by Phoenix Ward
With Two Bodies
a short story
Phoenix Williams
Copyright 2015 by Phoenix Williams
SmashWords Edition
Gloria examined the different display types that the moratorium offered with a look of disdain. She didn't like how clean and sterile the place felt. It reminded her of the stories of dentist offices that her father would tell her from his own childhood. The same kind of anxiety gripped her, and when Gloria was anxious, it made her cold and a little bit angry.
The screen she liked the most was formed in the shape of a slight arc with a smaller, circular display in the center. She thought that it would have been to Chris's liking. He was always a fan of the unorthodox and the eccentric.
God, she thought, I really need to get some sleep.
"Miss Santson?" a gravelly voice said from behind her.
Gloria turned to look at the mortician, who had managed to slip into the office without making a noise. She didn't like that. A man of the dead was creepy enough as it was.
Dr. Stephen Hummregh was a thin man who appeared to have sharp corners at his joints. His pure white hair was gelled to the side in an attempt to cover up his balding scalp. He had rimless glasses cut into tight rectangles that sat at the end of his nose as if he were Franklin D. Roosevelt. His cheeks were sallow and etched with wrinkles that seemed to fold deeper as he spoke. The man of the dead looks like the grave himself, Gloria thought to herself.
Still, she smiled curtly. "Doctor," she greeted him. "Fine day."
"Under the circumstances, I suppose," Dr. Hummregh replied. "I'd like to start this procedure by offering you my condolences. It is never easy to lose a loved one."
"It's even harder to lose a son," Gloria replied. Her face was devoid of emotion, stern as stone.
"I have two myself," the mortician commented. "I can't even imagine." He cleared his throat and looked down at the clipboard he had carried in. "Tell me, have you ever had experience with the installation process at all?"
"I saw a demonstration with the I.I. of President Juarez some years ago on a college trip, but aside from that, not really," Gloria answered. "I never even got the chance to speak with it."
"Ah, yes, Juarez's I.I. was actually one of my earlier projects," Dr. Hummregh explained. "Things have changed quite a bit since then. Back then, the software would only work on special computers that required some advanced programming knowledge to even run. It was archaic, but at the time it was one of the most amazing things we'd ever seen."
"Quite," Gloria said. She wasn't in the mood for idle chatter.
The scientist looked back down at his forms before continuing. "The process requires little on your part," he started. "Really, it's just a series of customization choices. You'll be able to choose a voice from our extensive library that closely resembles your son's. We can even create an accurate 3D model of Chris that can utilize facial expressions and body language for a more natural interaction. In order to do our best job, we'll need to ask you extensive questions about your son. Are you comfortable discussing his passing?"
Gloria had permanently pursed lips, it seemed, and it made her intimidating on a level that a man would not be able to achieve. Still she nodded and said yes.
"Chris was the adventurous sort," she began. "He put himself into everything he did, whether it was art projects or kayaking. Most recently, he had been going on long hikes in order to meditate in nature. It was something he decided to do on his thirtieth birthday as a sort of early mid-life crisis. His accident occurred during one of his more ambitious treks into the Andes. He didn't come home when we expected him to and so we arranged a search and rescue. We found him critically injured, but still alive. It appears that he slipped into a sort of ravine and must have lost his footing, hitting the back of his skull on some stone. They airlifted him out of the mountains and took him to the best head trauma facility on the globe."
"Goodness," Dr. Hummregh hummed. "How long was Chris in a coma?"
"About two weeks," the begrieved mother replied. "The doctor said that we could wait one more week before Chris would certainly die, but he said brain damage was certain. I know my son. I know what kind of life he wanted to live. Once he lost his ability to live that way, I'm sure he would have wanted an easy end." She was crying without sobs, thin trails of tears running down to her wrinkled chin.
"You did the merciful thing," the mortician assured her. "Who knows what kind of discomfort he was already in as it was."
"Exactly," Gloria replied. She dabbed the corner of her eyes with the hem of her sleeve. "It's terrible and it's hard, but I know deep down that I did the right thing."
