Harry was not impressed. In fact he didn’t care. Doc knew he had his work cut out for him. Lighting even a spark of interest in that tortured, guilt-ridden, whiskey-soaked brain would be a major accomplishment. He threatened, cajoled, begged, and promised. In the process he became Harry’s friend, confidante, and father confessor. He was always there to pick him out of the gutter, dry him out, and start all over again.
He was at every resurrection, lending his quiet support and peppering Harry with questions. How was this resurrection different from others? What had he seen? How had he felt? It was always kept in a spirit of scientific inquiry, forcing Harry to objectively examine the experience, to look deeply into himself and his ka. In the beginning, all Harry wanted was to get it over with as fast as possible and find the next whiskey bottle, budding starlet, and barroom brawl but, gradually, he came to accept these meetings as part of his resurrection and even began to look forward to them.
He and Jericho would go over each death again and again, examining every detail. What happened at the moment of transition? What was the ka like? How did it feel? Could you control it? How? When? Where? Details, details, details.
Harry surprised himself by gradually remembering more and more and for the first time began to show a spark of interest. The devil was in the details, Doc kept repeating, as he fanned that spark into a guttering flame of curiosity.
The breakthrough came when Harry noticed that, at the moment of death, his mind gave an odd little internal shrug that seemed to twist his ka loose from his body. It was such a little thing and happened so fast he never would have noticed it if he hadn’t been looking for a little “devil in the details”. After that, he taught himself to do it and, from then on, dying held no fear. He was no longer a victim. He was in control. As soon as things got too bad, the cancer that bit too deep or the bullet that didn’t go deep enough, he just shrugged out of his old body and headed down the resurrection trail without all the traumatic, painful preliminaries.
It was a turning point. That guttering flame of curiosity burst into a blazing wild fire that gradually consumed Harry’s old life. He stopped drinking and began to take care of himself, watching his diet, exercising, getting enough sleep, and reading everything he could find that might explain what was happening.
He confided in no one except Jericho. The old man was almost as excited as he was and proved indispensable in helping him find answers to how, what, and why this was happening. He provided Harry with piles of scientific and religious texts, everything from advanced physics to books on mysticism, philosophy, psychology, and religion. Many of them were old pre-Crash documents, and Harry wondered in passing how they had survived and where Jericho had gotten a hold of them.
Surprisingly, the texts that proved most helpful came from a recent New Hollywood scholar, called Jake Lloyd, who had died twenty years ago. The ten volumes of his work from “The Neurobiology of Enlightenment” to his final bewildering “Anubis Gates” seemed to speak directly to Harry, guiding him through the confusion of fear and doubts that assailed him. Harry had never been much of a scholar but he devoured everything Lloyd wrote.
He began to look forward to his next resurrections as journeys of discovery. During the last year of his contract, he went through a record eighteen resurrections, most of them unsanctioned by the company. He went into each resurrection carefully, noting everything that happened. He discovered that the point between life and death, just where the ka is about to leave the body, contained the seeds of vast knowledge. At that point, the body left its imprint on the spirit body of the ka that not only retained a human form but was covered all over with fine, glowing, colored lines, like a weird schematic of some complex machine or circuit board. These lines were legible for only a few moments just before the ka was pulled towards the white light of death.
Harry gradually realized these lines were lines of concentrated information consciousness that contained the coded wholeness of his body/mind, much as a seed contains the coded wholeness of a tree. The lines ran up and down and across the ka, swirling in and out of several juncture boxes of concentrated energy spaced along the torso. In the months of dying that followed, Harry tried to read that diagram, memorizing bits and pieces in the few moments before they faded. Afterwards, he traced as much as he could remember out on paper.
He discovered that those bright junctures of energy consciousness corresponded to the energy nodes or chakras he found in ancient yogic texts. Using them as a basis, he was able to trace a more complete though still extremely simple copy of these bright schematics. Later, Jericho provided him with acupuncture diagrams from China that added another layer of complexity to the circuitry tracings of his ka.
