THE ASCENSION OF HENRY PORTER

Thomas S. Flowers

 

 

Henry didn’t want to live forever. He just didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to extinguish into nothingness. He didn’t want to return to star dust, as those sentimental cosmologists would like to imagine, until he was ready. He didn’t want his essence returning to the Garden, the celestial bounty of stars and planets and gamma bursts blooming into radioactive flowers, and, depending on how you define it, life. But not living forever was furthest from his mind as he sat across from his oncologist, Doctor Edward Petraeus.

“So… you’re saying—“

“The tumor is malignant, Henry.”

“Are you sure… sure it’s malignant?”

“Yes.”

“Can it be removed?”

“Unfortunately we are beyond surgery. Cardiac tumors are rare and extremely difficult to operate on. The risk, I’m afraid, outweighs any benefit.”

“Any benefit, are you fucking kidding me right now? How about my life, that feels like kinda of a big benefit to me.”

“Calm down, Henry. I understand this is a lot to take in—“

“No,” Henry slammed his fist on Petraeus’s desk, “this isn’t a lot, this is everything. My life… my fucking worthless miserable life. I want you to operate, I want you to try. I’ll pay whatever it takes.”

“Money is not the issue, Henry. The tumor is inoperable.”

“Nothing is inoperable…”

Doctor Petraeus fumbled with a drawer on his desk. He produced some pamphlets and laid them out for Henry to see. Sky blue leaflets pictured with people hugging or grieving in some way, others with some woman or man looking meditatively at the sun. “We have specially trained counselors on staff that can help you, Henry. They can help walk you through the process of—“

“I don’t want some psychobabble about how to cope. I don’t want to cope. I don’t want to die… are you listening to me, Doctor Petraeus? I do not want to die. This cannot be the end for me.”

“No one wants to die, Henry.”

“Some do. Some can probably accept death, but not me. I… haven’t even lived yet. I’m too young. This isn’t right.”

Doctor Petraeus leaned back, shifting in his expensive-looking leather armchair. He folded his hands in front of him, arms on his armrests, making a diamond with his fingers. His expression fixed on some point beyond Henry. Eyes darting as if reading some invisible book.

Henry sat quietly watching him, too afraid to say anything that could risk some sort of miraculous thought or revelation that just might save his life. He sat and watched, his leg thumping the floor.

Petraeus sat forward, resting his hands on his desk. He glanced at his closed office door and then back at Henry. “What I’m about to suggest cannot leave this room, do you understand? If you mention anything of what I’m about to say to anyone, I will deny everything. Many of my peers, too many I’m afraid, have serious doubts regarding the legitimacy of this particular practice. But still… embryos are routinely preserved only to be rejuvenated to be used in viable pregnancies. Human bodies have survived cooling temperatures that stop the heart and brain during surgery. How can we be so brash as to not believe our technology, our medical possibilities will not continue to improve? Nanotechnology. Regeneration on a cellular level. Who’s to say a man cannot live forever?”

Henry inched toward the edge of his chair. Licking his lips. “What are you saying, Doctor? Is there some kind of procedure, some kind of cure?”

Petraeus shook his head. “Not a cure, at least not yet.”

Henry frowned. “I’m not following—“

Petraeus seemed to move closer, leaning forward on his desk, nearly whispering. “Have you ever heard of a company called Alcove?”

 

His flight into McCarran International Airport had little to no turbulence. Nothing really to complain about. If anything, it was the crowds moving to and fro various terminals, suits and pajamas, large cowboy hats and sports teams ball caps, families, and lovers, running to catch outbound flights, luggage rolling precariously behind them, coffee cups in hand or half-eaten sandwiches. Henry’s only worry at the moment was getting to Hertz before they ran out of sports utility vehicles, which was suggested to complete the final leg of his journey to Alcove.

Henry had never been to Las Vegas before and he didn’t plan on staying. With his condition progressing, time was of the essence. Rushing past the luggage claims area, he turned toward the Hertz customer service desk and was surprised to find not a single person in line.

Coming up to the vaulted desk, he set his Texas driver’s license in front of the clerk. A tall blonde man with shoulder length wavy hair, slightly tanned skin and rose colored lipstick smiled up at him from his monitor. “Welcome to Hertz, how can I help you, sir?”

“I called ahead for an SUV. Henry Porter.”

“Okay, Mr. Porter.” The clerk typed away on his keyboard, long red nails clicking rapidly, half-smiling, biting his lower lip as he worked. “You’re in luck. We have a Jeep Cherokee available for rent. One-hundred and twenty dollars per day.”

