Scott and James finished the remainder of their cocktails as soon as they heard the click of Magnolia’s approaching heels. Scott took their glasses to the cabinet and set about another round. The hard, dark shape of Maggie burst into the room as though she was trying to catch her two brothers in some guilty act.
“My guess is…” Maggie’s eyes scanned the scene, from James across to Scott, quickly assessing her brothers’ demeanour and actions. “…you’re celebrating something, rather than drowning sorrows? Let’s see… You must have hit a milestone, James. The big one?”
“Hello, sis. I’m very well, thanks. Good journey?” James mocked his sister’s lack of warmth and manners with his sarcastic reply. Maggie was dressed in a black, slimline power suit and heels that brought her to 5’ 7". She could have been dressed for a board room full of old men or a fashionable remembrance service. It was her usual look. It always took nearly 24 hours for her to switch into a casual mode. The need to dispense with professional tasks always came first with Maggie.
“Yo! Mags! We’re on the Martinis!” Scott’s smile beamed at her. “Whatya havin’?”
“Journey was good. Thanks for sorting the chopper connection, Scotty.” Maggie hugged her big brother from behind and squeezed her face into his back as he dropped ice into the cocktail shaker. “I’ll have the same.” She released Scott and clicked her way across to James, whose gaze hadn’t left her since she entered. She crouched at James’ right side and lifted his paralysed right hand, holding it to her cheek as she held James’ gaze. James reached with his left hand and stroked his sister’s hair, tied back in a tight bun. Maggie’s demeanour was naturally cold but she did not lack emotions or feelings; they were sparse, buried and carefully spent.
“You’ve done it, haven’t you?” she said.
“Pretty much.” James’ smile was soft and slight.
“Can you fix him?” she whispered.
“No. It’s too big a problem. Not with what I’ve got working now.”
Tears instantly welled in her eyes as though she had begun to melt from the inside. She bit her bottom lip and gasped childishly.
“You knew it never would,” said James. Maggie squeezed his hand hard and swallowed back more tears. Although he could feel nothing through his flesh, he felt his sister’s contradictions through his eyes and ears.
“Yeah, but it doesn't mean I shouldn't ask.” She wiped tears delicately from her lashes and swallowed back more. “Who wants to live forever anyway?”
Scott brought the Martinis, handed them out then took a seat. Maggie would regain her composure soon enough. She stood, replaced James’ still hand on his lap, turned and walked to gaze out of the window across the farm. The brothers sat quietly, tolerant of their sister’s loose ritual. In front of them, she was sad and vulnerable. With her back turned, she wiped her eyes, sniffed, shifted from foot to foot, and began to straighten and grow in size. She sipped her drink, took in the view then shook out her long, dark hair. When she turned to face them, the measured executive had returned. Only her disturbed make-up betrayed her. Almost no one ever got to see what they saw. She took a seat beside Scott and sank what remained of her drink.
“So… You’ll have a lot to do even before you tell the world about your achievements, and then it’ll only get busier.” This was Maggie in business mode. She was in the business of law, finance and protection. “Catch me up, bros.”
James confirmed his intent to carry out the Endogenous Regeneration process on himself. This was largely in keeping with their pre-existing plan, so all of them knew what lay ahead.
“Full corporate and personnel review,” confirmed Maggie, “and Intrepid will provide Class A security from now on, unless you’ve got other needs?” Protecting every aspect of Resurgenesis from internal and external attack was essential. James’ safety was intrinsic to that. “When are you going to start work on yourself and how long will that take?”
“Technically ready now. It’ll probably take two weeks on the machines, then some months post op. I’ve had it all set up for over a month. All the protocols are locked in. I’ve been almost ritualising their execution, anticipating doing it all alone. I can’t, but I just became a weird control freak recluse in the lab once I got all the final confirmatory results back.”
“What do you mean, ‘became a weird control freak’, bro?” Scott laughed.
“Ha! I can’t wait to fix myself, then I won’t be stuck here between a cock and a hard face.” A shared laugh nearly swept away Maggie's chill until she launched into a call in her frosty, professional demeanour.
“Hi, Bella. How are you?” Her gaze flicked between her two brothers as she began to initiate her end of the plan. “I’m good, just arrived. We need to execute a file. It’s Resurgenesis. The first actions require Intrepid. I need you to call me every time each Intrepid step is executed, and I need direct oversight once that’s set up. OK?… Review the file, call me to confirm. Thanks, bye.” She hung up. “Game on,” was her unnecessary confirmation to her brothers.