About two months after he learned how to die, he managed to follow a bright, pulsing red line of pure information pain back to its source, and the next time he was dying in agony, he used his imagination to follow that red line back to its source and figuratively pulled the switch. It was the equivalent of the mental shrug that allowed him to die, but this time it cut off the pain.
Gradually, he found that he could do other amazing things like close a knife wound in a matter of minutes, heal a broken bone overnight, or slow his heart and breath rate and put his body into a state of suspended animation that was just this side of death. It wasn’t raising the dead or walking on water but it was changing him more deeply then he suspected.
At first, he hardly noticed the change. It seemed such a small thing. His mind just seemed to be getting quieter. It was as if he had had a radio in his head going full blast with thoughts, emotions, and desires and now someone was turning down the volume. Sometimes his mind would go completely still and he would be aware of a silent, inner presence filling the stillness. Each time he died and was reborn, he seemed to bring back a little more of this silent presence that somehow felt more intimately him than his meat locker of a body.
When he finally told Jericho about this, the old man grew quiet and thoughtful. Shortly afterwards, he introduced Harry to the secret garden of the most powerful Tong Godfather in New Hollywood, and to Samuel Kade, a shaman trance-walker, who made his home there.
With Kade’s help, Harry came to realize that this silent presence was not only his own ka stripped of all the conscious layers of everyday ego babble that usually blanketed it, but that it was also possible to consciously shift his awareness into his ka without having to die first. It marked a turning point in his life, a time of heady promise and discovery, but it came far too late to salvage his marriage. Susan had already married Roger the year before.
11
Two-way Mirrors
“Look, Harry, why don’t we just stop bickering and try to get things cleared up, okay?” Roger’s voice cut through his memories and Harry turned. “Clear what up?” he asked.
Roger ran his fingers nervously through his thinning ginger hair. “The reporters have been on our backs for the last thirty-six hours, wanting to know why they couldn’t interview you.”
“Thirty-six hours?” Harry asked in disbelief. “I was out for thirty-six hours?”
“Yeah, didn’t Jericho…?”
Harry shook his head. Thirty-sixes, he thought, and instinctively rolled his shoulders and felt the welts on his back stretch and sting.
For most people it could take anywhere from three days to a week to recover from a resurrection and get used to their new bodies, but the twin traumas of death and rebirth no longer touched Harry, and he was usually up and smiling for the camera within twelve hours. Whatever ambushed him out on the resurrection trail had been bad enough for his ka to bury itself as deep as it could in this new meat locker body and then slam the door shut for almost thirty-six hours!
“Look, Harry, we’ve been holding the reporters off by telling them you were resting up and considering new contract options from Eternal Life…”
Roger saw the scowl darken Harry’s face and threw up his hands as if to ward it off. “I know, I know.” He laughed. “You haven’t changed your m
ind. We’re not asking you to go through another death. Believe me, I understand. Haven’t I been with you right from the beginning? Five years, Harry, that’s a long time. Together, we made Eternal Life the greatest institution in the world. We’ve…”
“Roger, I don’t need a sales pitch,” Harry said tiredly, “I know what I did, and why I signed that contract. I died fifty-one times and put myself through hell. Now, it’s over.”
“Of course, of course, Harry,” Roger’s voice was full of understanding. “We’re not asking you for that, just a personal appearance every once in a while, promotional tours, that kind of thing, just like we agreed.”
“We didn’t agree on anything,” Harry said. “You told me to think about it.”
“Look, Harry, I’ll be honest with you. You got us over a barrel,” Roger said, trying to shift gears and back pedal at the same time. “You’ve become a symbol of trust for Eternal Life and…”
“What happened during the last resurrection, Roger?” Harry cut in as he surreptitiously fingered the note that Doc had slipped into his hand. “What made me so hysterical and panic-stricken that I had to be sedated, and what are those marks on my back?”
Roger’s hands fluttered nervously and his usual, florid complexion darkened. “Really, Harry, I don’t know. Don’t you remember?”
