Synthetics (9 page)

I was still standing. I couldn’t even look Sasha in the eyes.

“I’m sorry Doctor Neumann,” I said, “Thank you for everything.”

“It’s fine boy. I wish you success in whatever path you take. Just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Care.”

“About?”

“Just care. That is all.”

I paused before leaving. “I have a question.”

“Fire away,” said Sasha, folding his hands on his lap.

They were wrapped in a tartan blanket.

“Why don’t you just ask for volunteers? Hundreds of people would be willing to become like… Frederick.”

Sasha looked at Frederick.

“We don’t want fanatics Fletcher. I never trust passionate men. Anyone willing to volunteer outright is not suitable. They must fully understand what they are getting themselves into.”

“So why was I chosen then?” I asked, “Cole said that hundreds of people aced that test.”

Sasha bit his lip and pointed to my cane.

“You understand limitations,” he said.

So I was chosen because I was pathetic enough. Yay for limpy old staggers.

“And you chose Kate because she was family?”

“I chose Kate because I know her. She has a good heart.”

“And Stuart?”

“I don’t think I am at liberty to discuss Stuart.”

I nodded and took a deep breath. “Sasha, I have something to tell you. Kate and I are getting…”

My phone started to ring. It was Kate.

“I gotta take this sorry.”

Sasha waved his hand, “Go ahead.”

I left Sasha’s office.

“Kate,” I said, “It’s good to hear…”

“This is Margaret, Fletcher, Kate’s Gran. Something’s happened to Kate.”

I suddenly felt nauseous.

“I’m coming right away.”

Chapter 12

White and blue, that was the hospital in two words. I limped down a hall, following the lines, looking for ward seven. I found myself not wanting to find it. Stopping at a vending machine, I discovered I had forgotten my wallet. I then stopped at a water cooler and got a drink. I stood still while finishing my cup and then placed it gently in the garbage can. I started walking again. Everyone looked so purposeful.

Finally I found the ward, paused, took a step forward, paused, and then entered.

Five people were clustered around a bed. Two doctors, a nurse and Kate’s grandparents turned to me as I entered.

“I'm Roy, Kate’s Grandfather. We finally meet.”

It was not quite how I'd imagined meeting her Grandfather. Like most people in Washington he smiled with his mouth but not his eyes. He wore dress pants and a shirt with the top buttons undone; a tie was dangling from his pocket. He was wearing socks with no shoes. Why wasn’t he wearing shoes?

“Fletcher,” I said, “Pleased to meet you.”

We shook hands. He had a soft handshake. Clammy.

“Something’s happened to Kate...”

Roy took a step back, opening the way to a hospital bed.

Thanks for that, Sherlock.

Flowers, a toy giraffe, cards with rainbows, and in the middle of it all lay Kate. There were so many tubes and cables. Her chest rose and fell softly. Lethargically. She wasn't smiling. Her hands lay at her side, palms pleading with the roof. Margaret was sobbing quietly.

“She passed away this morning,” Roy said softly.

I looked at him. I think I had already ceased to show any emotional responses on my facial features. I'd learnt to do that when I was little. Helped me cope. Zone out... Distance is good.

“She's breathing,” I said flatly, “The things beeping.”

A doctor stepped forward and Roy nodded to him.

“My name is Doctor Porter.” He swallowed and started clicking a pen. “Kate has been diagnosed with malignant astrocytic glioma; a tumor, which is highly aggressive. She was...”

“Can you just speak English,” I said.

“I’m sorry. At three in the morning she was admitted into the hospital, suffering from severe migraines. There must have been complications with the blood-brain barrier. Perhaps we misdiagnosed when she was admitted, but it turned out to be a grade four glioblastoma. She suffered a brain hemorrhage this morning and was declared brain dead. She is now on life support.”

“Why?” I asked.

I was in a dream. Everything was vague and my vision was blurry. Roy rose from his chair and stood next to me.

“The baby, it’s still alive.”

I nodded slowly.

“We were going to get married,” I said, “Get a house together.”

