Head down, she wove through the crowd of people until she reached the relatively empty lobby. There was ten minutes until the next session. Time to breathe and regroup. She reread Jack’s press release—his paper would have to wait—and began noting down ideas for an article or series of articles on the topic. This evening she would email queries for possible articles to the editors of the various health and women’s magazines for whom she freelanced.
She should also set up other interviews besides Dr. Solomon’s. A glance at her watch showed how much time she’d lost to the morning’s bus breakdown. She’d intended to line up the interviews even before Jack’s announcement, but now they were vital.
Trying to juggle too many demands with too little time, she consulted the conference program. The last session of the day split the conference three ways: regeneration patients talking of their experiences; a demonstration of the latest magnification and microsurgery equipment; or, a paper on regeneration nutrition.
“Coward,” Charley muttered in self-loathing as she hurried past the patients’ experience session. Instead, she went with the justification that microsurgery, with its reduction of intrusion and pain, could be worked into an interesting article, and chose a seat in the back row. The demonstration of the new equipment was actually interesting.
The session started late as people drifted in slowly, still talking of Jack’s announcement. The young man demonstrating the equipment, his hair slicked back and his tie a powerful red, would go far, Charley decided. He’d obviously read Jack’s media release, and sprinkled his presentation with the possibilities of the equipment being used in the new procedures.
“If anyone would like further information,” he concluded. “My email and phone number are on the conference schedule, and I will be around for the remaining three days.” He smiled broadly and ended the session only a few minutes over time, judging his performance accurately to the audience’s attention span.
Charley put a mental tick against his name. He’d be a useful and enthusiastic source of further technological information. She waited for the usual conference stampede of people to exit the room, apparently desperate either for the bar or their hotel rooms, then made her own way outside.
Her feet, unaccustomed to hours in high heels, ached. Her lips were dry, which meant she’d chewed off her lipstick. Staying another two or more hours in the city to meet with Dr. Solomon suddenly seemed a huge imposition. Filling those two hours with other interviews: impossible.
She hobbled down to the bus stop and caught a ride back to the city center, getting off close to Circular Quay. With an hour to kill before she met Dr. Solomon, she walked into one of the cafés that overlooked the water, and claimed a window table. Fish and chips drenched in vinegar and heavily salted improved her mood.
She watched the people boarding the ferries, and the jets and hydrofoils swiftly crisscrossing the harbor with the evening rush hour. Men and women in business suits, in student wear, and in uniform, rushed and jostled. She could imagine the loud, staccato rhythm of the women’s high heels.
Under the table, she eased off her own shoes and sighed with bliss. On the other side of the crowd of people, a busker stood by the railings strumming a guitar and singing. She couldn’t hear him, but as the people moved past, she caught glimpses of his mouth moving.
Maybe one day he’d be a popstar and mime in just that manner? Did he sound bad? Certainly, he wasn’t being inundated with money.
He was still there when she paid her bill and left to meet Dr. Solomon. She winced. The busker voice had the harsh, shrieking tone of a seagull. Maybe people should pay him to be silent? Or maybe, in the heart of frantic Sydney, they didn’t notice him?
Charley walked into The Green Dragon and found Solomon there before her and in possession of a corner table.
He smiled at her, avuncular almost. “Charlotte, I hope you don’t mind. I thought you might want to interview Jane, too, and she is rather hard to get hold of. Charlotte Rowdon, Dr. Jane Peverill.”
Dr. Peverill was Solomon’s age and overweight, something her lavender gray suit made no attempt to hide. She smiled, displaying square, white teeth. “Solomon exaggerates, but it is true that I have tried to fit as many meetings as possible around the conference schedule.”
“Then I am grateful for your time now, Dr. Peverill,” Charley said formally. A waitress appeared and they ordered drinks. Charley insisted on paying. “It’s the least I can do, entertaining two of the stars of the conference.”
