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Part Four: Terra Firma Redux

  52

  Within days of landing the crew scattered in many directions. There was no reason for their dysfunctional community to endure now that they were released from the confines of their airborne prison. Most chose to go on alone. There would be no nostalgic reunions although some unlikely pairings did survive.

  Mohammed was the first to leave. Within hours he was on a shuttle to Mumbai via Singapore where his family had prepared a seven-day festival to celebrate his return. Festivities culminated in the relaunch of the ship he and his brothers had coveted for almost a decade. The graceful one hundred ton teak dhow had been refitted and renamed SAALO and was ready for trade. Mohammed’s mother and sisters had selected a wife for him. Although he hadn't met the young woman a date had been set for the marriage feast. As head of the family Mohammed had a position to maintain and a duty to perform. He must have a wife.

  Whetu also found himself at a crossroads. The extraordinary conduct of his last mission had earned him rapid promotion. Within a year he could reach the rank of Commander if he wanted it. But there was no simple answer to Mariana, the flower of his dreams and source of endless despair. As with his quest for the Princess he seemed doomed to play the game out wherever it led.

  Life for Steve and Celine became a version of almost normal - mutual capitulation, earth-bound jobs, a boy and a girl. Although calm had settled over the ménage, at times like any survivor of extreme events Steve felt that something was absent from his life, something he could not put his finger on. From time to time he had to suppress an urge to run, from what he wasn’t sure. The only thing that made him stay was the sure knowledge that if he ran he ran to nothing.

  Kurt guided Buzz as far as Mumbai then disappeared never to be heard of again. Buzz sailed with Mohammed and his brothers on their maiden voyage to Kuwait and travelled onward by land. He never stopped immersing in the marvels of civilisations past and present, seeing only what he wished to see and disregarding the rest. He visited the Pyramid of Cheops, the holy city of Mecca, the remains of Paris, London and Rome, the leftovers of civilisations fallen from grace. He began compiling a travel journal for his countrymen to be published on his return home.

  A new bar opened in Turangi on the edge of the lake. In the Bar E'Kandah von Wittering spent his days in a room overlooking the water playing cards and swapping yarns in a small school of seasoned locals. He couldn't drink anymore since they confiscated his liver but after over-imbibing for three-quarters of a century he didn't need any more. He’d become absorbed in recollection and every day was another hand won as far as he was concerned. Above the bar in a wide screen television usually reserved for sport the last refugee of KOTUKU II took up residence. The Black Knight aka The Perilous Poet had been coaxed from his electronic domain on board the ship before it was broken up for scrap. Here he stood in warrior pose reciting lovelorn sonnets for anyone who paused to un-mute him. His voice remained powerful and his presence compelling but the poetry had not improved.

  53

  George arrived at the clinic on a Wednesday afternoon in early Spring little more than three months after his return to Earth. Three very trying months had passed, months of readjustment, of hopes raised, hopes dashed and rebuilt. His mother and sisters had been key players in the unfolding drama. His mother fainted when informed that the young woman standing before her was in fact her son, the apple of her eye. Still refusing to acknowledge the truth, in her more rational moments she would claim that her son’s brain had been abducted by aliens. Other times she blamed him for participating in an unnatural and deviant act, namely undergoing a sex change. Her moral principles were traditional and conservative.

  "How could you do this to me?" she constantly sobbed. "You've made me a laughing stock. How can I face my friends? How can I go out in public?"

  "But mum I didn't do it deliberately. It was an accident."

  "Thank god your father's not alive to see it. That's all I can say."

  "Mum, please. I was dead at the time, I had no part in the decision."

  “Better you had stayed dead than this.”

  She remained inconsolable and only through the intercession of his sisters was she dissuaded from bringing legal action against her son, Oceania Aero-Space, The United Nations, Celine and of course Steve who had been in command of what her lawyers labelled ‘the obscene event that had deprived her son of his manhood and the opportunity of an honourable death.’