Henry fished for his wallet. “No problem.”

“Excellent, sir. Would you like to add the forty dollars refuel coverage, that way you don’t have to worry about topping off the tank?”

“No, thanks.”

“Not a problem. How many days are you booking the car for?”

Henry gazed at the clerk, not really looking at the lipstick man, but beyond. He hadn’t really thought about how long it would take. Or if Alcove would even accept him into their program. He had an appointment, nothing else.

“Umm…” he moaned.

“How long will you be staying in Vegas?”

“I’m not sure.”

The clerk sucked in his lips. “Not sure? Don’t you have a returning flight home?”

Henry shook his head.

The clerk’s mouth fell agape, he looked as if he was going to say something, but stopped and started again. “Let’s go ahead and assume three days. If you need to keep the car for longer, just call our office here at the airport during the day.” He handed Henry a business card. “Ask for Larry. I work all week.”

Henry took the card and read the font. “Larry McKinley. Sales Associate.”

“And single.”

“Huh?” Henry looked up from the card.

Larry winked and resumed entering Henry’s information.

Maybe in another life, such flirtations would have conjured some sort of reciprocation. Touching his hand. Biting his lip. Leaving his hotel information. Plans for drinks or more. But time was running short. Within a few minutes he was done and Henry was out the door, keys in hand, heading towards the parking garage. Outside, the roar of jet engines torn open the otherwise sunny cloudless sky. Traffic leaving the drop-off sections whipped by, yellow cab taxis mostly, kicking at his tight khaki slacks and fitted navy blue GUESS polka dot button up short sleeved shirt in a gust of wind. This was his favorite outfit, mostly because it brought attention to his abs and his biceps and thighs, all those muscles he’d spent his entire life tearing apart and growing. And for what? Short term pleasure of some boy toy from Houston’s hottest gay club, RIPCORD, and now… with death so close… all that work, all that posturing felt so utterly useless.

Across the pedestrian walkway, Henry’s Jeep was parked in the Hertz section, right next to Enterprise. Tossing his solitary small suitcase in the front passenger seat, he climbed in and ignited the engine. Donning a pair of oval thick framed sunglasses, he started toward the exit.

Turning east on Sunset Road, Henry floored it onto Interstate-15 heading north. A few miles ahead he passed the famous landmarks of downtown Las Vegas. Postcard pictures of the blue sparkling Shark Reed Aquarium and castle-like Excalibur Hotel and Casino. The MGM sign beckoned not far away from the Bellagio and its Hollywood-era fountain spurting water high into the air. Nearly shielded by palm trees, The Mirage glistened in the sunlight like pearls within a clam. Towering above them all was the Cosmopolitan, a zigzagged silver-looking hotel. It was hard keeping his eyes on the road. All the places he had never been dancing in his peripheral. He wondered, how many of these places would still be around when he woke up… assuming of course that the Alcove would take him.

Within forty minutes, Henry was past the glitz and allure of downtown Las Vegas, past the tourist traps and gambling halls. Another twenty and he was past the Motor Speedway and then soon after, as traffic became exceedingly less and less, with nothing much to look at but the beige desert on the open expanse, he accelerated north by northeast, away from the sand, and higher towards the small mountainous town of Mesquite, Nevada.

 

About a mile from the Arizona border, within the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, Henry took a left off Interstate-15 and followed an access road, per the instructions printed on his Alcove invitation. Residents and businesses disappeared around him leaving only the rocky terrain to take his mind off his heart, the tumor, death, and the opportunity that awaited him to overcome the inevitable.

For hours, it seemed, he climbed toward nothingness. The bleak mountainous landscape did nothing for his nerves. With one hand on the wheel, Henry consulted the directions on his invitation. He was going the right way. Shouldn’t be much farther, he guessed.

The road before him became narrower. The pavement used and crumbled from neglect. Holes and pits marked the otherwise gray surface. And the incline felt exaggerated. Now he understood why the invitation told him to bring an SUV. On the dashboard, he pushed in the four-wheel drivetrain button, now providing power to all wheel ends, making his ascension that much easier.

Henry dared not another glance away from the road for fear of falling off the edge and plummeting to a premature and most likely excruciating death.

“Fuck,” he muttered, sneering, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. He risked taking one hand away, and quickly flung his oval sunglasses into the passenger seat. Beside him, the world seemed so far below, as if he was slowly ticking up toward the peak of a massive roller coaster ride. The road before him crumbled worse and worse. He thought of his home, his high-rise apartment in downtown Houston and speculated of selling it for something on flatter land, maybe something south towards Galveston, on the coast watching seagulls caw and the rumbling of the ocean bringing in the tide.

