Perfect Flaw (10 page)

I wandered back to the break room and looked out the window at the steady rain. I should leave too. I could walk out into the pouring rain and just keep walking. I hadn’t stolen anything from them, except the clothes on my back. I didn’t keep my crappy clothes from my old life. Would they come after me for a white shirt and pants? White shoes? Probably. I couldn’t go home. They knew where I lived, where my family lived.

They used us. I suppose that if you spread the suffering out enough, no one would notice, except sometimes something went wrong. Like Miss. Marie. I wondered if my extra pay ever made it to my family at all. Maybe there was no extra pay for me at all, or Julia, or Irena, or Claire. For some reason this made me the angry, when nothing else did.

The red light sprung to life in the break room. Everyone jumped and turned to stare at it. A buzzing filled the room and the intercom crackled to life.

“Doctor Clemens, please come to Miss Marie’s room immediately.”

The nurses and Medical Assistants turned to look at me. They watched me take a last sip of my coffee and they watched as I walked out of the room. I paused to cough into my elbow. Miss Marie’s room was in chaos. Three nurses were around her bed. She was having some kind of seizure and Doctor Clemens was injecting something clear into her IV. Someone had knocked one of the flowers off the windowsill. The vase was broken across the floor and the daisies had been crushed underfoot. I worried that someone might slip in the water, but I didn’t go for the mop. I closed the door softly behind me.

Doctor Clemens looked up as Miss Marie stilled on the bed. “Ah. Miss. Please come in. We need your help.” He raised his hand to take my arm, to guide me into the room.

“I know.” I said. Doctor Clemens stopped and looked at me with his small, wet eyes. He looked at me for a long time.

“You know?” He repeated. The nurses slowed and looked over their shoulders at us. They looked afraid.

I knew the empty bed was just to my right, with its port and its machines like hungry infants. I could still walk into the rain. I could walk into the other room and scream until the windows broke and the foundation shook. I could take a needle from the tray and stab the doctor in the eye. I could. I could do any of these things. I am powerful. I am so much more powerful than them, the pathetic doctor and nurses, looking at me like I am poisonous or explosive. I have defeated the army of secrets and death. My mind is clear and powerful.

“Yes.” I say.

FIRST HEAD

BY H.S. DONNELLY

Murmur ... Four more CC’s ... Mr. Kamil? ... He is doing fine ... Yes, increase the levels ... Mr. Tilson? ... No, same schedule ... Yes, Doctor
...

Senses dull, fuzzy. Temples throb faintly. Tongue feels like a lump of liver; teeth (lifting tongue up to touch them) are clean, freshly scrubbed; throat—
hack-hack
—raw.

In the background, a ‘
throb-throb-throb
’
vibration. Eyes open warily. Dimly lit room. Vague, oval shapes on a row of night tables opposite. “Huhhh—” he utters hoarsely.

Swuck
—Light.

To the left, double doors slide open. Man clothed in glowing white fabric enters silently. Weird blue-white globe hovers over him. White Ghost stops at the first table, bends down, then straightens up and moves to the next table, and the next, and—

“Uhggg!” A row of severed heads! All along the opposite wall.

Pad, pad, pad
.
White Ghost stops in front of him. “Ohhh, you’re the one. Time for some extra juice.” He peers down at him and double-clicks on something. “There, better?”

“Uhggg.” Tingle of relaxation spreads from the back of his head. The horror recedes.

“Happy days, bud,” White Ghost whispers. “You’re alive now.”

“Uhggg?”

But White Ghost has vanished.

***

Awake.

“Uhaaa!” An object is stuck in his throat.

“Shhh!”

He stops.

The object retreats and, now he can see a man standing in front of him holding a metallic device. “There. That takes care of the Vocalotomy,” the man says. The fellow, white shirt, black curly hair, places the object onto a tray to the left and then picks up a green rectangular pane of glass and taps on it.

Click
,
then
wheeze
—A breath of air comes in through his nose, stops and then—
Wheeze
—reverses. Odd sensation, yet everything still feels ... detached.

“Okay,” Curly Hair looks at him, “do you remember your name? Blink once for ‘Yes’ and twice for ‘No’.”

Wheeze ... Name? Strange, he should know that. But everything—Wheeze—feels vague, lost.

“Do you know your name? Once for ‘Yes’; twice for ‘No’.”

Timidly, he blinks twice.

“Do you remember your past life?”

His
past life
?
Okay, he woke up to those ghastly severed heads. And before that there was ... nothing. Frustration and fear. Two quick blinks.

“Good,” Curly Hair continues. “Okay, let me explain.” He looks down at his tablet device and begins, ”You’ve been successfully revived, so welcome to your Second Life.”

“Uhaaa—” Second Life?

“I’m your Revivologist, Doctor Huter. And your name is Jim Tilson.”

Jim Tilson
?
Pause. Is that right?

“You died three hundred and fifty years ago.”