Maggie did not mess around. There was no reason to delay. The Resurgenesis site would come under private guard via Intrepid. James would receive a personal security attachment of at least 8 men, who would be at the farm in less than 24 hours. Lawyers and support staff would comb over everything in Resurgenesis to shore up every aspect of financial and legal operations and ownership. All personnel would be subject to another private vetting to look for any anomalies or vulnerabilities to espionage or blackmail.
“Thanks sis. I’d like to think this is overkill. You’re just too fucking serious for most of us simple guys, aren’t you?” Maggie was James’ corporate legal counsel and a fixer of more issues. She had originated most of the business planning for Resurgenesis through her firm. Behind the scenes and further up the food chain, Scott set the direction, but neither of his siblings knew.
“Can you look after Evan and Lilly tonight, please? I think I want to be with mom and dad…” Maggie tailed off and her head dipped. A few tears dropped into her lap.
Scott sought solace as he ran out at dawn to a secluded spot at the far end of the trout pond and stretched out on the grass to think. The situation was now radically different to what he had anticipated. Morton could live for a significant, indeterminate amount of time, extended by his desire to see James’ recovery. This interfered with Scott’s revelations about what the program had come to learn about the human experience, which were meant for Morton on his death bed. Now that Morton knew there was something very different about Scott’s nature, his curiosity would need to be managed and contained.
For any program member to be able to tell their dying loved one anything about the program, their role in it and what it had learned was primarily a kind of cathartic reward mechanism for the program member. It was a way of repaying their enduring loyalty, confidence and secrecy by easing and positively affecting their loved one’s last moments. On a profound level, it satisfied a strong desire to share the program’s work with the world, which each member had sworn not to do for reasons that they fully accepted.
James’ primary treatment would likely take some months to complete. The machines would rebuild his damaged nerves, which would grow and integrate to reconnect his arm and lower body. After that, he would need constant rehabilitation, training and exercise to regain full control. How this would affect Morton’s will to live was unknown but after learning that the crash was practically the worst event in Morton’s life, Scott welcomed this chance for Morton to see it undone. For Scott to continue to reveal any further information about the program would require complete trust in Morton’s discretion, for however long he lived in possession of the knowledge. Whether he could exercise such discretion, Scott didn’t know for sure.
He couldn’t make an executive decision and he couldn’t lie or withhold any information from the program. It was just a new scenario to deal with. He opened a frame to Thomas and Harriett and waited for them to reply.
Hi Scott! How’s things at home and with Morton?
Thomas was the first to emote, but Harriett had joined simultaneously. Likely they were together in the Centre.
Things are better in both the family and fatherly sense. James told us he’s ready at Resurgenesis. I’ve begun the revelation with dad, but now he knows of James’ progress, he’s highly motivated to see that success. I can see and feel a change in him. I think this means that the revelation’s timing is thrown out, but I’ve already started. Now, we need to decide how I manage it. Do I continue on a trust basis even if he lives longer than a few more weeks, or stop now?
For me, there’s a quick answer. Harriett’s presence in a frame was always very placid but she didn’t mince words. You began the revelation because he is near the end. If he died soon, and you had not completed the revelation, how would you feel?
Like I had misjudged and mis-prioritised. I would feel like I cheated us both, and personally lost out on a reward.
Then, if you can establish sufficient trust, you should continue. He might die in a couple of weeks, as you expect. We can cope with any changed circumstances as they present. He’s only with family now, so it’s a small audience. Not without consequence, but containable.
I agree, Scott. Thomas emoted. Continue as planned. We’ll update the others.
By the time Scott had returned to the house, it was 6:15 AM. His parents were probably waking. He danced through the kitchen, starting coffee and pulling ingredients for their breakfast from the cupboards, pantry and fridge. He powered up the oven, set out the pans and the ingredients and then poured two hot drinks for his parents. A coffee the way they liked it and a mushroom-based tea, with supplementary THC, CDB and a psilocybin microdose for them to add as they saw fit. He moved quietly through the house with a natural grace, deftly balancing the tray on one hand like a maître d'. He knew every creaky spot on the floors and stairs and followed a memorised route of maximum stealth. He gently knocked on his parents’ door then eased in, tray-first.
“Are you up? I’ve got a delivery!” Scott whispered.
“Perfect timing!” said Vivian.
Scott’s smiling face followed the tray, which landed gently on the bed at his parents’ feet. Vivian was sat up beside Morton who was turned on his side towards her. Morton gave his son a little salute. Scott sat beside his mother and embraced her while reaching for his father’s outstretched hand.
“Morning! I was out for an early run. Here’s your coffee and some magic, if you want it. Fancy some breakfast before all the noise starts? I was thinking eggs benedict? I’ve got an idea to run by you both. James and Maggie are on board with it, if you like the thought of an adventure?”