Seeing the imaginary beach house relaxed him somewhat. His grip loosened, if only marginally. And finally, in the distance, he could make out a bright structure glimmering in the fading sunlight. The road peaked and smoothed out leading towards this magnificent building made of foggy looking glass. Near the front, among a hedge of blooming cactus, the Alcove signs directed him to a circle driveway.

“End of the line,” Henry whispered, pulling to a stop in front of the building. Soon after, an attendant appeared, dressed in simple black slacks and a black long sleeve button up. Out of instinct and no other apparent reason, he produced his invitation as the man came around to the driver’s side window.

“Please make your way inside. Your things will be brought in.” Without hesitation, the attendant opened his door, ushering Henry out, and jumped into the driver’s seat. He smiled and pulled away.

Henry stood watching the attendant take his SUV back around the circle driveway, and then make a right toward some unseen garage or parking area. He gazed up at the building, unable to see through the foggy glass. Studying the name etched on the door.

Alcove—Making the Impossible Possible.

He took a final breath and walked inside.

 

Alcove was more than Henry had expected. Not that that was very difficult. He’d only seen a few promotional videos on YouTube, which were outdated by at least ten years. He only really had the name his oncologist, Doctor Edward Petraeus, had provided. And the aged pamphlet he kept in a locked drawer with notes from his own research regarding the experimental institution, or so Henry believed. With the drive through the desert and up the steep mountain, he could only imagine maybe that there’d be some kind of aristocratic castle, crumbling foundation and lightning bolts running along some sort of conductor, humming and buzzing with energy throughout a cobwebbed laboratory. He had expected mad scientists, to be so blunt. Instead, pleasantly, he found an altar of cutting edge technology. Immaculately cleaned floors and glass walls. Holographic displays and tours greeting him as he cautiously walked into the visitor's lounge waiting for the head scientist and CEO of Alcove, Doctor Cheryl Williams, to summon him to her office. The videos divulged much of how and what and even why Alcove was.

And still, he had more questions than answers.

 

“We provide a service, Mr. Porter, that so very few have ever attempted to provide. A door, a pathway, no, a ticket into a brave new world.” The short brunette CEO spoke with a bit of elegance in her tone, her hair flowing with curls around the shoulders of her white lab coat, underneath she wore a business suit and skirt matching her dark hazel eyes that seemed to pierce his every thought, eyes filled with a sense of anticipation and power. Her petite nose and sharp cheekbones drew his wandering gaze to her naturally red lips. To Henry, she looked very much like a young Jane “Poni” Adams (an actress who played Nina in House of Dracula) if not for her crooked posture bent slightly forward due to her deformity, a wide hump that protruded at the base of her shoulder blades and upper back, giving her a definitive hunch.

“What exactly is this process, Doctor Williams?” Henry forced himself to focus on her and not to become distracted by the movement of the facility. Strangers in white lab coats and full aqua colored coveralls, moving about on some unknown task, seen clearly through the glass walls of her vaulted office that overlooked the facility.

Doctor Williams waved him off. “Please, call me Cheryl. Everyone around here does, as well as our clients.” She stood and shuffled to the front of her desk, sitting on the edge, looking intently at Henry. “Tell me, why did you seek Alcove out? What drove you to come here?”

Henry shifted in his seat. His heart thudded in his chest. Instinctively, he rubbed where his heart would be. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not afraid of dying, Doctor Williams—sorry, Cheryl, I don’t want to live forever… I’m not too much of an egotist to know the world would do just fine without me. I just… I’m not ready, not just yet.”

Doctor Cheryl Williams nodded, seemingly empathic. “As are all who come here. Not to mention those we have on staff. Everyone you see here will at some point benefit from what we do at Alcove.”

“And what exactly is that?”

“A rare miracle few will experience. Death, Mr. Porter, is—“

“Please, call me Henry.”

“Henry, of course. As I was saying, as we understand it, death is nothing more than when the chemical processes within our bodies that give us life become too erratic for normal operations, thus having any chance of being restored. Chemical preservation depends heavily upon modern technology and procedures. Consider how one hundred years ago, cardiac arrest was irreversible. Today, by current practices, the brain can be resuscitated within ten minutes before irreversible damage occurs. And I think we can agree, any sort of brain death is death in general, for what are we without our memories, without what makes us-us.”