"Without doubt."
"Anyway, when I told the doctor my decision, he told me that our platinum level health accommodation would cover an installation of Chris's personality," she explained. "The copay was enormous, but we are quite well off."
Dr. Hummregh smirked. "You wouldn't be here if you weren't," he reminded her.
"They hooked Chris up to this brain monitor device for about four hours, and then we pulled the plug," Gloria continued. "That was the last time I saw my son. Connected to that -- that web of wires."
"That was the neuroscoptic recorder," Dr. Hummregh said. "Only the best hospitals have them available. Luckily, doctors are skilled enough to take advantage of the window before the brain is too damaged to record. The regulations on such a device are complicated; the physician has to know for certain that the recorded subject will expire within a certain amount of time or they risk losing their licenses."
"Interesting," Gloria replied with fatigued eyes. It was clear that she was not really interested.
"You don't care for the details on the installation process, do you, ma'am?" Dr. Hummregh asked.
"No," the mother answered. "I only care about speaking to my son again."
"Well," the mortician continued, "it's a rather simple process. My team just needs to reassemble Chris's electrical data into a series of coding that can be interacted with. This used to take some time, but over the years we have developed algorithms that make it a painless procedure. You should be speaking to your son sometime tomorrow morning. Are there any questions you have for me? Your son's I.I. will include a demo video that will teach you everything you need to know to keep your son alive, theoretically, forever."
"Only one question," Gloria answered. "How much do I owe you?"
“Mother?” the voice emanated from the speakers. “Mom, is that you?”
“Chris?” Gloria replied. Tears welled up into her eyes no matter how much she had braced for this moment. “Chris, sweetie, it’s me. It’s your mama, sweet boy.”
“Where am I?” Chris asked. His digital avatar bore a confused expression. His eyes seemed to look to and fro in an attempt to understand his surroundings.
“You had an accident, Chris,” his mother explained. “You got hurt real bad, but you’re back home now. You’re healing, my sweetheart.”
“I slipped,” Chris said in a thoughtful tone. “I remember falling over a ridge. My knee got scraped up on the way down, and that’s the last thing that comes to me. I must have hit my head.”
“You did, but nothing the doctor couldn’t fix up,” Gloria replied. After a moment of brief silence in which electronic eyes stared deep into aging ones, she couldn’t restrain herself anymore. “It’s so good to see you, son. I was so worried I would never get to see your face again.”
“It’s okay, Mom. I feel fine now,” the digital voice said. Then he gave an awkward chuckle. “I don’t think I’ll be going on any hikes for a while. Or, I’ll get myself a helmet.”
Gloria beamed, her vision blurred by her emotion. “I think that’s a good idea,” she said.
“Welcome back,” a soothing, yet gruff voice reached through to Chris. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Can you see me?”
“Yes.”
The voice had come from a short, wide physician with tufts of black hair encircling his balding scalp. His eyes were magnified by the thickness of his glasses, which he must have chosen to wear at some point in his life rather than get the standard corrective lasik. He had a warmth about him that seemed similar to that of inspired teachers or loving uncles. He wore a white doctor’s coat, and above the pocket was embroidered “Dr. Harris.”
“How do you feel?” he asked his patient.
“Like I’ve been hit by a train,” Chris replied, groaning as he strained to sit upright.
The doctor gestured at him to remain laying and he obeyed.
“Do you know what happened to me?” Chris asked.
“You received a tremendous amount of blunt trauma to the back of your skull, which caused substantial damage to your cerebellum, brain stem, and spinal cord,” Dr. Harris answered. “You were unable to breathe on your own when you arrived, and just before you slipped into your coma we had to use electronic equipment to continue beating your heart. For all intents and purposes, my friend, you died.”
“Then, how am I here?” Chris wanted to know. “What happened?”
“There’s a point that doctors call the “P.O.N.R.,” or the Point Of No Return,” Dr. Harris started. “It used to be that physicians had no way of being