Scott left them to their drinks while he quickly showered and donned the first T-shirt he laid his hands on and some slim jeans. The mid red T-shirt must have been ten years old. It was some niche, British trendy dance brand - DPhekt - and sported a line art picture of a microphone with mosquito wings. To anyone who didn’t know him, he would’ve looked like a healthy but unremarkable dad dressed 20 years too young. When he came back, his parents had risen. He led them slowly to the kitchen and seated them at the counter bar, where they could supervise their private chef.
“Would the lady and gentleman care for some music?”
“Hmm. Something Italian, I think.” said Vivian.
Scott hopped straight to Mina, one of their favourite Italian artists, and filled the air with romantic ballads. He deftly brought together a hollandaise sauce, poached eggs and wilted spinach, as his basic eggs benedict. Vivian opted for a brioche bun, Morton for a bagel. From the oven he brought crisp, streaky bacon and fine slices of black and white pudding. As he assembled the breakfast, Vivian changed the track and Il Mondo began to play. Vivian rose, took Morton’s hand, and very slowly and carefully they swayed in a gentle dance as they quietly remembered their past. At first, Scott felt happy and smiled out at them as he worked. Then he stole off to the pantry in search of nothing. Out of view, he broke down and sobbed quietly; he stifled the sound in the crook of his elbow. The pain of impending loss was overwhelming, even for him. Leaning against the cupboards, he slid down to and began to weep.
The blackness of his tightly clamped eyes was filled with a scene of a quintessentially French brasserie. He looked around at high-backed booths, green leather seats, copper and brass finishing, dark wood tables and a long bar that ran back to the kitchen’s entrance. Ornate mirroring with patinaed silvering bounced soft light from the high ceiling. From his solitary vantage point, he gazed upon a three-tiered tower of the brasserie’s seafood platter at a table in the centre of the restaurant. A couple sat beside each other with their backs to him. The man reached about the platter, making a selection. The woman no older than forty, turned to him, smiling, laughing. Scott watched his father delicately feed his wife an oyster, gulp his own and then receive her embrace.
He regained composure with deep controlled breaths, dried his eyes as best he could and let that glimpse of a possible reality dissipate. A sense of cruel longing filled his stomach. He shook it down before stepping back into the kitchen, empty-handed. Vivian and Morton had just finished off his remaining work and gestured for him to sit at the counter between them. As he took his seat, they hugged him from either side and bestowed kisses upon his head.
“Now, son, what’s this big idea?” Morton said.
“James is ready to fix himself. Would you like to be there to see it?”
“Yes, please.” said Morton. Vivian nodded.
“James and Maggie are running the plans. A close protection team will be here by lunch time. Maggie will handle it all and they’ll not be in the house. When we’re ready to go to Palo Alto, James and I will go in one jet, the rest of you in others with protection.”
Morton simply sighed and nodded quietly, but Scott could feel a desperate mix of relief, hope, urgency and determination from his father’s small frame. As Vivian touched Scott’s shoulder, he was flooded with some wordless, melancholic sensation that he recognised in her. He had felt it once before as a teenager, when they had watched the closing scene of Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet.
“Will you spend the afternoon with me, please? Just us.” He was consumed by a selfish need to confess to them; he felt cruel in shutting out his mother from the revelation.
“Of course, son. We’ve got a list of things we need to go through with you anyway. Your mother’s in the mood for some degustations. We could sample the wines in the summer house if you like.”
Scott nodded in agreement.
“And your father and I will take a table for ourselves this evening.”
It might be the last time Morton and Vivian were together in the familiy’s restaurant, if they left for Palo Alto the next day.
The morning passed with the family in the house, discussing the trip to Palo Alto. James and Maggie explained the possible arrangements and details. Scott milled around quietly, playing the coming afternoon over in his head. When he felt a call from Guzman, he slunk off to the bathroom.
Scott, we’re a 12-man in two lifts. Landing in 30 minutes. Separate heads are securing all the hangars to block any third party access to the jets and check all the maintenance. When we land, I’ll meet Maggie and the team will adopt perimeter security protocols and launch drones. One guy will take the site security station in the house. Half the team is standard, half project. There’s a full team at Resurgenesis now, running site and perimeter protocols. Only key staff can get into the core now, everything else is confined to the perimeter, so there’s zero third party access to any critical area. Confirm?
Sounds fine. I’ll be with my folks somewhere on the farm, maybe the vineyard summer house. I’ll meet you on the roof later on when I’m free. Thanks.
Guzman’s team had a serious array of close protection weapons, finely honed skills and the full suite of program capabilities. Each of the jets were equipped with military grade defensive detection and countermeasure systems. They were all built with higher spec materials to higher structural and performance limits. The Captain of each jet was a full program member who was fully occupied with program work when not flying. Scott couldn’t make flying any safer an option for his family.