Doctor Williams stood and shuffled to her large glass wall, looking out at her staff as they moved about from office to office, lab to lab.

Henry glanced at her hump protruding from her coat and quickly looked away. His gaze settling in his palms.

“What we offer here, Henry Porter is a chance to push the pause button on death, to preserve that which makes us-us until technology catches up to our various ailments. To sleep and wake up decades or centuries later when cures and the regeneration of tissue, of organs, of hearts, are as commonplace as arthroscopy or Lasik surgery.” Doctor Williams turned slightly, half smiling as if she already knew the answer: “How does that sound to you?”

 

He was shown to his room located in the guest quarters at the Alcove facility. Henry believed he was the only one there as he changed into the Alcove-issued garments that felt more like pajamas, synthetic and softer than silk in the same aqua color as the facility logo. He was buttoning his top when he heard laughter through the wall. Curious, he pressed his ear against the foggy glass. A woman, or so he thought, talking excitedly with some unknown person.

“Of course I’m ready—thank you, thank you so much,” the strange woman was nearly singing. Henry easily imagined her bouncing on her bed, clapping as if she’d just be given the best news anyone can be given.

I wonder, Henry thought. She must be here for the procedure, the pause on death, as that hunchback doctor was talking about. Pause on death… what does that even mean?

Why don’t they just say Cryogenics? That’s the assumption, right?

Are they offering something other than to freeze people? To put them in meat lockers? What else could it be?

Whatever.

I don’t care.

I’ll do whatever it takes.

This isn’t about living forever.

It’s about having a life to live.

Pause death.

Yeah—pause death.

Henry finished changing, slipping his bare feet into the also provided slippers. All of which really made him feel like he was staying at a resort of some kind, the kind of resort that gives you life beyond the threshold. His cell phone wasn’t working, but the display said it was well into the evening. Doctor Williams, Cheryl had mentioned something about a cafeteria. He decided to go check that out.

His door slid open automatically and he stepped out into the corridor, oval in shape, but tall and brightly lit in the same aqua color as the company’s logo and his pajamas.

He turned and stumbled to a halt.

“Excuse me. I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you,” he said, offering a hand to a petite skin and bones woman. He couldn’t say what her age was, her flesh looked like paper, but there was a newness about her that hinted that she wasn’t entirely as old as she looked.

She beamed up at him from the floor. “Entirely my fault, really.”

Henry helped her to her feet. He didn’t think she would be able to do it alone. Looking at her was like looking at death itself, death with paper thin skin hugged tightly against brittle bone. He smiled politely, gesturing with a nod to her door. “Is that you?”

She frowned, glanced behind her and back to Henry. She smiled again and started to laugh gently, covering her mouth with a boney hand. “Yes. I’m sorry, was I being too loud? I just—I just received the call from Doctor Williams. Tonight—it happens tonight.”

It was her eyes, he was sure of it now. Her dark brown eyes gave away her real age. Not this broken body hardly able to stand before him; her eyes glowed with youth. He wanted to say something. Congratulations or something similar. But words were hard fought. He wasn’t sure what to make of this woman. This oddity. Everyone he’d met since arriving at the Alcove this evening were but faceless staff. Non-engaging. And as for Doctor Cheryl Williams, there was something there about her that didn’t feel quite right, promises too bizarre for him to process right away. He needed time. But with this woman, this frail happy lady, he felt strangely enough more kinship with her then his oldest friends.

“Veronica Edwards.” She held out her hand.

Henry looked at it as if it were some queer gesture.

“That’s my name, Veronica Edwards,” the woman said again, still holding out her hand, her tone that of a patient teacher addressing her class.

Henry thumped his head. “Of course. I’m sorry, I must still be taking everything in. This place is quite overwhelming.” He took her hand. “Henry, Henry Porter.”

They shook.

“Glad to meet you, Henry. Did you just arrive?”

“Yes. Just a few hours ago, actually.”

She seemed to dance on her tippy toes. “What did you think of Doctor Williams? Isn’t she the best?”

Henry nodded. “She’s something.”

Veronica continued, seemingly unaware of his slight discomfort. “What she’s offering, wow, to be able to wake up in the future, to live, to—“

“Pause death.”

“Yes! It’s… a miracle. What they do here.”

“Looks that way.”

Veronica studied his face, half-smiling. “I was pretty skeptical at first too. It’ll sink in, give it time.”

Henry exhaled. “Time. The one thing I do not have.”