I blinked hard. This was a joke. I turned around and walked... limped from the room. They didn't come after me. I had to get away. Not to think. Just to get away. She was still breathing.

***

Roy found me on a seat just down the hall. He didn't say a word but sat down next to me. We must have sat there in silence for at least ten minutes before he spoke.

“She used to try and play rugby with her cousins when she was little. They were twice her size but she'd still try.”

I looked up to see he was looking down. His hands were white from grasping the arms of his seat.

“One day Robert, her eldest cousin, tackled her and broke her collarbone. I remember driving her to accident and emergency, tears streaming down her six year old face. After she had got a sling she stopped crying and told me. 'I only cried because he was offside when he tackled me.'”

He wouldn't let go of the arms of the chair. “That's always been Kate, a strong spirit and a good heart.

I still couldn't speak. Roy released his grip on the chair, straightened up and put his hand on my shoulder.

“You’re a good boy Fletcher,” he said, “I’ve never seen Kate as happy as these past few weeks. She loved you.”

I looked at him, blinked hard, and then buried my head in my hands.

***

I looked up to notice Doctor Porter standing over me. Roy was gone. I don’t know how long the Doctor had been standing there.

“We need you to come sign some forms if you're ready.”

I followed him down the hall, behind a counter and into a room. He sat me down beside a desk and gave me a pen.

“Here’s how it is.”

He crinkled his nose and sneezed.

“Beg your pardon. We would have delivered the baby by a cesarean section but its lungs aren't fully developed. We need to keep the baby waiting for another few days while the steroids do their job.”

I wasn't really listening.

“We were going to get a dog.”

I said it dumbly, like a preschooler.

“I should have stayed with her instead of going back to Washington. I should have stayed with her.”

“May I continue?”

“Shoot.”

“As you are the sole remaining parent, the decision is all yours.”

“What decision?”

“You may simply remove Kate from life support...”

“And forget this ever happened?”

I was scared that if I saw a mirror I might have seen excitement in my eyes at that moment.

“And subsequently terminating the pregnancy, yes. Or we proceed with the treatment…”

“Yeah I get it.”

Doctor Porter handed me two forms.

“Do you want some privacy?”

“No,” I replied, “I'm done.”

As I scribbled my signature on the dotted line I couldn't help thinking that I couldn’t picture her face, just her eyes.

I cried again, wrote a note for the doctor to give to Roy, and then left.

***

“What have you done?” said Roy, running to catch up with me. My taxi was waiting.

“I’m sorry Roy,” I replied, “But I cannot be a father. Please, never try to contact me.”

“Are you sure you can do this to your own child?” said Roy.

I didn’t reply but just took one last look at him and entered the taxi. He still wasn’t wearing any shoes. I told the taxi driver to take me to CANA. It was the only place I felt I could go. As I sat in the back, staring out the window a single thought permeated my mind.

We were both interns at CANA, the most advanced center for neurology and cognitive research, and then this happened; a sudden and unexplained brain hemorrhage.

What are the odds?

***

“You killed her.”

I stood in Sasha’s office. He was going over some paperwork with Cole when I barged in.

“Perhaps I should leave,” said Cole.

“What are you talking about?” said Sasha, from his chair.

His breathing was loud, while Frederick stood silently at his side. The door shut behind Cole with a bang.

“You killed Kate,” I said, “You must have guessed I was about to leave so you…”

The cadence of my voice was flat and emotionless.

“Kate is dead?” gasped Sasha, “But she is with Roy and Margaret.”

He got to his feet, but was forced back down by a fit of coughing.

“You killed her,” I said again.

“How dare you,” said Sasha, between breathes. “How dare you tell me that my niece is dead and then say that I…”

He bent over double as another wave of coughing rippled through his body. He shivered. It was an old man shiver, which traversed the entirety of his body.

“How dare you,” he said again, “Get out.”

He pointed his finger to the door without looking up. I didn’t move.

“Get out!” he screamed.

I had never seen him raise his voice before. I left without another word.