After he closed the mindspace with Guzman, he let his mind wander. He sat down on the pan, lid closed, and began to imagine what he might say to his mother and father that afternoon.
That you can hear me now means that there is more to us, this world, this existence. I’ve been trying to find out what more there is. I joined a group of people working on this and I’ve been doing it ever since. Everything I am is connected to this, but I can’t tell anyone. I’m only allowed to tell dad because of his condition. I’m breaking the rules by telling you, mom. This morning, my heart broke when you were dancing. I couldn’t control myself. The sadness was too much. To keep telling dad about this and to exclude you felt wrong. So here we are, and here am I, breaking an essential rule.
The dreamer in him wished that it would be that simple. Much more likely that it would be a profound, distressing shock that could destabilise them. He wanted them to feel at peace, reassured, and happy. Now was not the time to continue with the reveal. He would enjoy just being their son on an afternoon spent sipping wine.
In the hangar, Scott swept his brother out of the wheelchair, cradling him. Despite James’ height, a life of paralysis meant he weighed little more than 80 kilos. Muscle conditioning therapy and electrostimulation couldn’t overcome James’ injury. If the procedure worked he’d probably begin to experience agony and bodily control issues that weren’t understood. Unlikely that he’d stand up, take a bow and jump for joy. Not for some considerable time.
“Heads up, doc.” Scott ascended the Gulfstream’s steps, scooched into the cabin and made a swift line for a seat to plonk his brother into.
“Steady on, bro!” laughed James.
“I don’t see no FRAGILE sticker on this lump o’ luggage!”
“Don’t you bag throwers know when you’re handling the finest Wagyu beef?”
Scott clipped his brother into the seat. The petite, brunette stewardess approached.
“Good morning, gentlemen. I’m Alessia and I’m here to look after you. May I help?”
“Hi Alessia!” said Scott. “I’m Scott, the lump o’ beef is Jimmy. Don’t worry about us too much. I’ll help Jimmy with all the stuff. We’re low maintenance. We’re grateful for some light service, but relax. We promise to ask if we need help.”
Scott went forwards and leaned into the flight deck to see Andrew, the First Officer, who was deftly tapping through systems readouts and flight planning.
“Howdy, bud.” Scott reached out to shake Andrew’s hand. “Thanks for the lift. How’s Jo?”
“Hey Scott! Jo’s great, dropping soon. Just a month left. What do you think of Leo for a boy and Annabel for a girl?”
“Leo Schneider… Annabel Schneider… Anna Schneider… hmmm. I like ‘em. Leo could be anything from a pop star to a Senator and Annabel could be a mysterious, intriguing spy, a world famous photographer, or any flavour of highly qualified doctor. For starters!” He beamed a warm smile at Andrew, who laughed back.
“I like your vision, Scott. I’ll tell Jo you approve.”
“They were her choices, right? What were yours?”
“I went for Archimedes and Nefertiti, but Jo just doesn’t appreciate my classical tastes.”
“Hmm, you could get away with Archie, but your daughter would be bound to get called Titty in the playground. She’d either end up a fighter or a Facebook recluse! Sounds like Jo knows what she’s doing!”
“Ha, yeah, lucky for me.” Andrew nodded out the side window to JP, the Captain, who was outside on the walkaround. “It’s a nice day, we’ve got flight level 310 for manoeuvre and performance envelope. Nothing exciting to say.”
“Awesome, I’ll just say hi to JP. Catch you in a bit. And we’ve brought great stuff from the farm. There’s a home pack for each of you in the cargo. Should keep you going for a couple of weeks.”
Scott found JP at the tail, inspecting the engines. They embraced like old friends.
“Bro, exciting times! How long till Jimmy’s doing the tango?” JP asked.
“Not sure. Primary treatment is two weeks. If it takes, rehab could be anything. I reckon he’s going to struggle with how hard it is.”
“I really hope your folks enjoy the achievement. It’s a wonderful thing. Everything’s per protocol. Alessia is a recent employee but she’s been with us two for three weeks straight. I’ve never detected any negative bleed from her. Everything else for the other jets is completely standard and no new crew. I know you’re happy as just the two of you, but I think you should put Guz plus one in with us as well. You’re the passenger, not your own security. It doesn’t look right.”
“Yeah, stupid me. I’ll grab Guz. Thanks. I hope you’re going to be in the mood for some heavy reading when we land?”
“Have you lined me up with a new Type Rating? It’s about time I learned to fly a new bit of kit.”
