Hammer and Crucible

by Cameron Cooper

I looked at Juliyana. “Okay, then.”

  7

  Zillah’s World was too limited for what we had to do next, although we stayed there for another twenty-four hours while we planned and did some necessary research.

  At the end of that time, at the very last minute, Juliyana brought us a pair of tickets upon a five-star cruiser to New Phoenicia.

  I had given up any hope that travel would become less of a strain. Even a smooth, cushioned five-star line jump left me half-crippled and forced to move slowly.

  Juliyana did not make me feel guilty about slowing her down. She trod steadily alongside me and sometimes wordlessly propped me up, especially when we reached steps.

  New Phoenicia is one of the busiest travel hubs in the Empire. It was also one of the oldest. That was not what drew me to choose it as our destination, though. It was the often-overlooked fact that New Phoenicia also had a suburb in its floating city devoted to medicine and human therapy. Unlike Zillah’s World, it was not a research organization with tacked-on shopfronts. New Phoenicia was purely about profit—and they made a handsome one because their services were as good as any the military could provide.

  In fact, the military often used New Phoenicia for medical services when they were at full capacity themselves. It was how I knew about the therapy complex in the first place. The hospice attached to my battalion had reached out to New Phoenicia more than once, when engaged in long, hard wars where they needed the extra capacity.

  I had even suffered through being a patient there once, myself. That was long before I rose through the ranks. I was a green grunt still learning how to duck properly and keep her head down.

  Amongst the hundreds of thousands of visitors per day station saw, we were two anonymous women. Well, not so anonymous in my case, for I drew the eye. Yet we could disappear in this crowd and not draw too much attention.

  We took the shuttle to the therapy complex. We could have walked there, for air tubes and walkways ran all around the city. We didn’t, because I had the money, now, and I just didn’t have the energy, anymore. It had been a long few days.

  Unlike the clinic on Zillah’s World, there were no human attendants in the foyer. There were discrete inquiry terminals, soft lighting and a pleasant murmur of industry from behind the doors lining the foyer.

  I pulled Juliyana to one side. “I will fast-track this, but it could still be two months or more.”

  “I have my orders. It will take me all that time to deal with them, anyway.”

  “You’ll have to find a way of disappearing, while you find us new IDs,” I pointed out to her. It was one of the points I had not specifically discussed with her, but now I was nervous.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll find some poor sucker just emerged from his rejuvenation, and shack up with him in his hilton, while he vents all his newfound energies upon me.”

  I stared at her.

  “What? It keeps my name off any registration role.”

  I decided she was joking. I also decided she was good enough to not have me direct her every single step.

  Juliyana smiled grimly. “I can be resourceful, too, Danny.”

  “I have no doubt of that, or I would not be leaving you alone out there.”

  She looked surprised. “Okay, then.”

  We both smiled.

  Then Juliyana left. I turned to one of the terminals. After a round of introductions, which included me baring my wrist and having my serial number scanned, then the terminal welcoming me back, I told the AI what I wanted. “Express rejuvenation and inertia inoculation.”

  One of the internal doors opened with a soft swish. “Right this way, please,” the terminal told me.

  My nerves shrieking, I stepped through the door.

  A medical aid in casual clothes, which likely would be recycled after every shift, settled into an armchair next to mine, in front of a crackling fire which was completely fake, but looked real enough to make me relax.

  She asked many questions, some of them bewildering in their irrelevance. What did my preference in olives tell them?

  She took no notes, so I presumed the conversation was being recorded. Or perhaps she had the new advanced implants which allowed her to take notes mentally. For all I knew, she was accessing my personal file directly and adding notations even as she sat with her hands around her crossed knee, with her foot swinging casually.

  “Our records indicate you have some non-organics. One of ours, in fact. The left arm,” She frowned. “And your large toe, not ours.”

  “Ever tried walking without your toes?” I asked her.

  “We could regenerate the toe for you, if you want.”

  I raised my brow. “Really?” Then, “Why not?”

  Her foot stopped swinging. “Your implants are quite old.”

  “As I’m very old, that’s hardly a surprise,”

  Her smile was ghostly. “I meant they seem to be malfunctioning. Have you been getting headaches lately?”

  “The better question would be how often I don’t get headaches. It would be a shorter answer.”

  She nodded. “Implant replacement is part of basic rejuvenation. The only question remains, what type of implants you prefer. We have a range—”

  “The best,” I said.

  She hesitated.

  “What implants are the Rangers using, these days?” I added.

  “Those are a proprietary, limited issue licenses.”

  “You have a civilian version which is as good, if not better, right? For those willing to pay for it, I mean.” I fixed her with a steady gaze.

  She gazed into the middle distance for a moment. Then she nodded. “We can arrange that.”

  I wondered if her implants were letting her speak directly with someone outside the room. Another version of Blankenburg, perhaps. One with the sense to let his empathetic staff deal with the patients.