***

That night I sent the ring to Mister and Missus Sanders and packed up everything I owned into boxes. I then went out and got drunk.

***

The next day I went to Sasha’s office again, but his receptionist told me he was too ill to see me.

“Can you ring him for me?” I asked.

“I can try.”

The receptionist dialed and then said a few hushed words on the phone before handing it over.

“Hello.”

“It’s me,” I said, “Fletcher.”

All I could hear was his ragged breathing.

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

“It is okay boy. Grief does that. You two must have been close?”

He really had no idea. Why hadn’t Cole told him?

“Yeah,” I said, “We were engaged. We were going to get married.”

Sasha coughed away from the phone. “I forced this upon you didn’t I?” he said, “You felt you had to keep it a secret, because you knew of my hopes for both of you. Neither you nor Kate should have had to leave under such circumstances. I should have been more transparent. I have spoken with Roy and Margaret. The funeral is this Friday.”

“I’m not going,” I said.

“But Fletcher…”

“I’m not going Sasha. I can’t. I rang to tell you that I’ll do it. I’ll be integrated. I will become like Frederick. For her.”

“No,” said Sasha.

“Why not? It’s what you wanted.”

“But it is not how I wanted. You sound like you are trying to declare war on death.”

“But now I want this Sasha, more than anything. Please.”

“Wait a month and then decide again. If you still want to then we’ll do it.”

“Thank you.”

I handed the phone back to the receptionist. In the United States alone there are over 1500 cancer related deaths a day. She was a victim of the statistics.

It'd be like starting again. I'd get a new identity. I'd worn fake personalities my whole life, so why not a fake body?

Part 2- Death

Chapter 13

I can see colours you could never imagine.

I woke, if that is the correct term, to darkness and numbness- black lethargy and white gasping. I tried to breath, numbness. I tried to open my mouth, numbness. I tried to talk.

“Help...”

It worked, I think. Perhaps it didn’t.

“Help…”

With that word the oddest memory lodged itself in my mind, nostalgia born of regret. Mild regret. Nothing major.

I saw, I really did see, crystal clear; I saw a wide expanse of grass bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. I saw through my eyes. I looked down from the branch of a bowing gum tree. There was a line of about twenty forming a windbreak- weary, majestic. A barbed wire fence ran out behind me. On my left was a gap-toothed boy with freckles like a cheetah. We were carving our names into the bark with pieces of sharp slate. A quad bike was parked in front of a round corrugated iron barn in the distance.

“Do you boys need help getting down from there?”

A man in blue overalls and red-toed gumboots gazed up at us. I liked the way he blinked. The sun was in his eyes.

“You're such a muppet Fletcher. I bet, secretly you've read Pride and Prejudice like twenty times.”

Darkness. Again. It was oddly pleasant, like conscious sleep. I felt a tingle drift about my senses.

“Fletcher can you hear me?”

“Kate? I... I thought you were...”

“Fletcher can you hear me?”

“Kate? I... I'm so sorry... I didn’t want…”

“Fletcher... Can you hear me?”

I realized I wasn't speaking. I found my mouth would not move. It was like stone. How do you speak through stone?

“Fletcher? Cole, are you sure you sorted out his...”

“Sasha?”

My mouth may not have moved but I consciously formed the word. I remembered each formation of the lips which would produce the desired consonant and which contortion of the mouth produced the needed vowels. I did not enjoy it. It felt like I was speaking through granite.

“Fletcher, yes it’s Sasha. Welcome back. Not long now.”

I went back to sleep, if that is the correct term. It was nice. I like sleep.

***

I had written my parents a letter. It seemed more dramatic that way. I should have called, but I knew that hearing my mother banter on about the new neighbors and the latest gossip would change my mind. She would talk about small things, miniature problems like one of the cats getting stuck on the roof, or how our cousin was having trouble finding work. Beauty is small and unassuming; just like my mother.

My father was not small. He was rugged, with calloused hands and a fiery temper.  At the farm a bull once charged me when I strayed into its paddock. My father beat it off with a fencepost he ripped from the ground.

