wonderful to see the sun casting pools of light intermingling with shadows on the floor.

  Run, run, run. He wants to feel the ground bang against the bottoms of his shoes as he lifts his knees as high as they will go and leave Rob-o-Bob far behind. Goodbye Rob-o-Bob! Stupid machine—No, Rob-o-Bob has been good to him.

  Another set of double doors slide apart and they roll outside out onto a terrace four meters above a garden.

  “Arrive. Paradise Garden,” says Rob-o-Bob.

  The garden stretches off. In the distance, a flat lake sits with three triangle-sailed boats floating motionless and then after that, a range of purplish mountains. A reddish sun hovers above the mountains.

  To the right is a set of marble stairs, while on the other side, a Head and P.R.A. descend along a ramp towards a garden crisscrossed with chalk white paths radiating outwards. A half dozen Heads are being pushed along the pathways.

  So, does he want to descend into the garden like all the other Heads? No. Just wait for a moment. And talk to someone. “What to talk to some-one,” he says.

  “Specify who.”

  Sigh. “Turn left, and go.”

  Rob-o-Bob moves them along the terrace.

  Falling–Falling–If he can’t run, maybe he could fall? Funny, yes? Wickedly funny. Dead. He lets the word echo about in his mind. Strange, it doesn’t frighten him.

  They turn a corner and another Head is sitting there with its P.R.A. standing behind.

  “Turn me to face him,” Jim says.

  The other Head blinks as Jim is placed in front of him. Behind the other Head are the sloping mirror-like walls of the Revivology Facility.

  “Hell-o. I’m Jim.”

  “Oh, hi.” Pause. “I’m Lassal.” There is only a wisp of hair on the top of his head. And his sunken eyes seem tired.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine.” Lassal licks his thin lips and stops. Even his skin looks worn out. “What’s with you?” he asks.

  “Wait-ing for my e-val-u-ation.”

  “You aren’t supposed to be out here until you’ve been evaluated.”

  “Why?”

  “This is Paradise Garden.” Lassal gestures with his tongue towards the garden, “That’s where they put us Reject Heads; you know, the ones that don’t get reattached.”

  Jim feels the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Maybe I should leave you alone.”

  “No, no.” Pause. “That’s Okay.”

  Now he doesn’t want to talk to this fellow. But what can he do? “Why didn’t you get a body?” he asks.

  Lassal pauses, collects some air into his cheeks, puckers his lips and then makes a spitting motion towards the railing. “Long story stort. In my past life, I got caught up documenting my previous life’s work. All very important stuff. But I didn’t give myself enough time plan my future life. So I got all screwed up in my evaluation session.

  “It’s a real knock, you know?” Lassal continues, “But you can’t let it get you down.” Lassal’s expression hardens. “It’s the guy with the good attitude and perseverance that ends up with a body the next time.”

  Jim stops, frozen. So what will he say about his future life?

  ***

  “Bob stop,” Dr. Huter says.

  Faint whirling sounds end as Jim’s cart halts. Before him five people with neck chains sit behind a curving wood-grained table.

  Dr. Huter clears his throat. “This is Jim Tilson.”

  “I have him now,” the middle fellow frowns as he peers down into his tablet. “I see ... Mr. Tilson is very old.”

  “So why hasn’t he submitted a curriculum vita,” the woman next to him interjects.

  “That’s explained in note three,” Dr. Huter replies.

  “Oh yes,” Scowl agrees. “And his memory isn’t working?”

  “No, his memory is functioning. However he doesn’t remember his past life. That’s in note one.”

  “Oh yes,” Scowl looks over to his left. “What about the rest of you?”

  A thin-faced man with snow white hair and similarly sour expression responds, “Even if he doesn’t have a Future-Life Statement, does he have some idea as to what he wants to do with his future life?”

  “I think he just wants to live.”

  “Live,” Jim agrees.

  “That’s not much of a plan.”

  “I want a body!”

  “Please, Mr. Tilson,” Scowl glares at him. “No interruptions!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Mr. Tilson is a special case—” Dr. Huter begins.

  “Yes, yes, everyone is a special case,” Scowl waves his hand, “and there are only so many bodies. Now, you have completed your research, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “So doing an attachment doesn’t really add much, does it?”

  Long pause, then, “No.”