Veronica nodded without having to say anything as if they shared some kindred or spiritual bond between them, and in a way they did. The betrayal of their own bodies. Of death’s shadow looming ever closer with each passing moment.

“Where you headed, to the cafeteria?” she asked, breaking the momentary silence.

“Yes, I was actually.”

“They have the best chefs here. Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all, I’d love the company.”

 

Henry and Veronica sat alone in the brightly lit cafeteria, except for one small group of white lab coats that huddled at the far end, whispering excitedly between each other.

“I don’t want to live forever,” he was saying, “I just don’t want to die, not yet anyhow.”

Veronica looked away, licking her lips and pretending to be interested in the baked chicken and broccoli on her plate.

“What—isn’t that why you’re here?” Henry leaned against the table, forking what he assumed was some sort of pot roast.

Veronica shrugged. “I suppose. Truth be told, I’ve never really given much thought to immortality. I mean, eventually, we’ll have to die, right. I just wish…“ She looked away again, a rosy blush spread over her cheeks. Her eyes glistened with tears.

Henry reached over to touch her boney sandpaper hand. “I’m sorry, Veronica. I can only imagine what it must have been like… I’ve never—I’ve had girlfriends, plenty, trust me. Not bragging, just… Nothing ever stuck, though. Nothing serious.”

She wiped her eyes with her hand. “You’re lucky then.”

“I suppose so.”

“Do you think I’m selfish?”

Henry thought for a moment. “I think it’s complicated. How long have you…?”

“Had my condition? I was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy in my mid-twenties. And have since slowly wasted away. I’m actually lucky to be walking. Most people with my condition can’t. Only a matter of time. My… condition is putting too much of a strain on my heart. I can feel even the simplest task, it takes my breath away.” Veronica pushed her tray, her gaze fixed on her uneaten food with a look of both longing and contempt.

“And you didn’t want your family to watch you deteriorate, that’s why you’re here, you wanted to spare them. I would have done the same thing, had I any real family left. Spare them the pain of watching.” He pushed his tray away as well, despite the hunger pangs, it didn’t feel right to him to eat in front of her, this skeletal woman who’d want nothing more than a hearty meal, but because of her condition, couldn’t bring herself to take a bite.

Veronica wiped away more tears. “I love my husband. And I love my son, so much. I’d give anything to watch him grow up… but I can’t stand how—how they look at me. And it’s only going to get worse. A marathon of grief… and sadness… and anger. I don’t want that for them or for myself. I don’t want to put those thoughts in their head. Better this way. Or I hope. They might be disappointed and hate me at first, reading that letter, thinking I killed… myself…”

Again Henry reached out to touch Veronica. “It’s okay. I think you did the right thing.”

She smiled through wet eyes. Snot gleaming from a nostril. She sniffed and wiped. “It will be. And they’ll get my body back for the funeral. Better than them having to search for me. They’ll get closure. And I’ll get to have a new life.”

Henry frowned. Something didn’t make sense. “Did you say they’ll get your body back?”

Veronica nodded, taking a sip from her tea. “Everything has been arranged.”

He swallowed dryly, watching Veronica silently as she finished her drink. Henry wanted to ask more. What she meant by arrangements. How they were going to return her body. Wasn’t she going into… the freezer or whatever they used here? How is she being preserved if not completely? He turned slightly, looking over his shoulder, feeling the eerie quiet of the cafeteria and the absence of chatter of the white coats on the far side, who remained at their table. Conversations had ceased. They each stared back at them with mute stoic expressions.

“What’s their problem—?” Henry turned back to Veronica.

“I’m tired. Will you walk me back to my room, Henry?”

“Of course.”

They left the cafeteria together, Henry refusing to look back at the staring strange Alcove scientists as they went through the double doors. They walked slow, stopping several times so that Veronica could catch her breath. He was thankful for the rests, his own heart thundering hard against his chest, thinking as they did how small the world was to stumble into another person dying from something somewhat similar in retrospect, a failing heart.

Henry said goodnight to her at her room and shuffled into his own. His heart squeezing tighter now, his breathing erratic. He fell on the bed and rolled over. Focusing his mind and each breath. In his mind’s eye, he saw Veronica without sickness. Healthy and vibrant. Young again.

Henry could see her in a field of bluebonnets, smiling up at the sun.

And then her voice called to him.

“Everything has been arranged…”

 

Henry woke unaware that he’d fallen asleep. He sat up and rubbed his head. His heart thudded gently against his chest. Calm. Normal rhythm.

What time is it? he wondered.