“Yep. The final draft of the Endo Regen protocols are done. That’s what James will execute on himself. We’ll start learning from that baseline. There’s about a thousand pages of fundamentals.”
“Beats reading The Times when we’re in the cruise!”
As the jet taxied out, Scott closed his eyes, breathed deeply and sank into the plush seat. The smell and feel of calf skin; the perfect padding in the small of his back; unimpeded personal space; near complete privacy. Familiarity could breed contempt. Luxury private flight was not something Scott took for granted. Almost no one experienced such service, freedom and comfort and he did not deserve this. He was here out of pure luck. James did not feel the same way but the reason why was perfectly understandable. From his perspective, he had worked hard and made the most of the opportunities and support that had come his way. In his mind, he had largely earned his seat and that was close enough to the truth. Guzman was sat closest to the flight deck, looking back down the cabin with full view of them and Alessia. Carston was a non-program security officer who sat in the rearmost passenger seat.
Scott flitted through aspects of the challenges around the Resurgenesis programme. At least one machine and the treatment infrastructure was in place at multiple program facilities across the globe, most waiting to be assembled. Each facility’s treatment room was designed in a way that offered a specific degree of assault protection. A high density concrete bunker in an underground core, accessed via a narrowing path through two outer circular corridors, was a design that limited access to the machine. There was only one way in. Anyone attempting to steal the machine had to take a minimum amount of time to make a known approach. That time was sufficient for the program treatment team to detect the assault, evacuate the treatment room via a vertical shaft to the surface, then destroy the machine and the thieves. The complex could be sealed, flooded with carbon dioxide and nitrogen to initiate respiratory distress and suffocation. Inside the second corridor and within the treatment room aerosolised acids could be delivered to destroy an assault team’s personal protection and expose them to sarin gas. Inside the core was enough shaped charge to create a fatal pressure wave. Within each machine were specific thermobaric charges that would obliterate the machine’s components, circuitry and thieves nearby. Attempted theft was a guaranteed death, regardless of the program personnel in and around each site.
Resurgenesis tech was only part of the problem. The other part was the business model that would provide humanity with access to the treatment. The entire philosophy was based around keeping the greedy rich out of the picture and unable to control access to or profit from the treatment. Financially, Resurgenesis was immune from external control; it was a private company funded via private entities who did not have contractual control, thanks to the program’s long-established networks and financial structures. Access to the treatment was going to be means tested, making it more expensive for those who could afford to pay and potentially free to those who had nothing. This was the intended antithesis to normal medical pricing, which made access to life-changing treatment goungingly expensive across the board as a deliberate way of exploiting the patient, their health system and insurance or treatment funding models. To force the program’s business model onto the world required total control over the treatment technology and a lock out of dominant regulatory models in the developed world. This was why Resurgenesis was never going to provide treatment facilities in the US or Europe. Not only was the pricing model a form of top-down redistribution and subsidy, but by establishing facilities in poorer countries a form of reverse medical tourism would also result.
There were core principles around the Resurgenesis business model. The company would operate and prove the treatment to the highest medical regulatory standard on the globe, irrespective of which country the treatment was provided in. This would drive acceptance in and demand from customers across the planet, even if the treatment was being provided out of Congo. The company would retain draconian control over the technology and license each treatment centre. This separated Resurgenesis from events that happened in a treatment centre, including the activation of the anti-theft system. Patients would be formally means tested and their treatment value priced accordingly; the rich would pay through the nose. As a private company, Resurgenesis did not need to make exorbitant public profits. Some of the revenue from treatment would flow directly back into the host nation’s social programmes and infrastructure. This would build public support for the company’s operations and create political dependency on and protection of the revenue stream. Socialising some of the revenue and making treatment more available to the poor would incentivise the nation state and its people to protect Resurgenesis.
Since the late ’70s the program had established various covert footprints around the world. Initially they started out as forms of mercenary or private security operations staffed by former US military and intelligence personnel. Private and governmental demand for these skillsets was high and the contracts were straightforward and lucrative. Key, trusted staff within these operations became the initial round of program personnel, although it was not known as such until 1990. The original program staff formed national and international mixed corporate footprints in varied legitimate businesses in order to integrate the program’s various fronts and facades. The program had thereby originally comprised international senior managers who all originated from the world of the military and intelligence services, and who had progressed to low key corporate management while collectively developing their human consciousness. The legacy of such painstaking work was that, through various fronts, the program had credible and varied corporate interfaces with governments around the world. As far as Resurgenesis went, the program would establish extremely specific agreements that allowed it to provide treatment under its business model. Philosophically, James was onboard with the model but he had no idea of the nature and extent of the underlying program involvement.