  White Hair glances at Jim and then turns to the others. “Mr. Tilson is rather old, so we could have approved him because of his historical memories, except of course, he doesn’t have any. So I suggest Mr. Tilson be rehabilitated as a Head, and then in two years, he can be re-vitrified and apply for a body in his next life. His prospects will be much better. Thank you.”

  “Body,” Jim mutters.

  Scowl looks at Jim. “Sorry. Study-up and work on your attitude and the next time you should have better luck.”

  Why, he thinks as Rob-o-Bob wheels him out.

  They arrive back in the room.

  Rob-o-Bob clicks Jim into place.

  “Why?” he asks.

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Huter touches Jim’s head, “we all don’t get bodies.”

  “No. Why did you take my memories?”

  Silence. “You were a suicide. Suicides aren’t usually revived as they are depressed to begin with and almost always don’t adjust. My new technique removed the memories associated with your suicide. But I couldn’t untangle them from everything else as you were depressed most of your previous life.”

  Jim sobs. “Body.”

  Dr. Huter looks at him. “You’re upset. Let me give you—”

  “No! Leave me be!”

  There is silence for several seconds. Then Dr. Huter says, “You’re not going to get a body, but at least you’re alive.”

  Alive.

  Alive to wheel about in a little cart with Rob-o-Bob always there watching. And with no memories.

  “Jim?”

  He looks at Dr. Huter. The man must be disappointed that his experiment was ruined by such a poor subject. “Do I have to live? Aren’t you finished?”

  Dr. Huter looks startled. “No, no. It’s not that bad. You can learn and start planning for your next life. It doesn’t have to be as,” he hesitates, “unsuccessful as this one.”

  Oh. He gets to try again. But what if he doesn’t want to?

  Dr. Huter is fiddling with his tablet. “Based on your suicide note, I honestly thought you were a good candidate for my procedure. Here, let me open it up and you can read it.”

  Jim Tilson: Suicide Note is floating in front of him.

  “I’m sorry.” Dr. Huter looks at him, this time softly. “I’ll leave you now.”

  Sigh. “Go.”

  Item: Suicide Note.

  To all and sundry,

  Alas, with the recent cessation of my inconsequential day job, I am now at a crisis point. But before my fiscal capacity dwindles away, I have decided to execute my escape plan to a better world while still having the wherewithal to do so.

  I left a message with one of the many acquaintances I’ve met over the years at SF Conferences. As he declined my dining invitation tonight owing to other commitments, he won’t receive said message until I have expired. However I expect to be found within time for my planned cryogenic freezing.
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br />   Please sell my apartment and place all moneys into a trust fund dedicated to maintain my frozen body. And also please investigate getting my novel published as my spectacular demise may make publishers more interested in said story.

  Finally, I wish mankind Godspeed in perfecting the revival protocol.

  ***

  They are sitting out on the terrace as the sun turns red and sinks towards the horizon. What if he had been able to remember something? Would that really have made any difference? Or would they have still said, Sorry, you’re life was not worth remembering. Work hard, then come back and try again.

  “Scheduled Paradise Garden time finished,” Rob-o-Bob says and starts wheeling him back towards the Revivology Building.

  They pass the marble stairs when Jim suddenly knows what he wants to do. “Bob,” he says, “stop here and turn me to the right.”

  Rob-o-Bob stops.

  Jim looks down the twenty eight steps. He grits his teeth. So how bad can the fall be? Maybe he’ll be lucky and be knocked out as he hits the first step? Sure, he has to start getting lucky at some point, doesn’t he?

  “Bob,” he finally whispers, “push me forwards.”

  Rob-o-Bob stops. “Potential harmful action. Cannot comply.”

  “Bob!” he shouts, then stops.

  No use. Rob-o-Bob is a robot.

  And robots don’t have emotions.

  ***

  “I was trying to prevent this,” Dr. Huter says.

  “Didn’t mean to cause trouble,” Jim mumbles. Good old Rob-o-Bob. The whole incident was recorded in real time on the Rob-o-Bob-cam.

  Rob-o-Bob, the ever present, reliable informer.

  “This is a difficult choice,” Dr. Huter continues, “I can up your dosage or return you to the fridge and wait for a better protocol. Unfortunately, a higher level of drugs could make future revivals problematic. So the best solution is to return you to the fridge.”

  “No,” Jim protests. “Why can’t you just let me die?”

  Dr. Huter looks shocked. Then his expression hardens. “We’ll take good care of you.” Then his eyes dart down to his tablet and his fingers begin clicking away.