“Uhaaa?” Died? God, he thinks, blinking rapidly, what sort of place is this?

“Don’t worry.” Dr. Huter looks up at him. “Normally you’d prepare for your re-awakening as part of your prior life. But you are so old, standard preparation protocols were not in place when you were interned. Fortunately, however, they were smart enough to perform a decapitation.”

“Uhaaa?” My God! Those heads!

“Please, Mr. Tilson. Decapitation is a standard procedure.” Dr. Huter returns to his green tablet. “Your life functions are now being maintained via tubes that draw nutrients from the reservoir tanks in your Head Cart.”

Head Cart, Jim wonders, looking down. He can just see the black edge of—gulp—
his
table top. He imagines the tubes below him throbbing like arteries. And what if—No, he doesn’t want to think about that.

“Now that you’ve been stabilized, we’ll begin your evaluation process to determine your future net worth to society. Assuming a favorable outcome, you then move on to be re-attached to one of the headless bodies that are grown on our body farms.”

Headless
?

More taps. “Final activity for today is for you to review your prior life. Life Catalogue on,” Dr. Huter calls.

A square of blue words, J
im Tilson. First Life
, floats in front of him—

Beep! Beep!

Dr. Huter touches his tablet device. “Yes, I’m just about finished here. I’ll be there in two minutes.” He looks back over to Jim. “You can do this yourself. Just make a sound to activate things. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Prickles go up Jim’s neck as he watches Dr. Huter leave. God, he thinks and puckers his lips as air starts wheezing out. Quiet now, save for some clinks and shuffles coming in from the hall outside. The blue words hang there waiting.

“Uhaaa,” he squeezes out when an exhale comes.

The title vanishes, replaced by a block of words:

Jim Tilson
:
Never married. No descendants
.

Revival Rating
:
Restricted revival classification
.

Potential emotional problems
.

Current Status
:
Revived via investigative protocol
.

Life Items
:
Item One: Revivology History
.

“Uhaaa.”

Item One: Revivology History.

Underwent vitrification. Pioneer client of Revivology
.

“Uhaaa.”

No more words.

***

Sunlight through the window.

Birds chirp.

Morning? No idea.

From the hall come faint noises of people talking mixed with odd knocks and clinks. Underneath, the machinery gurgles.

Strange not knowing what time it is. Or who he was.

Jim Tilson
, he tries again. It still doesn’t feel right. Edginess creeps into his jaw muscles.

Huh?

A man stands motionless by the door. The fellow is average in height and build. Short brown hair. Healthy pinkish complexion. Brown jacket and pants. Tan colored open collar shirt. Staring outward at nothing.

“Hu—llo,” Jim tries.

No response.

Once more, “Hu—llo.”

Nothing.

Footsteps.

“Mr. Tilson,” Dr. Huter sweeps in. “How is your voice today?”

“B-heh-ter,” he manages.

“Wonderful. You’re making excellent progress. Today you get your own Personal Robot Assistant, or P.R.A.” He points towards the man in the corner. “He will be your ‘legs’ for the next little while. And the first thing we’re going to have him do today is take you to your Indoctrination Session. Do you have a name you’d like to call him?”

Name? He tries to remember some names. Come on, think! Think!

“Okay, maybe we’ll call him ‘Bob’,” Dr. Huter says. “Control, initialize P.R.A. to client Jim Tilson with I.D. ‘Bob’.”

The robot straightens to attention.

“Good. Bob, come here.”

Robot Bob’s body emits a soft hum, rotates and then turns and faces Jim.

“Bob, say hello to Jim Tilson.”

“Hello Jim Tilson.” Robot Bob echoes and smiles.

“Good, Bob. Now take Mr. Tilson to the Indoctrination Session.” He glances towards Jim. “You’re coming along quite nicely, Mr. Tilson.”

“G—hood.” Jim tries to sound confident as Rob-o-Bob steps behind him and starts unhooking various unseen connections.

Dr. Huter frowns as Rob-o-Bob turns him around and heads towards the door.

***

P.R.As and Heads roll through the door ahead of Jim. The Head in front of him appears normal with smooth olive-colored skin and short, thick black hair. But the next one has pale skin with blotches and almost no hair. God, he hopes he looks better than that.

The other P.R.A.s are like Rob-o-Bob, from height and slim build to the measured way they walk. Half have the same brown jackets and pants, while the rest sport longer female-looking long hair and curves. Most have olive colored skin, though a few have black or pinkish-white pigment.

The room opens up into a great semi-circle with white curving walls that arch together. The blue carpeted floor slopes downwards towards a stage lit by floodlights ringing the perimeter.

He feels a slight bump as Rob-o-Bob maneuvers the Head Cart into a set of metal rails recessed into the carpet.

Click–Click

From behind, Rob-o-Bob announces, “Head Cart anchored.” —
Swuck
—Then, “Replenishment tubes re-connected.” Then, “Jim Tilson, do you require anything?”