The tech was limited in scale and application but had the scope to achieve far more. James’ nerve damaged was highly specific and localised but fixing his own paralysis would present a jaw-dropping achievement to the world. The success with bone encapsulation essentially proved that it would be possible to build larger in vivo “microlabs” around body structures within which stem cells could be used to deliver larger scale reconstruction than James himself needed. Over time, the customer base would expand to anyone with forms of trauma, organ damage or failure. Pre-emptive stem cell banking and the creation of universal stem cell banks were all in the pipeline.
There was an unresolved discussion in the program around treatment provision to the military. If it were possible to cheaply and extensively repair combat trauma injuries, the cost and consequence of war would drop. Idealists argued that blocking the military was the right thing to do in order to keep war unattractive. Realists argued that all humans should have access for a price and price gouging the military for the damage it does to people and the world would enable military budget redistribution. Scott remained undecided.
“Where would you like the first clinic to be opened?” Scott asked as he felt the jet levelling out into the cruise.
“Ideally, the least corrupt nation in Africa. Botswana only has 2.3 million people in it, so the internal customer base is going to be tiny initially. But if we suck international customers in on this model, the country will massively benefit. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ve got to fix myself first. It’s going to be some kind of fresh hell for a while. I haven’t stood up in 20 years, never mind done a bench press.”
“We can get Mags to send the advanced team to Botswana to open negotiations there around general principles. We can use that as a reference point for the rest of the continent. A little African competition will help ensure we get the terms we want. We need to avoid any form of trade deal terms and boilerplate stuff.”
“If we have an in-country entity that’s licensing from Resurgenesis, that means there’s no international trade, right?”
“Hopefully. Mags will find out. You know that you won’t be lauded and famous, don’t you? You’ll be notorious, infamous…”
“The American Who Abandoned America. I’ll be instantly labelled a communist. Fuck ‘em. We don’t owe our system anything, even if it thinks we do. We have to put maximum effort into expanding the treatment capability. If we can demonstrate cardiovascular regeneration and largescale organ repair then we’ll be on the curve for the post Covid shot world. Have you sorted the day pills yet?”
“Yep. Production has been running for weeks in Vietnam, Nigeria, Uganda and Brazil. It’s under $3 a week per head.”
“Great. Another reason for our government to hate us.”
“They won’t know it’s us. We’ve got enough shit to deal with getting you to tango.”
“Hey, asshole! We agreed K-POP was gonna be my TEDTalk routine! That ain’t changin’!”
Scott arrived at the site in the guise of a serious business professional. A navy suit and crisp white shirt was as far as he needed to go. He was met at the entrance to Resurgenesis by Haley Clarke, James’ Counsel and President of Operations. She was a program member and James’ primary personal protection, although he didn't know it. She was also the fastest and most effective form of program surveillance on James. She was a corporate lawyer and MD. Her responsibilities included leading the outsourced legal team from Maggie's firm, being a medical sounding board for James and a general manager. As gifted as James was, his skills were more technical than social and his bedside manner was lacking.
“Scott, great to see you again! How's the family settling in?”
“Likewise!” Scott embraced her like an old friend. “Great, the villa’s lovely. We're all together there and mom and dad will come over here to be with James once he starts up. Can you visit with us this week? Clarissa could do with some critical palates.”
“Sure. Alan and the kids will appreciate seeing you all. Thursday would be good.”
They strolled briskly through the airy, white minimalist lobby. Clinical sparsity was the name of the game everywhere in the hexagonal Resurgenesis building until in the core courtyard above the treatment area. At ground level there was a central Japanese garden surrounded by comfortable leisure, food and break out areas, all in stark contrast to the windowless labs. James had a deep love of traditional Japanese architectural style that imbued stillness and peace.
Scott had full access to the entire building and he swept through security as though he was an employee. They headed straight down the main stairs to the second basement level where the treatment core lay.
“How are the staff reacting to changes?” Scott said.
“The security isn’t really visible. No one knows what to look for. They're all mainly in the lab so they don't see anything different. Background work from Maggie's end is uninvasive. Sharma's team know enough of what's going on, but the wider company doesn't know, as per the plan. None of the ER work affects other workstreams so it will feel like business as usual until we announce anything. James’ presence won't change much, will it? He's always been the semi recluse. Once he's off the machine he can glide around a little and no one will really notice.”
“What do you think the odds of success are?”
“80% provided we see cellular site binding. None of the animal tests could replicate how long James has been crippled. We've always fixed recent injuries but as long as the initiation works, I think the process should follow the animal results.”