  "That little Stevie, I never liked him. You never know where you are with foreigners."

  "It's not Steve's fault mum. And he's not a foreigner. He was born here same as you and me." In his present state this was technically a lie but his mother lacked the awareness to correct him.

  The sisters, both older than George but still living at home under their mother’s thumb had partially mollified her with the explanation that George was going to have an operation and everything would soon be back to normal. It would be as if nothing had ever happened.

  Added to George’s dilemma was the fervent resistance of Layla herself. They had discussed their combined and separate situations numerous ways but still could not reach agreement.

  "But the opportunity to be yourself again,” he had begged time and time again. “Don't you want that?"

  "The risk is great. What if it is not successful?"

  "Trust me the risk is insignificant. And it will be better for us to be separate and whole again."

  "Are you ashamed to be me?"

  "Of course not,” he lied. “But I am not you and you are not me. It will be better for both of us."

  Layla remained obdurate. "I cannot agree."

  Reconstruction of George’s damaged body had begun within hours of arrival back at Turangi Base. Celine had sent a full medical report in advance. A team from the Institute of Advanced Cryogenics was on standby to receive George’s frozen cadaver. Dr Marjorie Chan, the director of IAC was interested to take possession of a jar found by a clean-up crew in the back of Mohammed's fridge. Subsequent tests revealed that Layla’s brain was in a state of paralysis induced by the Khendi drug administered by her jilted lover Abou’ed. The brain had not died as presumed by the doctors at the Khadees Medical Academy. IAC scientists were working on an antidote in the belief that Layla’s brain could be returned to functioning fitness if hosted by a healthy body. The demi mort state of her brain might be reversible.

  Exhumation did not come cheap. After much legal wrangling Oceania Aero-Space’s insurance brokers had eventually agreed to pay for the reconstruction of one body, that of their employee Capt. George Thacker damaged while in the service of the company. It had been a long and complex process. Substitute organs had been grown from the Captain’s DNA and now after six weeks of internal, external and plastic surgery, rest and recuperation his rebuilt body was standing by to host his brain once more. George would be sedated and in ten days time all going well he would awake as himself again, mind and body.

  The proposed work on Layla would not be covered by OA-S insurance. George had undertaken to finance that himself. Her reanimated brain had undergone tests and had been passed fit for installation as soon as her cranial cavity was vacated. All going well after a period of recuperation they both would be free to go their own separate ways in good health and clear conscience. But still the issues between George and Layla had not been resolved. George liked to think they had reached a compromise but it was actually more a case of Layla withdrawing from the debate. George had taken her silence as tacit approval and now the day had arrived when it would all come to pass.

  However as George entered the foyer of the clinic he was troubled by misgivings. Now that the time had come he found himself wondering if he still wanted to go through with his side of the procedure. He had reservations about the risk he was voluntarily subjecting himself to. But also he had recently been feeling quite at home in his new body. There was no strain within him anymore now that Layla had accepted the situation a
nd relaxed her constant presence. He was free to be himself to be alone at last. So to willingly commit to major non-essential surgery was beginning to feel like a potentially disastrous and possibly superfluous course of action. On the other hand now that he was committed to the procedure maybe he no longer had a choice. His old self was standing by rebuilt and rejuvenated at huge cost to the company. Had it all gone too far to back away? He would have liked to talk it over with Layla but she was silent and could not be summoned. He missed their conversations. It would have been reassuring to discuss his feelings and doubts.

  During the months ashore George had kept himself dressed in loose fitting military coveralls to obscure his shape and had kept his hair cropped androgynous short. In addition today he wore dark glasses and a cap to emphasise masculinity but there must have been something in the way he looked or walked that made heads turn. He was used to that by now but was still disappointed that the young orderly who showed him to the consultation room called him miss and was openly appreciative of his appearance.