“W-a-ter?” He’s not thirsty; just craves the sensation of cool water in his mouth.

Click—Click

A water bottle appears with a drinking tube hovering near his lips. He snags it and awkwardly sucks at it with his cheeks. Water, fresh, wonderful water, gushes into his mouth. He swallows,

Whirrrr

Does it matter that some little pump evacuates the water from the bottom of his neck into some sort of receptacle? No, water in his mouth still feels good. Finally he releases the tube and Rob-o-Bob withdraws the bottle.

“Jim Tilson, do you require anything?”

“N-oo.” He feels the last bit of liquid in his mouth. Good Rob-o-Bob, he thinks.

“Shutting down,” and the faint hum from Rob-o-Bob is gone.

Sweet dreams, Rob-o-Bob.

Whispers and clicks drift over. Three dozen other Heads sit clamped onto their carts facing the stage with their P.R.A.’s standing motionless behind them.

“Oh, hi! How you doing,” a chirpy man’s voice asks.

To his left, Jim can make out a vague shape. “F—ine.”

“Name’s Steve.”

“J-im.”

“Still getting your voice back?”

“Y-ah.”

“You’ll be good in a couple of days. So what revival is this for you?”

“W-un.”

“Ohhh! Must be pretty exciting, eh?”

“Yeah,” The real answer is much longer, but saying, ‘Y-ah’ is easier.

“Better than being frozen, eh?”

“Y-ah,” Feels good to talk to someone.

Suddenly there is a muffled Thump – Sloosh noise off to the left. Ahead, two rows up and three over, a replenishment tube from a Head Cart snakes free and sprays a stream of brownish-red liquid into the air and then onto the carpet.

“Help, help,” a female voice shouts, terror creeping into her voice.

“Leak! Leak!” The cry echoes around the room.

As the liquid sprays onto the carpet, her P.R.A. revives, grabs the tube and reconnects it. A human female dashes over. “Sweet Fotheringham,” she exclaims as she unconnects the floor tubes, reconnects her Head Cart tubes and then quickly pushes her towards an exit. The P.R.A. strides after.

Mutters echo around the room.

“Okay, everything’s under control, people!” a tall man wearing a dark sports jacket announces, stretching his arm up in the air. Some cheery background music fills the air. Two other humans with little vacuums move in and clean up the carpet.

“Wh-aaa a—bout my t-ubes?” Jim asks. He can see them throbbing away, just waiting to burst.

“Don’t worry, she could have leaked for five minutes before anything serious happened.”

Is she really all right, Jim wonders.

“This is my second.” Steve continues, “Originally I was frozen for thirty-two years; this time it was for fifty-two. Still don’t have hardly any frost damage. Boy, the first time, I was so nervous I wasn’t going to get a body!”

“
G-et a bo-dy
?”

“Yeah, you know?
Lots of Heads in the fridge, but only so many bodies
.
They revive you every so often just to check that you haven’t turned into a mush-ball. So there’s usually more heads than bodies.”

“M-ush b-all?”

“Sure. Cell damage from freezing and thawing. Sometimes happens when the antifreeze pools in a funny way.”

“Wh-aaa d-oes it f-eel l-ike—”

But the lights flicker, cutting off the rest of Jim’s question.

A thin man wearing a long flowing robe shuffles out to the center of the platform. He has a smooth bald head and hooked nose. Gold chains hang around his neck. He squints around the room, then clears his throat and begins, “Welcome to this Indoctrination Session. I’m Reverend Hancock, a minister in the Revivalist Religion.”

There are tongue-clicking sounds around the room.

“Thank you. I’m sure you’re all glad to see me.”

Scattered titters.

“Now, I would like to offer a short dedication to the very first revived Head, Ernest Fotheringham, beloved Green Grocer from Manchester, England.

“Lord, praise be Ernest Fotheringham for his courage and bravery. And thank you Lord for giving us His example, for giving us the miracle of Revivology that we all may indulge. Through Revivology, the promise of Eternal Life has been achieved. And Lord, give us the goodness to use our New Lives in ways that You would approve. And Lord, when, at last, all of our New Lives here on Earth are finished, make us welcome in Your House. Amen.”

“Amen.”

“Revivology,” Reverend Hancock continues, “is the final medical procedure. And through the evaluation process, we optimize the benefit to society by evaluating the net worth of each individual. All of us should every day ask of ourselves, ‘How can I best use this new life of mine?’”

More tongue clicking.

“Now I would like to conclude this short service with a hymn,
Lord Cherish My Body and Let Me Not Do Ill with It
.”

Lights dim. Soft soprano voices begin singing,

Oh Lord cleave my Head

From my Body so that

In the Eternal Fridge

I may dwell, Awaiting

That rapturous moment when
. . .

High above a dozen holographic Heads float, all singing the hymn. Faintly, voices around him join in. He moves his lips too, though he doesn’t know the words.