Within the microlab, initiation introduced enzymes to the area of nerve damage that would attack the glial scarring around the nerve to expose the nerve endings. This scarring was either absent or far lighter in animal tests than in James, whose injuries had occurred over two decades ago. Once exposed, the nerve endings would be repaired and reconnected via exposure to the full stem cell process. James’ right brachial plexus had been severed in the car crash by his own broken clavicle bone. The impact of the truck had also broken his spine at waist height and severed his spinal column. Fine keyhole surgery would allow access to the areas of nerve damage and each location would have a graphene microlab structure built around it to contain the chemical and cellular treatments that would be carefully circulated. The spine was actually the easier area to work on as the damage was inside one vertebra, which was a self contained area that could simply have an input and output tap introduced through the bone. The graphene was still required to contain the treatment and avoid contamination of the spinal fluid.
“How are the team?”
“Serious as always, but excited. They're all eager to treat James because they are so confident in the treatment. That's a good thing. Very little doubt in themselves and the process. I don't sense much fear. James’ mortality risk is minimal so they aren't afraid for their jobs or the company. They don’t expect what will come afterwards though.”
No one but the program, James and his family knew about the model that would be used to deliver ER to patients. The risks of resultant staff discontent were best kept to zero by maintaining secrecy. Money would compensate anyone's disappointment after the treatment had been proven.
At the bottom of the staircase was a white wall with a plain RFID card access panel that sported a single dot of red light. Haley passed her ID in front of the panel and an adjacent section of the wall the size of a double door retracted then slid apart in half, opening the wall. Through the doorway was another perpendicular, white, curving corridor. They entered, turned right and picked up the pace, passing lab doors on the right. The ten-foot-wide corridor curved left and was totally blank on the left wall. This was the outer corridor, some 60 meters long. At the end of the corridor the left wall terminated with a three meter gap to the end wall. The floor of the gap was marked with off white hatching, visible but not eye catching. It was the same width as the wall and denoted where the solid concrete drop-in wall would land once the lab destruction sequence was initiated. Turning left over the hatched floor they doubled back into a two meter wide corridor that curved right in a tighter arc than the outer corridor. No doors led off either side. Another 60 meters led to the end, configured as before with the hatched gap on the right. They doubled back again into the inner corridor. In here, the acid and sarin gas system was rigged. The curvature, now sweeping left, matched the arc of the second corridor. At the end, just beyond the hatched floor section, was a frosted glass wall with a secure access door. Haley pressed her pass against the door with her right hand and pressed her whole left hand against the door while looking left. Multivariate biometrics unlocked the door. Scott followed her inside.
Beyond the door lay the treatment room. It was a circular room 30 meters in diameter, divided around its perimeter into labs and offices. The entire level was self contained and had no external signal or comms access. The level was air gapped because this was where all the Endogenous Regeneration was done by James with Sharma's team. Ahead of Haley and Scott was another straight white wall and floor to ceiling dark wooden door. Haley swiped it open to reveal a corporate looking maze of glass walls that divided the space into rooms, corridors and clinical spaces. Detonation of the shaped charges would fill the air with lethal glass shrapnel. Haley led the way through to where James was working. Despite being two levels underground, the entire complex was lit via its glowing ceiling which emanated light from its white surface that emulated the intensity of the daylight outside. This made it feel like the space was somehow lit by daylight, and preserved human body clock synchronicity. As the overhead light dimmed with the progression of time, normal lighting could be used or controls could override a room’s ceiling lighting.
James was in a glass walled office full of large screens filled with medical imagery of all kinds. He was examining his own physiology for the nth time to finalise the surgical interventions required to place the microlabs.
“Hi! Just messing around with my treatment plan. Sharma's doing his own take. We’ll compare final notes and compromise on the differences. Eventually.”
James gave Scott a walkthrough of the plan. Each damage site of the brachial plexus would be accessed with keyhole surgery. An inlet and outlet micro line would then be positioned. A three dimensional electromagnetic field would then be created around each repair site by cycling the external field generator at super high speed to trace out the microlab structure. The graphene would then be fed into the field and it would self assemble into the microlab structure, encapsulating the damaged nerve. The chemical and stem cell mix would then be pumped through the microlab to initiate the treatment.
Sharma's team would do the surgery and place the micro lines. The subsequent work was non surgical and was all controlled via a terminal and interfaces. James’ treatment would be monitored with MRI imaging. The entire treatment bed sat inside the MRI unit. Fibre optic micro cameras would a view of the nerves, but the microlab would be barely visible. It was actually over-engineered just so that it could be seen visually. Stem cell levels in the circulating fluid would be monitored using a form of flow cytometry so that the team would know, from lowering outflow cell concentrations, that the cells were attaching to the nerves.
“You haven’t said anything about the elephant in the room, Jimmy. It’s been a few days now, so time for me to ask.”