He reached over to the bedside table for his cell phone.

It was gone.

Odd.

He opened the drawer.

Empty.

And not just his cell phone. His wallet. His rental keys. There was nothing of his personal items there, only an Alcove informational pamphlet. Springing from the bed, Henry opened the tall white curved bureau. His suitcase was missing as well. Only a set of Alcove pajamas stared back at him, each hung side by side systematically spaced half an inch apart.

Where the fuck is my stuff?

What the hell is going on around here?

He went to his door, listening for any sign of movement or activity. Morning. Noon. Night. He had no clue what time of day it was or how long he’d been asleep.

Hearing nothing, he opened the door.

The tube-shaped hallway was empty, dimly lit with a soft glowing aqua and a hint of neon pink.

“Veronica, you awake?” Henry pressed his ear against her door. Rapping gently with his knuckles.

Nothing from inside.

“Veronica?”

He tested the door and found it unlocked. It eased open. Lights flickered on automatically revealing an empty room. The bed sheets tight and neatly folded. No personal items, only what came in every room, or so Henry assumed. The smell of bleach strong in the air. There was not a single sign anyone was staying in this room.

Confused, he stumbled back out into the hall. Walking aimlessly, hoping to maybe find someone who worked here, someone who could tell him where Veronica was, where his personal items were. Passing the cafeteria, he glanced inside and found it empty. According to one of the informational maps on the wall, there was another level below. He stepped into one of the elevators. With hardly any motion Henry could detect, the door chimed and out he went into another tube-shaped hallway, this one curving around to the center of some room, some lab perhaps. The tall glass fogged and impossible to see through. The lights seemed brighter down here, less neon and aqua. The faint hint of chemicals, not the stingy smell of bleach or cleaning supplies, more like ripe lemons, tart and sweet. And still, there was no sign of life, no one wandering the halls, no employee or white coat to help him. No other visitors like himself and Veronica, but then again, for all he knew, Veronica and he were the only guests staying at Alcove.

Henry followed the wall, peering through the glass into a white room. From what he could make out through the foggy glass, there looked like tall instruments, silver in color, and waist height. He stood at the door, staring at the sign that stated Authorized personnel only beyond this point. Turing and looking in both directions, he gave a nervous half-smile.

Not much for security.

There was no handle he could see on the door.

Okay…? How do I get in?

He pressed on the door. Where his fingers touched, the surface glowed in a bright neon blue. Something internal hissed and the door came open, sliding away.

Walking inside he crossed his arms, hugging his chest. His breath coming out in a mist before him. Whatever this room was, it felt like a walk-in freezer. Against the wall, he spotted what he had caught glimpse of through the window. Waist high stainless steel tubes, perched high on claw metal feet. Gauges and tubes jutted from the head, each giving, as far as Henry could guess, temperature and pressure readings. Sky blue liquid flowed in through the plastic tubing and out through another tube in yellowish-red. An Alcove label was stamped on and below that names for each tube.

Charles Roberts.

Ryan Cash.

Sophia Stauber.

Patrick Faust.

And—

Veronica Edwards.

Henry blinked. Veronica? How…? Did they already bring her down? No… something isn’t right here. Veronica’s words echoing in his head.

“—it happens tonight!”

“—everything has been arranged.”

He felt around the tube for—something, anything that could help him. At the base, he found a short lever. He pulled, not caring about the noise he was making or if he would be caught. Around the tube, a layer of stainless steel plating slid down, revealing a sort of viewing port at the center of the tube. Through the glass, there was a blue viscous liquid. Shadows floated inside.

Henry leaned forward, squinting at the glass, and jerked back. He held his mouth with his hand. Uttering a sort of muffled scream that sounded more like a tired moan. Before him, through the tube glass, what looked to be a human brain, horribly dark purple in the blue fluid, bobbing inside, the nervous stem connected to wires and more tubes. And beside the mass purplish wrinkled blob, long sinewy looking roots leading to two eyeballs glaring back at him, unable to blink, watching him as he retreated in horror.

“Do say hello, Henry.” A low feminine voice broke the silence of the room.

Henry whipped around. Doctor Cheryl Williams stood in front of the lab door, dressed no longer in her white coat and business suit, now in a sort of white rubber gown held together by a black belt. On her hands, she wore long black rubber gloves, and black galoshes. Her dark curls pulled back in a ponytail. And still, her dark hazel eyes seemed to penetrate his every thought and fear, eyes filled with a sense of anticipation and power. But she was no longer a young Jane “Poni” Adams, now she was something far more unreal and manic and purposeful. Her crooked posture produced by her protruding hump only exaggerated the insanity. Two men in aqua coveralls flanked each side of her.