  Selecting a rejuvenation package is not a simple affair. By the time she worked her way through the options and variations, discussed them with me and I made my selections, a meal was served and three rounds of coffee. Decaf, of course. The staff were discrete and pleasant, leaving us strictly alone at all other times.

  A pad was presented to me, displaying a long contract with all the options I had chosen, including priority service, advanced muscle development and my preferred cosmetic age. A table spread over several screens, listing gene expression choices. It was that table which made rejuvenation shopping so detailed and exhausting. Every package was tailored to one’s own DNA. There was no such thing as a default package.

  The aid got to her feet. “I’ll give you some time to go through it. Take however long you need. If you have any questions, you can ask the pad. It is hooked to an AI who will explain most of the basics to you. If it cannot answer your queries properly, it will send for someone who can. There is no rush.” Her smile was warm.

  There was certainly a rush from my end, although I didn’t bother her with that detail. Express service was in the contract—I spotted it in my first pass through the initial pages. As I was paying for preferred treatment, they would make sure it happened. The advantage of for-profit organizations is that they rely upon their reputation. A few whispers that they failed to meet their contractual obligations would damage their reputation and their revenue would dry up. I trusted them as far as the contract extended.

  I read through the contract, every clause. There were a lot of them. I asked the AI, via the pad, to adjust some of the causes. I’d had more than a few years practice dealing with contracts. Directing a battalion was as much an administrative function as it was a battle commander’s role.

  When I was ready to sign, the medical aid magically returned. She witnessed my chop, I directed payment to the financial account she gave me, then she took the pad away. Business was concluded.

  I was escorted to a suite with a bedroom larger than my entire apartment on the Judeste. When I was here several decades ago to rebuild my left arm, I shared a larger room wi
th other Rangers. It stopped us from going mad with boredom. Now, though, I wanted the privacy that came with the upgraded price.

  I sat on the feather soft sofa and waited for the treatment to begin.

  No one really remembers rejuvenation. Even the classic, long-term processes still leave the patient unaware for long periods of time. During those times, unpleasant things were done to the body, including the brain. At least, that was how I remember my last rejuvenation—a mostly blank period of time, bereft of thought, interrupted by a few moments of strained coherency.

  That was not my experience this time. I sat on the sofa for an hour or so before the strain of the day’s traveling caught up with me. I went to bed and snuggled into a mattress that was cloud soft and wondered if I would sleep at all…and if I did sleep, would I dream, as usual?

  It was the last thought I had before I woke to morning sunshine and even a damn bird singing, nearby. I was refreshed and was not at all tired. I stretched.

  The medical aid who had taken me through the contract stepped into the room. She was smiling again.

  “Well hello,” I told her. “Are we finally getting started, then?”

  She surprised me by sitting on the bed. She gave a soft laugh. “You are already ten days into your treatment.”

  I stared at her.

  “Look at your hand,” she told me.

  I lifted my hand up. The back of it, which had been covered in liver spots the last time I looked at it, was now free of all of them. The veins which had ridged so heavily were still distinct, but far less protruding than they had been. I was looking at the hand of a middle-aged woman, not one on the brink of dying.

  “You started while I was sleeping…”

  “It seems like sleep to you, of course. That is intentional. Patients are far less stressed if they are unaware of the impending processes.”

  “Only now you have tipped your hand. I know that more processes are impending.”

  “Only because the therapy has not finished. Are you hungry?”

  “Is that why you woke me up? To have me eat something?”

  “We could feed you nutritional yeast but having you awake and aware and moving around the room will help us assess progress so far. Feel free to get up and order a meal from the terminal.”

  “It isn’t a printer?”

  “We have a chef on staff.” She got to her feet.

  “You have a name I can use?”

  “Dominica,” she told me and went away.

  I eased carefully out of bed and paused to stare at my knees. There were no longer wrinkles around the bones. The skin looked, and felt, firm.

  It was only then I realized there were no mirrors in the room. The omission was deliberate, of course. They didn’t want patients scaring themselves halfway through the process.

  I went over to the small, efficient terminal and ordered my usual eggs. My stomach rumbled heavily and panged. I added bacon and toast. I upgraded the cup of coffee to a jug of coffee and cream, too. My mouth watered as I ordered it.

  I sat on the sofa and found my sack placed at the other end. I dug out my pad and went through messages.

  There were ten messages from Juliyana, one for each day passed. All of them were cryptic, noncommittal. They consisted of “I’m fine, everything is proceeding,” in one form or another.

  Three days ago, I had received a message from Farhan. My spirits dropped when I saw it. Because I was expecting it, I made myself open the message.

  The content of the message was no more or less than I expected, either. Farhan demanded I reroute the money back to the family account. He preferred to presume that I had diverted the dividends because of a simple misunderstanding. Although he did not fail to add the veiled threat of bringing Rangers down upon me.

  The longer the delay before you respond to my request, the more certain I will become that your intentions are not those of a good family member, which will force me to proceed accordingly. It was nice corporate doublespeak. I deleted the message.

  When the meal arrived, I wondered if I could eat any of it. Farhan’s disapproval lingered, making my stomach roil. Then I caught a whiff of bacon.