  The consultation room was vast bright white and bare with only a black metal desk and two matching chairs. The orderly left him alone to wait for the Director of the Institute, Dr Chan. George had not warmed to the diminutive surgeon on his first visit even though her credentials were perfectly sound. Chan herself was ample testimony to her clinic's success. She had begun life as William Jones but had always hated the body she was born and raised in. Jones became interested in surgery. He developed a revolutionary freeze/implant technique while failing to complete a veterinary degree. His first dozen or so clandestine experiments were encouraging failures.

  "The units we were working with were just too small," she told George in a voice that sounded as if it was coming from an uncorked bottle. "But as soon as we moved beyond mice bats pigeons and suchlike we had more success." She always spoke in the first person plural as if representing royalty.

  "The breakthrough came when we matched a chimpanzee donor brain with a bovine host. It was spectacular, a dream come true.” So encouraged was he by the experiment that Jones advanced his own as the first human donor brain. Bill Jones became Sally Jackson a reconstituted car crash victim. Since then the radical surgeon had passed through several incarnations - Georgio Valesquez, Anita Sokolovsky, Willy Ngoudu and finally the diminutive icy beauty, Marjorie Chan.

  "The only tragedy," she had said to George when they first discussed his case. "Is that your initial work was done by a butcher. Otherwise there might have been so many options open to you."

  "What kind of options?"

  "We might have explored the opportunity to enhance your brain function or augment your physical capacity in the category of your choice."

  "That's fine. I’m happy the way I am. Or rather the way I will be again," he added hastily.

  Chan narrowed her eyes appreciatively. "You know, I could get you a good price on your present shell if you change your mind about that." Her voice assumed a placid almost hypnotic tone that George found faintly sinister.

  "No thanks. We'll stick to our original arrangement."

  George would not be diverted. He had put in motion a chain of events that would have him recover his own body and Layla would be given back hers. But even at the first consultation he had felt uneasy. What he was proposing was ethically sound and yet to his mind it smelled of vampirism or something. But now money had changed hands, preparations were advanced and Marjorie Chan was without question the pioneer, the pre-eminent exponent in the field.

  “What could possibly go wrong?” he had murmured to himself.

  “Precisely.” Marjorie Chan had replied as if reading his mind.

  The consulting room door opened but instead of Dr Chan a pale white clad blond woman stepped into the room. She looked at George blankly.

  "Oh I'm sorry madam I was expecting a gentleman."

  George began to explain but she cut him off. "The name is Thacker, is that right?"

  "Yes."

  "Fine. Come with me then. The patient is in Recovery Seven."

  "Recovery?"

  "Yes, Recovery Seven this way please." She set off quickly so George had no choice but to follow. "He should be coming round by now. Hasn't said anything yet, might not be quite functional for a few more days."

  “Are you sure?” George caught up with her as she pushed open a door and gestured for him to enter. They were in a cube of glass, a transparent vestibule to the room beyond. It was a long narrow space, bland entirely and without character apart from a wall of glass at the far end. Near this window he could see an indistinct shape enveloped in a nest of tubes and wires and surrounded by a semi-circle of glowing tech trollies. Somewhere in there presumably was the patient he was being brought to visit.

  "Must remove shoes and put on sterile clothing before going in. Risk of infection." She threw George a pale blue robe slippers head cloth and mask. "One size fits all."

  "Who, why am I here?" George began but the doctor was already on the move.

  "Back in a minute." She disappeared into the corridor.

  George put on the robe and slippers pushed open the door and went through. Like all the other rooms at the clinic this one was bare and gleaming white like an abattoir. He moved through a throng of tubes and wires past an assembly of steel cabinets containing medical machinery and clusters of monitors. At their centre was a metal cot supporting a recumbent patient swathed in violet sheets. The patient appeared to be above average size and masculine in shape. The face was obscured by a cloth but George could see the head was fully bandaged.