Dr. Solomon was a distinguished microbiologist, fascinated with the interaction between micro and macro organisms. He had his own regeneration practice. Dr. Peverill was a noted ethicist in the field of regeneration and an expert on the psychological implications of regeneration.
Dr. Peverill swallowed a mouthful of scotch and sighed. “Conferences are the very definition of purgatory—a necessary suffering.” She turned the glass slowly between neatly manicured hands. “Solomon says you’re interested in our views on Bradshaw’s announcement?”
“Yes, I think some informed comment would be appropriate as the story breaks.”
“It’ll be a popular story.” Dr. Solomon drank his beer with evident enjoyment. “All the hallmarks of spectacular science fiction, but occurring in real life.”
Charley took her notebook from her bag. “Do you mind if I take notes?”
“Of course not.” Dr. Peverill gestured permission, but she frowned. “The difficulty is that when something as new as Bradshaw’s research is announced, it is easy to find criticisms for altering the status quo, but far harder to comment sensibly on its advantages.”
“There are advantages.” Dr. Solomon took up the challenge. “Quite apart from the excitement of a revolutionary breakthrough, bio-enhancement of our senses has very practical uses—if Bradshaw can make it work. For instance, bio-enhanced humans would be able to detect survivors in disaster areas without having to rely on the senses and training of dogs.”
“Possibly,” Dr. Peverill countered. “However, enhancing our senses is risky. Can human brains reconfigure to cope with sensory overload? Or will the attempt drive the experimental subject crazy?”
“But if it succeeds, if we can make sense of a significant increase in sensory perception, then our perception of the world expands, and with it, our consciousness.” Dr. Solomon was determinedly positive.
Dr. Peverill nodded her acceptance of the argument. “Great risks often accompany potentially great advances. I would be interested to know what ethical framework Bradshaw is using. If he’s testing on humans—and clearly he has already experimented on himself—he needs robust safeguards and early warning signs of things going wrong.” Her mouth tightened. “Bradshaw also needs the moral character to be able to call off his research if people are being endangered.”
“Is it possible.” Charley ventured a question. “For the bio-enhancement to pass down through generations?”
“On the face of it, no,” Dr. Solomon answered. Dr. Peverill listened and drank her scotch. “The bio-enhancements occur in adulthood and only through the intervention of QNA and John Bradshaw’s procedures. It should mean that the genetic code goes unchanged. However, I wouldn’t want to bet against QNA messing with its host’s DNA. Before today, I wouldn’t have believed QNA could enable the growth of foreign tissue on a host. To find that it can, throws into the air the possibility of other, unknown abilities.”
Charley nodded, scribbling rapidly. She was as somber as her two interviewees.
Dr. Peverill finished her scotch. “We’re going to be late for dinner, Solomon. Ms. Rowdon, do you have a card? Thank you.” She accepted the business card Charley hastily extracted from her purse. “I will contact you if I feel there are any more points to be made. My email address is printed on the conference schedule.”
Charley blinked at the doctors’ abrupt departure. Dr. Peverill had hustled Dr. Solomon out, barely allowing Charley to thank them for their time. Yet, she’d extended a
clear invitation to stay in touch. Was it a personality quirk, that abruptness, or had their discussion sparked a thought Dr. Peverill preferred to consider in private?
Charley leaned back in her chair and sipped the dry white wine she’d barely touched during the interview. The real question, she felt, was why two such distinguished figures were willing to talk with her, a little-known writer. Their motivation wasn’t pique at the attention Jack was getting for his breakthrough.
She winced. It could have been pity, prompted by her lost arm, but with her hatred of conferences, it was unlikely Dr. Peverill would have wasted her time on such a reason.
Forget your own hang-ups, Charley. The doctors probably wanted just what they’d said: a balanced media discussion of the benefits and risks of bio-enhancement.
She pushed aside her half-full glass of wine. Home appealed more than alcohol.