  I ate every single morsel, licked my fingers and wished there was more. I was on the verge of ordering a desert. Why the hell not? Then the jug of coffee registered, forcing me to my feet and into the en suite.

  By the time I reemerged, I was exhausted. Sleep was tugging at me as if I had not slept for days. I barely stayed awake long enough to stumble over to the bed and climbed beneath the covers.

  So soft… So warm…

  My very last thought was that perhaps I would not dream this time, either, which made me very happy.

  The next time I woke, I spotted an exercise leotard folded and sitting on the sofa.

  I wanted to eat, but Dominica assured me my meal would taste far better once I exercised.

  I was escorted to a gymnasium that included a full-sized swimming pool. The entire gym was completely empty. I had asked for privacy and they were abiding by the expensive agreement.

  Dominica put me through a series of exercises which would have been impossible for the old woman who shuffled into the hospice, however many days ago it had been.

  I wanted to laugh out loud as I felt my body respond to the demands with energy and strength. Just being able to touch my toes was enough to make me giggle.

  I punched bags, and high kicked. Chin ups were no effort at all. I ran around the half-track, while Dominica timed me. It wasn’t quite my personal best but if I had really wanted to, I had the sensation I could have burned that old record easily.

  On that same awakening, they put me through the inertia inoculation. Patients had to be awake for crush juice shots. The flex of muscles, a moving body, and a higher metabolism helped the nanobots build the crystalline structures inside the cells that made them crush proof. While the nanobots worked, my body twitched and heated in a way that reminded me of menopause, except every single inch of me grew warm, from the feet upwards.

  When the heat rose up my neck, I realized with a touch of cold shock that the new implants must have already been installed, sometime while I slept. They wouldn’t administer crush juice before replacing the implants. That would force them to go through the process all over again, so the nanobots could incorporate the new implants into their scaffold-building.

  I ate enormously and wished I could kiss the chef on the cheek in thanks for her talent. Before I could pull out my pad and check messages, sleepiness dropped over me.

  “Damn it…” I breathed and staggered over to the bed. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I added, hauled myself onto the bed…and passed out.

  Overall, the course of rejuvenation took thirty-nine standard days, which I only got to count up later, when it was all over. I was pronounced “done” and Dominica escorted me to the foyer of the clinic. As before, no one else appeared. The machinery moved smoothly around us, giving me the absolute privacy I had requested.

  “You look wonderful,” Dominica told me, before we stepped through the door into the public foyer beyond. “I hope you’re pleased?”

  I thought about the crush juice which was circling my system, and would for nearly two more years, until I excreted the last of the expired nanobots. After that, as reinforced cells were replaced with normal cells, I would start to “feel” high-gee conditions more and more, until forced to take another course. “I am very pleased,” I assured her.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to look in a mirror?” Dominica asked. This had bothered her immensely.

  “I know what I look like at twenty-six,” I assured her. “This is not my first time.”

  Dominica grinned, a very unprofessional expression full of mischief, that made her eyes light up. “You will look eventually,” she assured me. “You can thank us, then.” She opened the door. “Or recommend us to your friends, instead.”

  The soft-sell was the single marketing push the clinic had given me, in all the tim
e I was there.

  “I’ll consider that,” I assured her, and meant it.

  I stepped out into the real world, feeling light, strong and much taller than I had before, which wasn’t possible.

  Juliyana was waiting. She smiled when she saw me…then her smile got wider. “Hot damn…” she breathed.

  “Shut up.”

  “Shit hot damn,” she said, circling me. “I feel like I should hit on you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Not the most productive use of our time.”

  Juliyana came to a stop in front of me. She raised her brow. “Okay, next?”

  My stomach rumbled. “Food,” I declared. With a touch of regret I realized that whatever meal I ate next would not be close to the caliber of the meals I had been enjoying in the clinic. Although the clinic could afford to provide the best. By my count, I had eaten seven meals in thirty-nine days.

  Juliyana nodded. “Stars, yes! What you want? My treat.”

  “A big steak,” I said firmly. “Maybe even two.”

  8

  Juliyana had learned her way around the city while I was out for the count. She took me to a restaurant with a view of the starscape through steel glass windows, and honest-to-goodness tablecloths. I plucked at our tablecloth in disbelief.

  “It’s retro,” Juliyana explained.

  “It’s antique, is more like it. I’ve only ever seen such things in pictures.”

  However, the food made up for any quirkiness in the decorations. So did the starscape beyond the window.

  We both ate extremely well, to the point where I pushed back from the table and placed a hand on my belly. There was no soft paunch there, anymore, and a very full stomach lay just beneath the taut flesh.

  We looked at each other and laughed.

  Juliyana’s smile faded. She generated a privacy bubble with her pad and leaned forward.

  I refilled my glass of wine and leaned forward, too. With the privacy bubble in place we could shout at each other and no one would hear it, only people learn to read lips for this very reason. So we kept our heads close together and murmured.