by Derek Haines
Milo looked around carefully and everything looked in order. Except that there were two chairs, instead of just one, now populating his small kitchen table. Odd. The door to his bedroom looked the same. He went in. He checked his calendar. His ‘Joe Your Friendly Neighbourhood Butcher’ calendar had been replaced with an ‘Uphealth Chemist’ calendar, with pictures of vitamin pills. There was a wardrobe. He didn’t recall having one before. When he opened the door, he was shocked to see a neat row of perfectly ironed shirts and trousers plus a few jackets and blazers. Different colours. Blue, black, white, cream and grey, but no brown. In a small drawer he found neatly ironed and folded underwear and socks.
‘Who in their right mind would iron socks?’ Milo mumbled to himself in shock.
He immediately checked under his mattress. Nothing. This was a sure sign that someone had been in his flat while he was materialising, de-materialising, re-materialising and feinting this morning. He went then to the bathroom. What he caught sight of in the mirror gave him quite a fright. He stared at what was supposed to be Milo in the mirror, but it wasn’t the Milo that Milo remembered seeing in Milo’s mirror this morning.
‘You can’t be me, can you?’ Milo asked his reflection. Noticing instantly that the reflection’s mouth moved in unison with his own, so this was probably not an optical illusion. His hair was darker. A bit on the grey side, but definitely darker. He was sure he had less hair this morning. Then the sudden realisation came to him. What was most disturbing about his reflection? His glasses. They were now fashionably rimless in an extremely fine titanium frame. They were so rimless, that had missed them altogether at first. There was something else different, but after the initial shocks it was hard for Milo to put his finger on it. Then it dawned on him. His face was new. It was younger, more handsome and far less boring. His eyes were blue. It was just then that he realised he was in a totally new and younger body. He checked his watch. He didn’t know why, but he did. Three-fifteen pm. His watch hadn’t changed.
He ran his hand through his darker and thicker hair. When his hand ran down the back of his head, he felt a very small lump. Not really a lump, just a tiny little bump, the size of an overgrown pimple. When he did it again, he realised what it was, because he couldn’t see behind himself anymore. He took his hand away and he could see a towel hanging on the door behind him. He also felt taller.
He went back to his bedroom and studied his calendar again. ‘Why would anyone want to change my calendar,’ he thought to himself. Although his day had been a little bit weird, most of it seemed to have been reasonably explained by George. But the calendar was a mystery. He looked closely. Today was Wednesday. The fifth of the third, two thousand and four. His birthday.
Milo sat down slowly on the side of his bed. His face long and sad. It was late afternoon already, and no one at all had wished him happy birthday. He thought about the prospect of being wiped, as George had explained. It couldn’t be worse than this he thought. Maybe the change from a chimeryon to a formyon would be a good move. Maybe he could get out more, socialise more and maybe make some friends.
The thought vanished in a puff of depression as he realised that he must already be a formyon. The hair, the glasses, the clothes, the calendar and the extra eye. He laid his head down on the pillow and gazed up at the ceiling, and his pillow at the same time. All in all, this had not been a great day, or a great birthday. A sudden wave of depressive loneliness enveloped him, and his spirits began to nosedive. He wished he could pull some brown clothes out from under his mattress. He wished he had his ‘Joe Your Friendly Neighbourhood Butcher’ calendar back. He was already missing Joe’s smile and blue and white apron.
Milo woke up. He hadn’t planned on sleeping, but had. He looked at his watch. Five forty-five pm. Hungry, was the only thought in his mind. Apart from his one and only mouthful of coffee soaked bread, he’d had nothing to eat all day. As he got up and headed to the kitchen, he wondered if he could be as lucky with the refrigerator as he had been with his new wardrobe. Almost. Six plastic tubes of high protein paste, a packet of dehydrated liver, two sachets of ‘Carbs in an Instant’ and a tube of milk paste. He closed the door with a complete lack of excitement. It was then that he noticed the pizza sitting on his kitchen table. It was hot.