The streets around The Rocks were full of the early evening dinner crowd, couples and small groups of friends and colleagues. Charley walked with her head down, lacking the energy even to window shop. Emotionally, she was drained. She’d known the conference would be hard. She hadn’t expected that seeing Jack would jolt her so badly.
The train out to the western suburb where she rented a flat was a third full, giving Charley the privacy of an empty seat beside her. She spent the time outlining possible articles and planning her queries to editors likely to be interested in the story of bio-enhancements.
The flat was cold. She’d rented it furnished nearly two years ago, and it still resembled a hotel apartment. She’d grown accustomed to the sterility. She flicked the kettle to boil water for a mug of tea and took off her pantyhose and shoes, shuffling through the flat in sheepskin slippers. Bliss for her tired feet.
It was eleven before she emailed the last of her queries. The beep of incoming mail caught her mid-yawn. She read the sender ID: Dr. John Bradshaw.
Chapter Two
Charley, I found your email on the by-line of an article you wrote – ‘Fad Diet or Miracle Program?’. Seeing you today, I’d say you need feeding up, not slimming down. I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk, but that can be rectified. How would you like an exclusive, Charley? Access to the regeneration center I run and a chance to interview me. I’d like to catch-up. Jack.
Charley sat back, staring at the screen. This was undoubtedly the first bit of free time Jack had had since his startling announcement, and he’d spent it tracking down her email address and contacting her.
She minimized the email, putting it aside while she searched the internet for information on his regeneration center. She found it.
New Hope was near Margaret River, in the south west of Australia, on the opposite side of the continent.
For Charley, visiting it meant going home, no matter how briefly. Getting to Margaret River meant flying into the state capital, Perth, and then on. She’d grown up and married in Perth.
She pushed back from the computer. She was tired from a long day; definitely not the time to consider going home. On the other hand, she wouldn’t sleep until she’d sent Jack an answer.
“Two years.” She rubbed the back of her neck. She knew her family would be glad to see her. They visited her, flying across from Perth to Sydney; respecting the pain and grief that kept her from home. Memories of Eric were too strong in the city where they’d both grown up, fallen in love, and married—and where Eric had died.
Attending a regeneration conference had been an important step for her, but if she stopped now…she’d be a coward forever. Hiding from life had become a habit.
She trembled to her core as she reached for the mouse, and hit reply on Jack’s message. She typed quickly, accustomed to the awkwardness of one-handed touch.
Hi, Jack. It’s lovely to hear from you. First, congratulations on your breakthrough research. Second, do you realize you’re offering an exclusive journalists would kill for? Thank you. Let me know the details of timing convenient to you and I’ll arrange to travel down to New Hope. Charley.
She re-read the email and grimaced. It felt clumsy, as if friendship was brushed aside in favor of business. But then they had never been friends, had they? Charley or Charlotte or her full name to sign off? Jack had addressed her as Charley, probably because Eric always had. Let it go.
She hit the send button, waited for the message to spin out into cyberspace, then shut down the computer. Jack’s response could wait till morning.
For the second day of the conference, Charley discarded the high heels. She needed to set up more interviews, and that meant running around between sessions. She wore a black jacket that highlighted her blonde hair and winter pale skin, a blue top the color of her eyes and black trousers. While she completed her make-up, she thought of Jack’s response, sent just after midnight.
I’m glad you’ve agreed to do the story, Charley. Why not fly back with me at the end of the conference? Jack had given the details of his flight. I’ve left my car at the airport, and I’d be happy to give you a lift down to Margaret River. However, any time in the week after the conference would be a good time to visit. Jack.
Charley completed her make-up with a final touch of mascara, then went online to book a flight to Perth. The drive from there to Margaret River would take about three hours, four hours by bus, so Jack’s offer was a welcome one. She sent him a brief email, accepting his offer of a lift, then hurried out of the flat, intent on reaching the conference not only on time, but early.