I wished I had thought of them more. It was too late now.

***

“I don’t want my parents to know. I don’t want anyone to know.”

It was Cole who responded. “Why?”

“They won’t...” I stopped talking. Tired.

“What should we tell them?” Cole's voice was flat.

“Plane crash.” I thought of mum. I got emanations. Nothing tangible.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Pain fades. People forget.

“It’s probably safer this way,” said Cole, “Safer for your family. It will be hard on them though, to think you are dead.”

“I am dead.”

“You’re more alive than ever,” It was Sasha's voice. Warm.

“One of me is dead,” I said, “I’m new.”

“You are new,” said Sasha.

***

The months blew by like a plastic bag caught in a hurricane. I went through rehabilitation, as Cole called it, which consisted of me regaining my faculties and undergoing psychological assessments. I kept getting the feeling that no one expected me to get through the transformation without some form of mental implications. When I first saw myself I started to realise why.

I was walking around the halls of CANA with Cole. He never caught me when I stumbled; I was too fat so he told me. He had an odd way of attempting to lighten the mood.

“So I'm kind of like the Six Million Dollar Man then?” I asked Cole.

“No you're not, you are worth much more.” More sad humor. “Should we take a walk in the courtyard? The azaleas are blooming.”

As I stepped outside for the first time since the 'integration' I was still expecting the kiss of the sun's warmth on my face. It didn't kiss me. It didn’t even hug or at least try to appear happy to see me. I was aware of the temperature increase but it was no longer a sensory awareness. I just knew.

It may sound silly but up until then I had been too frightened to examine my hands. They stayed at my side. My head focused directly ahead. I avoided mirrors and metallic surfaces.

We sat on a bench beside a meticulously tended garden. Tentatively, I raised my hand to touch a pink azalea's petals. I cringed mentally when the limb entered my peripheries. My hand resembled a knight's gauntlet. It looked almost black with silver filigree spiraling about my fingers.

“With all those billions...” I stopped, stuck. My hand halted before the flower. “With all your money, you couldn't make me appear human? Why do I look like a toy soldier?”

“Fletcher, you are not human any more. You are much more. We could have made you appear human but we need humanity to see the future. You, Fletcher, are the future. Perfection.” He paused and put on a pair of aviator sunglasses, “Your basic form is still the same. Hopefully it creates empathy.”

I didn't know how to react. I thought I could start again. Perhaps this was the best kind of start. I was the first of a new species; well second counting Frederick. I finally grasped the azalea's delicate petal between my thumb and forefinger and plucked it from the flower. I held it up to my eye and then let it fall into the palm of my hand. It was not bruised or blemished.

“So why aren't you like me?” I asked.

Cole scuffed the ground with his left foot. “Perhaps one day. But right now my place is here, assisting the integrations.”

“Where is my place?”

“In the world's eye. Showing them that you are not something to be afraid of.”

I didn't respond. I didn't particularly like what I heard. Turning my head I caught a glimpse of myself in Cole's aviators. Gleaming obsidian eyes set in a featureless face. The basic form was the same, I had just lost all the little parts that made me human.

That said, I was beautiful.

***

“Ever wanted to meet the president Fletcher?” Sasha's voice crackled over the phone.

“I... I've...”

I assumed that meeting the President of the United States is a big deal and acted accordingly.

“Well don't get your hopes up.” Sasha laughed or attempted to. “I am arranging a meeting between you and the Secretary of Homeland Security.”

I wasn’t surprised. I still remembered my undignified scuffle with Agent Jones. I didn't know who this guy was but judging from the tone of Sasha's voice he was one of the big men of America.

“He wants to know if we are a threat. Please try not to act like a psychopath around him. Use a bit of your Kiwi charm.”

“Ok.”

Enough said.

“How are you holding up Fletcher?”

“Good.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m fine.”

It might sound bad, but I was fine. I was already becoming as cold and unfeeling as the metal skin that encapsulated me.

I mean that in a good way.