Milo thought about thinking about how the pizza may have made its way onto his kitchen table, but then thought it better to start thinking about eating it. He didn’t think about that for very long, as he was seriously hungry. He decided he would start thinking about how the pizza may have made its way onto his kitchen table when he arrived at his third slice. The pizza was so good, he forgot to think when he was on his third slice and it wasn’t until he started on the last slice that he wondered again how the pizza might have made its way onto his kitchen table. Before he could think, or finish the last slice, his thoughts were interrupted by a familiar sound.
‘Drrrinnggggg, ddrrriinng.’
‘Bad luck. I’ve eaten it all!’ he shouted.
‘Drrrinnggggg, ddrrriinng.’
‘The lock is broken. You might as well just barge in.’
‘Drrrinnggggg, ddrrriinng.’
‘Oh heavens to Betsy,’ Milo mumbled, and went to the door with the remains of his last slice of pizza still in hand. ‘Who are you?’ he asked grumpily, as he found a woman standing on his doorstep. He presumed she was a woman because she had longish hair and breasts. The rest just looked officious, and it was hard to be gender specific when it came to officiousness.
‘Mr. Moon?’ she asked gruffly.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I’m here to take you for your re-identification.’
‘My what?’
‘Re-identification. Mr. Smithe explained this to you, I’m sure.’
‘So you’re a friend of George then?’
‘A colleague, Mr. Moon. A colleague, yes.’
‘I don’t recall George mentioning anything about, eh, what was it again. Re something?’ Milo asked, with sincerity.
‘Re-identification Mr. Moon,’ the woman said, rather snappily.
‘I’m terribly sorry, but I missed your name.’
‘Oh I’m sorry. Most impolite of me not to have introduced myself. Hilda Harpinger. I’m an officer with Alpha Reality Control.’
‘ARC?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you like some coffee, Mrs Harpinger?’
‘Oh it’s Miss, and thank you, I would love a cuppa! It’s been a long day,’ she replied, in a complete change of tone, and with a cheeky little smile.
‘Well, please come in,’ Milo said, and then wondered if he might have made a mistake. He then wondered where his cat was.
‘You look a little pale Mr. Moon,’ Hilda said.
‘I think my cat has been abducted.’
‘Oh don’t be silly. Cats always come and go as they please. I’m sure your cat will return when it’s good and ready.’
‘He was here this morning. His name is Cindy,’ Milo said sadly.
‘Your male cat is called, Cindy?’
‘Sorry, long story. Black or white?’
‘Cat?’
‘No, coffee.’
‘Oh, sorry. Black please.’
Milo finished preparing the coffee in silence, while he ate the remnants of his last slice of pizza and thought about his cat. He put the two mugs on the table, and then realised how convenient having two chairs was. It helped take his mind off Cindy for a second.
‘You mentioned something about re-identification.’
‘Oh yes, sorry, but George must have told you. It was supposed to have been done earlier today, but there was a mix up with your file.’
‘Well, the only thing I can recall George saying, was something about being wiped. I don’t remember that it happened, but then again today hasn’t been all that clear to me in any form really.’
‘Oh, wiped. Well, that’s George for you. He is one for a little slang from time to time,’ Hilda said.
‘Sl
ang?’
‘Yes, slang. Re-identification is the process of having your chimeryon memory erased and having your new formyon identity installed. George likes to call it wiped. He is not one for big long words.’
‘Right,’ Milo said slowly, as if some of the information from Miss Harpinger was making a little sense.
‘So now that’s all clear,’ Hilda said, in a matter of fact, that’s all clear, now let’s move on sort of way.
‘Nobody has wished me happy birthday today, you know,’ Milo said, rather distantly.
‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, Mr. Moon, happy birthday to you!’ Hilda sang, and Milo wondered how bad his day could really get now.
Just as he was about to leave with Miss Harpinger, Milo heard a sound at the door. He went to the door and opened it. Cindy was scratching at the door. He picked him up and cuddled him fondly.