  "Hello," George ventured quietly to break the icy silence. His voice bounced around the hard surfaces of the room. “Hello-hello!” The chorus of voices diminished. Silence restored he moved closer his eyes coming to rest on the only patch of bare skin he could see. On the rounded point of the patient's right shoulder was a scar like a small crescent moon. The scar, pale against pink muscle flesh reminded him of something - a car driven at high speed by his friend Stevie. They were trying to keep up with something, somebody. He didn’t remember anything other than an impact and a shower of glass around him like a cloud.

  Closer still he could see the shape of the man’s face under the thin cloth. The mouth was distended by a breathing apparatus but he recognised brow, nose and chin. He stood very still experiencing a sensation he could not explain. It was fear and disbelief, fear and anticipation.

  "Hi," he said again and this time he thought the shape under the sheet moved, canted its ear a little towards him. George moved around the naked shoulder. He stared down at the masked face and held his breath. Holding one end of the cloth he carefully lifted it, cautious not to disturb what lay beneath.

  The entire head was swathed in bandages leaving only a restricted window through which the face was revealed. The eyes the nose the lips the cheekbones, he'd seen them all before. The eyes in particular he had peered into for as long as he could remember trying to fathom their depths. But now they looked back at him with curiosity, a different kind of recognition. It was like looking at a mirror without glass.

  "Do you know me?" George whispered.

  "Yes," a quiet voice replied, metallic through the inserted mouthpiece. The head tried to nod. "I think so."

  "Who are you?" George felt an involuntary tremble run through weakened limbs.

  The lips began to move but before they could sound a reply they were interrupted by a commotion in the robing room. The door was flung open and Marjorie Chan burst in followed by the pale doctor. The blond woman's cheek was flushed as if it had been recently slapped and her eyes streamed with tears of panic and humiliation.

  "I'm sorry Doctor Chan but that’s what the ID tag said," she began.

  "Shut up!" Chan snapped like an angry terrier. Then she turned a sickly smile on George. "Ms Thacker," she began to smarm. "There has been a mistake, you shouldn't be here. You should be in prep for chilling."

  "Who is this?" George's ton
e was icy calm. Chan’s smarm deserted her. When she spoke her voice was unusually shaky.

  "This is nobody. You don't know him, it's all a mistake."

  "I think I do know him."

  "Not possible.” Chan’s voice dried. “There's been a terrible mistake. I was absent at the time but we will put it right. Now please."

  "Tell me! Who is this?”

  “That would be hard to define exactly.” Chan appeared to have returned to her usual impenetrable self. “Depending on which part of the individual you are referring to, the parts being essentially separate at this point. Naturally the more time elapses the closer the bond becomes between host and tenant which is why we need to waste no time right now.”

  “Plain speak please. Who?”

  Chan affected a blank stare and then capitulated. “I believe you probably already know the answer, sir.”

  George looked down at the face in the window of bandages. The mouth distorted by the mouthpiece seemed to be smiling.

  "Tell me your name.” George said calmly. “Tell me who you are, please." Chan stepped back as George removed the mouthpiece.

  The voice was quiet but assured. The accent was light and gracefully exotic. He recognised it immediately, a voice that had been with him constantly through the long voyage home. And the face was one he had lived with longer than he could remember.

  "My name is Layla," said the man on the gurney. "I think you already know me very well."

  George closed his eyes. He held his breath and when he opened his eyes there were tears. "Yes," he said. "Yes. By now I think I do." He turned to Chan. “How did this happen?”

  “The authority came from you. I have a document.”

  “I don’t remember.” He couldn’t read the detail on the ID tag clipped to the cot but he could see the signature. It was very like his own. “Leave us please,” he said.

  They hesitated then Chan and the blond doctor withdrew to a respectful distance. George and Layla stared at each another, at themselves and time seemed to slip into neutral. Everything in the room, Chan, the doctor even the white walls and metal furniture all faded into shadow around them. There were just the two of them gazing as if in a mirror. They felt themselves drawn into each other, two divided parts rejoined like lost pieces of a jigsaw. Together they became whole, united in symbiosis.

  ***

  Also by Jack Klein - ANIMA MUNDI

  Conundrum Publishing

  New Zealand

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