***

The Secretary's office was symmetrical. Oddly so. I had navigated numerous security checks, passing through a vestibule oozing suave from its velvet couches and into a central atrium. You could see all the fifteen floors from the base of a tired old plaque in the center.

I had expected men in black suits with little earpieces and slick sunglasses. I got a Kevlar clad armed offender platoon packing nothing less than fifty caliber. They weren't taking chances with me.

I'm pretty much just a kid. What the hell am I doing here?

We took an elevator up to the twelfth floor and I was marched down a corridor by four men. I was easily a foot taller than any of them. I got that schoolyard pride. Shame shorties. I contemplated poking my tongue out. Then I realized I didn’t have a tongue.

At the end of the hall stood two massive oak doors lurking behind a flat faced, scrubbed up hobo in a fastidiously fitted suit. His facial hair was his most impressive feature. Must be a southern boy.

“Fletcher?” He said offering his hand.

I took it. Cautiously. Careful not to harm his fragile pink skin. Agent Jones was at his side. Jones looked wide-eyed and sweaty. His bald head gleamed. I don’t think he realized who I was.

“My name is Kevin Cosworth. I’ve heard lots about you.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you Secretary Cosworth. I haven’t heard much about you.”

The Secretary looked mildly surprised. “I had not expected you to sound so human.”

“I’m working at the moment,” I said, “Not much time for terrorizing the innocents. A monsters gotta earn his way just like everyone else Secretary Cosworth.”

He laughed hesitantly. I should be slipping into an imperiously self-assured demeanor. They need to see me as an exemplar of sentience. So Sasha had drilled into me.

“Well Fletcher, you may call me Kevin.” His eyes changed. The pupils dilated as he squinted. “Are you going to kill me?”

What the hell are you on boy?

“Of course not. I apologize if I seem intimidating.”

Kevin shrugged and opened a door.

“Come in.” When his bodyguards tried to follow, he held up his hand and said, “Please give us some privacy.”

The Secretary's office was boring. Books, mainly biographies, and little statuettes lined the shelves that picketed the room. A coffee mug with three smiling children and the words 'Grumpy Gramps' took pride of place on his desk. He didn't sit at his desk but opposite me on one of two armchairs.

“Sit.”

He motioned with his hand towards the cookie coloured armchair.

I sat. The secretary, Kevin, was balding just like Agent Jones. It must be the stress. I wondered if he used buffer on his scalp. It gleamed like a crystal ball, reflecting the sunlight from the window behind his desk.

“Firstly,” said Kevin, cupping his hands, “Why am I not talking to Doctor Neumann?”

I'd rehearsed this. The lines were written on my eyelids- figuratively of course.

“Sasha thought it would be best if you saw this firsthand.” I paused for effect. “To demonstrate that I am just a normal guy, devoid of death.” I contemplated repeating the line for emphasis. I didn't. Kevin didn't give me a chance.

“Who are you Fletcher?”

Of all the questions to ask.

“Well you’ve been having me followed lately so I thought you would know.”

“That’s not what I mean,” said the Secretary, “Who are you?”

“Do you mean who was I? Or who am I?”

I thought I detected concern in Kevin's eyes.

His brow furrowed. “I was hoping there would be no difference.”

“I... I'm...” I had stuffed that up nicely. “I'm a twenty year old Kiwi from Otorohanga. I went to…” I stopped when I tasted the lie on my lips. Figuratively again. There was a difference.

An entire reality separated me from me.

“Do you feel emotion?”

“Yes,” I said.

“What did you last feel?”

This interview was supposed to be about CANA and it's mission statement. Kevin was a giant douchebag in my opinion.

“It is a simple enough question.” He looked smug. Though I knew I was plastering emotions to his dispassionate visage.

What do I tell him? The black loss? The red pain? The white realization? The gray confusion?

“Fear,” I said at last, “Fear and regret.”

Kevin smiled. Not a victorious smile, a sympathetic smile.

“What do you regret Fletcher?”

I did not reply so the Secretary continued.

“At least you have convinced me that you are still human.”

We talked for two hours. About football and skiing and school.

It felt good.