‘Can I feed Cindy before we go?’
‘Certainly Mr. Moon. Certainly,’ Hilda said, in a very sensitive and kind tone.
Chapter 5 - Identity Crisis
Milo sat in the passenger’s seat, as Hilda Harpinger drove him to his better late than never re-identification appointment. The car was a small electric two seater with a thin nylon roof that was remarkably similar to the taxi he has taken earlier. He had rarely been in a car except for today, and twice at that. He usually walked, as most people did in Sootere. Cars didn’t make much sense to Milo as they were hardly faster than walking anyway. And they made an ugly buzzing, humming noise.
He was happy his cat was back and well fed, but was very concerned that he wouldn’t remember it when he returned. That is, if he was going to be returned. He was sure George had told him earlier in the day that a new chimeryon would be taking his place and that it would care for his cat.
‘Miss Harpinger?’
‘Yes, Mr. Moon.’
‘How far is it?’
‘Oh, about a five minute drive.’
‘Good. Could you possibly use that time to explain to me what in the Dickens has happened to me today?’
‘Oh I’m sure George explained everything to you,’ Hilda said, a little dismissively.
‘Have you ever been re-identified, Miss Harpinger?’ Milo asked, with a hint of sarcasm.
‘Everyone has. Everyone. It’s normal ARC procedure.’
‘So what does it feel like?’
‘It’s impossible to say. When you’re re-identified, or wiped as George said, you naturally have no memory of the process.’
‘So how do you know you’ve been re-identified?’
‘Because it’s on file,’ she said, as if this was irrefutable proof.
‘So I can check my file then? See who or what I was before?’
‘Oh no. Only security cleared officers of the ARC have access to the files,’ she explained.
‘But you’ve seen your own file?’
‘Of course not,’ she answered, as if it should have been obvious.
‘So how do you know for sure that you’ve been re-identified?’
‘Oh, so many questions. Look, I process the files of hundreds of life forces. So I have all the details of the transitions for all my clients. Your file is actually handled by George Smithe, who has the same number, but as there was a little hiccough with your processing today, and he is now off duty, I’m filling in for him,’ Hilda explained.
‘So you’ve seen my file?’
‘Yes of course, otherwise I wouldn’t be here driving you to your re-identification.’
‘But you’ve never seen your own file?’
‘That would be against all the regulations. No one’s allowed access to his or her own file. It’s logical.’
‘Can you tell me what I was before Milo Moon?’
‘Certainly not. That’s classified and totally confidential information. I would lose my job in a split second if I divulged classified information,’ she said, very firmly.
‘Miss Harpinger?’
‘Yes Mr. Moon,’ Hilda said, with a hint of impatience.
‘Do you play tennis?’
‘No, badminton actually, so very close. And you?’
‘I like table tennis.’
It was nearing seven o’clock when Hilda Harpinger parked her car at the entrance of the building. It was getting dark, but Milo could just make out the sign above the door. ‘ARC Processing Centre’. It had a familiarity about it, but Milo had seen so many odd things today, a little bit of déjà-vu hardly seemed worth worrying about.
‘So, should I go in?’ he asked.
‘I’m coming with you, Mr. Moon. I’ll make sure you’re registered correctly, and that there are no further mix ups with your file,’ Hilda said, and they both got out of the car and entered the building through a set of revolving doors.
At first glance, it looked and smelled like a hospital to Milo. On second and third glance, his first glance was proved to be absolutely correct. There was a smell of freshly washed floors and walls. Fresh paint. Antiseptic. And the two young women at reception were wearing white nurses uniforms. White tunics and little white caps. Each with a small watch on a silver chain fixed to their uniforms.
‘It’s a hospital,’ he said quietly.
‘Just take a seat there, Mr. Moon and I’ll look after your registration,’ she said.
‘I don’t like hospitals.’
‘Oh, come now, don’t be silly. Everything will be just fine. I thought you would be excited about becoming a formyon.’