Harry shook his head. “Nothing,” he lied. “Now, what I want to know is what’s going on? I’ve heard rumors…”
Roger spat in disgust. “Just rumors, Harry! You know how the competition is. We still got enemies. Hell, the churches would love to break us. Those bible-thumping fanatics will try anything to get at us. Remember the time…”
“Stop bullshitting me, Roger. They’re saying that we’re losing people in resurrection, that they’re not all coming back, or that they’re not all there when they do come back. Now, I don’t intend to put my ass on the line for you or Eternal Life anymore unless I get some straight answers.”
Roger had smoked his cigarette down to the butt. He walked over to the night table beside Harry’s bed and stubbed the cigarette out beside the other one on the saucer covering Harry’s glass of water. He did it with the slow, deliberate concentration of a brain surgeon performing a lobotomy. Then, he lifted the saucer off the glass and dropped the butt into the water. He regarded Harry thoughtfully. Harry could almost see the cartoon cogwheels turning inside Roger’s head, weighing alternatives, extrapolating decisions…choosing the best lie.
Finally, he shook his head almost sorrowfully. ‘’Harry, Harry, Harry,” he murmured perplexedly. “What are we going to do with you?” Then he turned away and walked slowly over to the holo-screen. The deer had wandered out of the glade and into a field of wildflowers with brightly colored butterflies flitting through the air. Overhead the sky was impossibly blue, filled with little, puffy, white clouds like you see in children’s drawings.
Roger stopped in front of the screen. Automatically, he reached inside his jacket for his cigarette case. He flicked it open, took out a cigarette, and lit it with the same calm, deliberate concentration he’d used in crushing the butt. He tilted his head back and blew a cloud of smoke at the holo screen. The smoke broke against the glass and rebounded in lazy, blue swirls.
“You know, Harry,” he said at last. “When I started this company, it wasn’t just for the money. Oh, I won’t try to shit you, the money was important but, Jesus, Harry, I wasn’t exactly poor. I didn’t really need it. I’d made my bundle. I mean, how much is enough, right? But here was a chance to do something meaningful. Not like these two-bit Hollywood deals where everyone is out to screw everyone else but something worthwhile, something that would change the world and, yeah, I admit it, put my name in the history books.
“I know I pushed you hard in the beginning, but you were our trump card, the only one we had. People trusted what you said. They trusted that noble, honest face and that, ‘aw shucks grin’. I don’t think you ever really appreciated how much we needed you…How much we still need you.”
He paused, staring thoughtfully at the holo screen without really seeing it. “I’m sorry about Susan,” he said at last. “I really didn’t plan for it to go that way. You probably don’t believe me, but it’s true. Anyway…what’s past is past,” he said bitterly and dismissed it with a wave of his hand. For a moment, an air of hopeless despair seemed to settle over him. His shoulders slumped and his body sagged as if it had finally given up the fight against gravity. The cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers.
Harry watched the smoke curl towards the ceiling and waited. He listened to the digital wind, rustling holographic leaves and to the intermittent bursts of bird song. He wondered what Roger was up to, where this apparent soul searching was going. Was it genuine or just some ploy to gain a bigger market share of Harry’s limited trust and sympathy?
Whatever was going on, Roger finally seemed to come to some private closure. He straightened up with a quick shrug and squared his shoulders decisively. He glanced quickly at the wall of two-way mirrors and then looked at Harry. “I guess what I’m trying to say,” he said as he started walking across the room, “Is that it’s been nice knowing you, champ. And if you don’t want to work for Eternal Life anymore, well, fuck you!” He stopped in front of Harry’s bed, took a deep drag of his cigarette, and then casually flipped the burning butt at the two-way mirror. Then, he turned and walked away.
When he reached the door, he paused with his hand on the knob. “By the way, Harry,” he said over his shoulder. “Those rumors you’ve been hearing are pure dog shit. And if you begin repeating them in public, you’ll find yourself up to your ass in lawsuits.” Then he jerked the door open and let it slam behind him.