“Doctor… Williams… what’s… what going on here?” he shuddered.

“Don’t be rude, now. Veronica can see you, you know?”

Henry turned and looked back at the tube and the floating brain and glaring unblinking cold brown eyes. Veronica’s eyes. Can it really be her? But why? Why this? It can’t be, it just can’t be. The world seemed to tilt. Blurring. Hazing away in a heavy wet blanket. He fell to his knees and rolled to the floor, staring up at the bright white light.

 

“The moral argument, Henry, is redundant. Even patients under normal circumstances will receive care while in cardiac arrest, especially if there is still a chance of resuming a quality life. Cures and discoveries are made every day. Influenza at one point in our history ravaged the populace, and now we have the cure. We have antibiotics. We have vaccines. From 1915 to 1997, the infant mortality rate plummeted more than 90%. Advances in science have rapidly increased and will continue to increase. Diseases that befuddle us today will be a thing of the past tomorrow. Cancer, like your own Henry, degenerative disease, muscular dystrophy as our recent member of Alcove suffered, Veronica. And even untreatable abnormalities of the body, such ailments that have riddled my own, severe kyphosis, in a blink of an eye, will cease to be an issue.”

She spoke but was he really hearing? Was he awake or dreaming? Henry did not know. He simply was aware. Bright cloudy white surrounded his vision. Shadows danced in his periphery. Slowly he took a breath.

Odd, he thought.

He took another breath.

What am I breathing through? It feels… thick, foreign.

And there she was, the hunchback Doctor Cheryl Williams. Her face was fuzzy, but it was hard not recognizing her high cheekbones, and those ridiculous black rubber gloves and boots. Some sort of red liquid smeared over her white uniform. Partially covering her face an aqua surgical mask, hiding both her mouth and nose. She glared with a strange intensity, oddly, Henry thought, the same way he thought children always looked at fish at the aquarium.

“Is it morally wrong, Henry, to administer CPR? To help victims waiting for an ambulance? For the combat medic to stuff back in the guts of a wounded soldier? Is it morally wrong to not throw people away who could be treated by foreseeable medicine? That is what we offer here, Henry. We extended the preservation of life. We have the means, to pause death. To give people a second chance on life.”

Henry tried to talk. But nothing came out.

He could hear his thoughts, that inner voice.

He could feel the muscle, the sensation of speaking.

But still… nothing worked the way it had before.

“Please excuse me, Henry. I’m sure you are beginning to feel confused. This is normal. Do not be afraid. Everyone who comes to Alcove goes through this transitionary phase, which can seem very daunting.” She turned and said something inaudible. The lights dimmed slightly. Doctor Williams turned back and smiled in her strange beautiful way. Her face becoming clearer as his eyes adjusted to the low light.

“There, that should be better, right?” She beamed, still with that odd child-like-wonder expression. “My—my, what a wonderful gift we’ve given you. The miracle of this bath, dare I say, is a baptism of science.” Doctor Williams peered at him touching some glass surface in front of his field of vision, her hunchback giving her crouch an excessive gaunt.

Am I inside something? A pod, maybe?

Why can’t I talk?

Why does breathing feel so… not right?

And I’m not—blinking, why am I not blinking?

Nothing is working.

I can’t move.

I can’t feel anything.

Doctor Williams turned away, searching for something outside of his view. “I’m going to show you, Henry. But, I must ask that you remain calm. Can you do that for me?” She came back without hesitating as if she didn’t factor in his response or rebuttal or anything in way of conversation or confrontation. She spoke to him as if out of habit. In her hand, she held a large mirror. “Are you ready?” she asked, pausing briefly. She then held up the mirror and Henry stared at something that wasn’t him at all.

What is this?

Some joke?

Dreaming—nightmare, that’s what this is.

No.

No.

I want to leave.

I can’t—this can’t be real.

“As you can see, Henry, our aim here at Alcove is the preservation of life, but because it is our bodies that fail us, it is our minds that we must then preserve. Veronica’s body betrayed her otherwise healthy life. My own body is deformed, diagnosed with a shorter lifespan than normal women. And you, Henry, your heart was riddled with cancer. You could have very well succumbed to cardiac arrest on your way to us… but you didn’t. You made it here.” Doctor Williams held the mirror closer, talking with a sense of pride and exhilaration, her eyes wet, and tears beginning to slowly trickle down her high cheek bones.