At the train station, she bought a copy of the morning paper, preferring the rustle of paper to juggling her phone one-handed on the train. Jack occupied the front page, a close-up photograph of his modified hand, claws extended, inset. “Mutant Doc,” ran the headline. Charley folded the paper and read it, squashed awkwardly onto one of the few remaining seats. The article was more respectful of Jack’s accomplishments than the challenging headline.
“Crazy.” The man beside Charley tapped the paper. “Frigging waste of money, and for what? Cat claws.”
Charley didn’t answer and after a minute of peering hopefully at her, the man swiveled to address a strap-hanging businessman. “Bloody doctors think they’re God. Too good for the likes of us. My niece, she needed an operation, for her belly button, but would they help? Oh no. My sister don’t have money, so the doctors didn’t want to know her.”
The man kept talking, the reek of stale marijuana smoke emanating from his clothes.
Charley closed her eyes. He had a point. How would Jack’s breakthrough help the ordinary people of the world?
Two days later, the conference was scheduled to end that Saturday noon. It ran overtime, cutting into the lunch hour. Charley’d found a seat towards the back of the auditorium and sat there, scribbling such few concluding remarks as sounded interesting. The conference had been hijacked by Jack’s announcement of bio-enhancements. It had added a defiant edge to other speakers’ presentations, as if they said “well, mine mightn’t be groundbreaking, sexy news, but it’s important, too”.
She’d run ragged interviewing and collecting material for articles, and working late on articles already sold to editors eager for the latest and inside news on regeneration. Leaning back in her seat, she closed her eyes briefly. She still had two articles to finish and a suitcase to pack.
A round of applause and the shuffle of bodies moving signaled the end of the conference. She checked her watch. She’d only napped ten minutes, but it was a warning she was more tired than she realized. Slowly, she put away her notebook and pen, allowing time for the auditorium to empty.
“Charlotte,” Dr. Solomon called, catching her attention as she exited the auditorium. “Do you have time for a last coffee?”
Despite her tiredness and the thought of all she had to do before tomorrow morning, Charley smiled. Solomon had been more than helpful, introducing her to his colleagues and answering her email and in-person questions on regeneration with no sign of impatience. “I’d love a coffee.”
They se
ttled at an outside table overlooking the bay.
“I hear John Bradshaw has promised you an exclusive interview.”
“You’ve heard?” Charley raised her eyebrows, faintly surprised.
Solomon chuckled. “Say rather, I overheard. Bradshaw had to inform a determined, and attractive, television reporter yesterday that he wasn’t going to succumb to her blandishments, and that the story was already promised to an old friend. I deduced you were that friend, and you just confirmed it.”
Charley sipped her coffee. “I was surprised when Jack made the offer. We’re acquaintances rather than friends.” She looked at Solomon and saw that his smile had faded. “It was very kind of him to give me the exclusive. I’m flying out tomorrow to see his regeneration center, New Hope.” She wondered if Solomon heard the uncertainty in her voice.
Maybe he did, because he turned the subject, commenting instead on her regeneration articles and thanking her for the courtesy of draft copies. “Jane, Dr. Peverill, was impressed with your grasp of the subject and with your understanding of the ethical and psychological implications of bio-enhancements. If you ever need help, even just to talk to someone in the field, please don’t hesitate to contact either of us. I mean that, Charlotte.”
Jack met Charley at Sydney airport Sunday morning. He looked as quietly self-possessed as ever, although his tiredness showed in the bruised appearance of the skin under his eyes. Beige gloves hid his hands. He hesitated, then hugged Charley, surprising her.
Although she didn’t return the embrace, just for an instant she enjoyed the feeling of solid bone and muscle, and the faint scent of soap. She stepped back. “You look tired.”
He smiled. “People in glasses houses…”
“Point taken.” She hadn’t bothered with make-up for the plane flight, and she knew the long hours of the conference, of interviews and of writing showed on her face.
Beyond Regeneration Page 2