Now, what was that all about? Harry wondered as he watched the cigarette butt burning a black scar in the floor beneath the mirror. He thought of the look on Roger’s face when he flicked it. It was a look of defiant bravado, of a man standing in front of a firing squad and giving it the finger. For the first time, Harry felt something akin to sympathy, maybe even respect, for Roger Morely, but his features revealed none of this. They remained placidly blank with only a calm smile for the grav-corders that hovered over his head, buzzing like curious bumblebees.
12
A Cover-up
The press conference had gone badly, and Harry was relieved when it was over. He had prepared for it by keeping his clothes deliberately casual, blue chambray shirt open at the neck, no tie, faded jeans, and a pair of scuffed white running shoes and his iconic Chief’s Special in a clip-on holster on his belt. An old original Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap was pulled down low over his eyes. He’d picked it up once at an auction. It had cost a small fortune but its battered, broken-brimmed, disreputable appearance appealed to him. It was also perfect for this occasion where he was out to make a deliberate fashion statement that said, “I’m out of it, retired, gone fishing.” It also served to distance him from the suits at Eternal Life, who hovered watchfully in the background.
There weren’t as many reporters as he’d expected. The others were probably chasing a bigger story and for that he was thankful. He knew most of the ones that had turned up by their first names and they took their cue from him, asking about his retirement plans and whether he would be going back into films. But it was all just a courtesy to Harry and it wore off real fast. What they really wanted to know was why he was so late and did it have anything to do with rumors that something had gone wrong with his resurrection?
Harry took his cue from Eternal Life’s public relations man, Don Gibson, who had prepped him thoroughly before the news conference. “Everything went fine,” Harry lied. “I just had to go through a few final physicals before Eternal Life would agree to release me. I guess they didn’t want me coming back and saying they gave me a faulty body or something.” He smiled disarmingly, hating himself and the role he was being forced to play in this cover-up. “Everything is tip-top,” he continued. “Guaranteed to last at least two hundred thousand miles
without an oil change.” He thumped his chest and grinned into the grav-corders and promised himself never ever to do this again. Roger could take his new representation contracts and shove them up his ass sideways.
The reporters scented a cover-up and began pressing him. Had he heard the rumors about the recent problems at Eternal Life, patients not coming back, or coming back murderously insane or maybe even possessed?
Harry pleaded ignorance and let Gibson field the questions. Gibson was a long, loose-limbed black man with a laid back, easy manner and the patience of a saint. It was said that he could charm the venom out of a cobra, but today the reporters weren’t buying it. They scented blood and the tone of their questions became ever more strident and aggressive. Gibson’s easy, down-home drawl and folksy manner began to wear thin. At last he tried stonewalling with a company release and when that didn’t work, he turned harsh and abrasive and finally cut short the interview.
Harry had never seen Gibson lose his cool like this and when he tried to talk to him afterwards, the man nearly bit his head off. “Not you too, Harry! Did you hear that? Now it’s demonic possession! For Christ’s sake, these rumors are getting completely out of hand.”
He ran his hands over the tight kinky curls of his close-cropped head and eyed Harry belligerently. “Don’t you think if something like this was happening, it’d be splashed all over the headlines? Look, Harry,” he said earnestly. “It’s just not true. There’s no problem. A few lawsuits maybe but nothing we haven’t seen before.
“Now why don’t you get the hell out of here,” he grinned good-naturedly. “Take a long, well deserved vacation. Go get drunk, find yourself a couple of buxom young starlets and go lie on the beach with them.” He gave Harry a friendly slap on the back and turned away.
“Demonic possession,” Gibson shook his head and laughed to himself as he walked down the hall. And it was all an act. Harry knew acting when he saw it and Gibson was good, but he wasn’t that good. Behind his laughing, good ol‘ boy façade, Gibson was scared spitless.
Eternal Life Inc. Page 7