What have you done to me?

How—am I alive?

As if hearing him somehow, or perhaps sensing his growing trepidation, she said, “Our patent intravenous system is what is keeping you alive, Henry. Medications, free radical inhibitors, nitric oxide synthase, polymerase, excitotoxicity, anticoagulants, pressor, pH buffers, and anesthetic are being feed through your cerebellum and circulated throughout your frontal, temporal, parietal, and occipital lobes. The discharge is being pumped out through the spinal cord. The fluid you are suspended in is a cryoprotectant solution, of my own design, unlike anything on the market. Typical solutions require a cooling perfusion where patients are kept below two hundred degrees Celsius. And the body is kept at a frozen death-like suspended state, further risking tissue damage and the hope regeneration, which is, of course, the biggest failure with traditional cryogenics.”

Henry screamed, though no one would have known. His inner voice rang through his mind without the need for breath. Panic set in cold spasms. He wanted to move. To run away. To say something, to yell, shout, demand to be set right again.

But he couldn’t.

He could only stare, unable to turn his eyes away.

Glaring at what was left of him through the mirror, Henry could see he was like Veronica now, he too was nothing more than a floating wrinkled mass of dark purple in a neon blue viscous fluid. His round eyeballs rooted with sinew-like optic nerves and tracts connecting to his exposed cerebrum.

He had no option but to stare at himself.

Unable to speak.

Unable to yell.

To scream.

To run away.

All he could do was watch.

And listen—by some miracle, he was able to do that much.

Doctor Williams took away the mirror. She stared at him again, her expression that of someone working out a mathematical equation or a really difficult puzzle with a strange mixture of something like endearment that could possibly be called motherly.

“I envy you, Henry Porter. Pausing death for, by my estimations, another two hundred years, give or take. Imagine what will happen in the space of that time. I wonder… will your brain continue to evolve? Dreams, perhaps, and regardless of such, when that time comes, you will be reborn, given a new body, disease-free, beyond anything we can imagine today. If only I could join you in that future paradise. But alas, I must remain here. I am the only surgeon qualified to do this work and to be frank, I am not so sure many would appreciate what we are attempting to accomplish.” Doctor Williams sighed, shaking her head. She looked back at Henry through the glass. “We’ll show them who’s mad, won’t we? And who knows, perhaps one day I will be able to find a successor.” She licked her lips, turning to some other shape behind her. Talking, her voice was inaudible. Whatever was said, she seemed to agree, nodded with a sort of grief.

Doctor Cheryl Williams turned back to Henry. “Please forgive my babbling. I have to warn you, Henry. Though our procedures in cryogenics are leaps and bounds beyond anything out there, there are drawbacks. Traditional cryogenics risks fracturing. Nitrogen is such a nasty chemical to introduce on the body. Our cryoprotectant solution will keep you suspended, as you are now, free of decay and rot and death. However, you will be aware the entire time. Parts of the brain will go into a sort of hibernation, but not entirely. And seeing how I’ve never gone through the procedure myself, this is simply a hypothesis of mine. Our oldest subject—patient, Charles Roberts, has been in our care since… 2001, my my, has it been that long? For seventeen years since his operation he has yet to reach any sort of sleep cycle.”

Sleep cycle?

Aware…?

God… is she saying—

“Charles, unfortunate as it is, reached a state of madness shortly after undergoing the procedure. Have you ever heard of a phase called Deep Time? It’s the way geologist measure geological changes in the Earth. Cosmologists use it as well. Deep Time is nearly metaphysical, in a way. The human mind is unable to grasp the true nature the infinite. We understand the concept, but I believe it’s this sense of Deep Time that causes one to lose control, to slip away, as it were. Since Charles, we have started other initiatives in hopes of staving off dementia. You may have wondered how it is you can hear me, well, another one of our residents, Doctor Faust, developed a device that can connect to the cerebellum and will allow our patients to listen, to hear our voice, in manner of speaking. We check in with our residents every few… well… such lengths you will find meaningless. Deep Time is beyond rational understanding.”

Henry watched as Doctor Williams reached toward the stainless tube where what was left of him now resided. “This is not goodbye, Henry Porter. Only, as the French say, au revoir until you have reached your destination, your… ascension.” She slid down the viewport, casting him in utter darkness. Whatever it was he called hearing, the sensation of listening, crackled and was silenced.

He was alone.

Unable to move.

Blink.

Speak.

Only to watch the dark.

And wait.