Milo gave up and walked to the row of chairs. He noticed two extremely unfriendly looking gentlemen in nasty looking uniforms standing either side of the revolving door entry. He hadn’t seen them on his way in. He considered this a little disconcerting as he checked, and yes, his rear view was working perfectly. This probably meant that they had taken up their action stations after he had entered. Presumably to ensure that he didn’t now attempt to un-enter.
Hilda Harpinger was signing pieces of paper and chatting with the two nurses. When she finished, she came back over to Milo.
‘Everything is in order.’
‘Why are those two men standing there?’
‘Security.’
‘Don’t you think they would have a better chance of being effective security guards if they were on the outside of the building?’
‘You really are the one for questions, aren’t you? Come on, and let’s get you completed so I can go home,’
‘Completed?’
‘Yes. Come on Mr. Moon. Let’s go.’
After the day Milo had had, he wasn’t in any mood to be beaten to a pulp by two uniformed thugs, so he decided to accept her invitation to follow. He was taken to what looked just like a private one bed ward. Considering that he had already presumed it was a hospital, he was not in the least surprised by his new temporary accommodation. It was probably his one and only non-surprise for the day so far. He sat on the side of the bed. A nurse was with Miss Harpinger.
‘If you could just drink this glass of water first, Mr. Moon. It helps, as the process can dehydrate you just a little bit,’ the smiling nurse said.
Milo took the glass of water and began to drink, and at the same time thought about George and the two carefully rinsed glasses sitting on the side of his sink. There was a touch of familiarity about this water drinking business. He finished the glass and the nurse took it and rinsed it in a small sink on the other side of his ward. His suspicions were well and truly founded when he felt his body rising from the bed, and apparently taking up a relaxed pose on one elbow, on the ceiling of the ward. He could see the nurse and Miss Harpinger quite clearly in conversation and obeying gravity by remaining firm footed on the carpeted floor. Although a little groggy and disoriented, he could hear Miss Harpinger and the nurse talking below him.
‘Oh, it was George Smithe again, Doreen. He really is starting to peeve me. This is the third mess of his I’ve had to clean up this week,’ Hilda explained to the nurse.
‘Oh I know, Hi
lda. It really makes our job much harder you know.’
‘Well, I don’t know what George’s problem is. But I’ll have to see my controller now. He really has been fouling up. I don’t get paid overtime you know.’
‘I didn’t know that. I thought all ARC staff got paid overtime.’
‘Usually yes, but my position is M7. Operative. So it’s a salaried post. We’re paid to get the job done, which is why George is going to be in hot water. You know, he put this one in a taxi?’ Hilda explained.
‘Oh you’re joking.’
‘Not only that, but for some unknown reason he sent this one back to his original lodgings.’
‘Oh, that’s ridiculous. The whole process can go seriously wrong then. You can’t have them half transformed and then sent back to the same location. It has to be to the staging quarters.’
‘Well, you and I get to clean up the mess then, Doreen,’ Hilda said.
‘Right then, leave him to me. Do you want to wait, or do you want me to call you when Moon here is ready?’
‘I might go and grab a decent coffee and a bite to eat, if that’s all right? I’ll be back in an hour or so.’
‘Okay, no problem. See you then.’
Milo felt his body being lowered from the ceiling and then stopped in a horizontal position about three feet from the floor. He then glided through the door of the ward, with the nurse beside him. He looked up at her.
‘Hello,’ he said.
Apparently she didn’t hear him, or he only imagined he spoke, because she didn’t reply.
After quite a long float, his body was directed through a door and then into a machine that seemed remarkably familiar. Just like the one at the oddly numbered doors. There was no doubt in Milo’s mind that he was going to receive the front-loading washing machine experience for the second time today. As with anything new, the second time is always a little less impressive and daunting, so he was ready for a little head spinning and mild nausea. He wondered if his pizza was going to continue to reside intact in his stomach though.