James smiled. He knew immediately which elephant Scott was referring to. “We’ll just have to see.... That’s why rehab is going to be so hard.”
“Could any of the monkeys do any K-POP moves after you fixed them?”
“Not unless what they were doing was charitably considered ‘re-interperative dance.’ But they could reliably jerk off.”
Fixing brachial plexus damage was easy. Each nerve in the plexus was distinct and separate. Re-joining each nerve resulted in reliable outcomes of restored control over the arm. The spinal nerve bundle was different. Reconstructing the nerves didn’t guarantee that each nerve in the spinal column was correctly wired up. This resulted in potentially random results. Trying to lift one’s left leg and having one’s right foot rotate was just one example of crosswiring. The spinal column was incredibly complex and the treatment lacked fine control over the restoration process.
“So, what’s the worst outcome you anticipate?”
“Crosswiring of autonomic, sensory and motor nerves, resulting in total lower body confusion. Feelings confused with motion, autonomic misfires causing God knows what results. Likely this would be kinds of consciously overwhelming spasms and convulsions, nonsense pain, and other phenomena. We’ve seen this in the animals but we don’t know what it feels like to live that and how much can be consciously overcome through neuroplasticity.”
Scott turned to Haley. “On a scale of one to ten, how much is Jimmy downplaying this?”
“Worst case, about an 8. Show him the footage.”
James rolled his eyes and sighed exaggeratedly.
“Spoilsports,” he said. He opened a folder of research footage files and played one. “This subject is fully rebuilt but anaesthetized from above the spinal damage site to shut off lower body responses. Watch…”
The monkey was sat in a chair in front of a desk-like surface, strapped for upright support. It looked generally calm. It was successfully using both arms to eat a selection of food laid out before it.
“Both arms are working correctly. It’s basically placid, save for the fact that its legs are totally fucked and he knows he’s paralysed. This is two weeks after the cellular regrowth. We identified that its right arm’s dexterity was probably about 80% at this stage, which is common and continued to improve in almost all subjects. Now… the bad news…” James scrubbed forwards through the video. “We gave him a general anaesthetic that overlapped with the wearing off of the spinal anaesthetic. He wakes up to full spinal connection, but the effects occur before he regains consciousness.”
The monkey’s legs began to occasionally move in unpredictable ways. Random jolts, large and small occurred mainly in the thighs and hips, but the feet and toes displayed other odd movements, some rhythmic and repetitive, others not.
“See there. His left outer toes clamp now for 17 seconds. Then release. Then clamp again without pattern. He’s not even awake.”
Further into the video, the monkey began to regain consciousness, then all hell broke loose.
“Fuck! Errr…” Scott couldn’t contain his mixture of surprise, disdain, horror and amusement at the nightmarish scene. The monkey was clearly in profound confusion and distress. It appeared to have no sensible control over its lower body, but some of the limb movements were likely to be the result of conscious attempts to control them. “…that’s a living hell.”
“But it’s necessary to know this. I knew this would be the spinal case.” Scott had always known too, but playing dumb was key. James continued. “Sedation gives us a baseline of signals and responses - inputs and outputs - which are unconscious and autonomic. We can map those and make some sense of them by measuring upstream and downstream nervous system signals. That basically tells us what’s wired to what. Then we do the same when he’s awake and we can see what conscious systems are connected to what but it doesn’t fix the wiring problem.”
“OK, what about the options after that?”
James deferred to Hayley.
“First, keep the spinal column shut down with drugs or by literally cutting it again, but that’s not ideal because we’ve now introduced a region of poor connections and we can’t perfectly undo that bad wiring job. Second, let the subject try to learn the conscious aspects to reprogram themselves, but this is tricky with a monkey and all the autonomic problems remain. Third, try to exercise greater control over the spinal reconnection somehow, which is the approach we’ve taken.”
James opened another video file. A monkey in a skull cap full of wires was held upright in front of a mirror. It was being repetitively prodded in the centre of its right thigh. An overlay showed the read off from the brain signals. He fast forwarded to two side-by-side fMRI scans that showed signals firing in fractionally different regions regions of the money's brain with slightly different intensity.
Hayley continued. “We introduced only sensory neurons into the spine. That’s purely sensory rewiring. We had a detailed functional brain MRI neural map of subjects’ responses to lower body sensory stimuli before we cut their spinal column. After sensory reconstruction, we compare back to this map, which shows us how the rewiring has worked out differently. We can then retrain the monkey, as long as it can see the stimulus. So if we poke it in the middle of the right thigh and it feels something in the left toe, it can mentally remap that on something of a Pavlovian basis. We can watch the changes on fMRI results.”
James scrubbed ahead on the video.
“So… we’ve been programming the subject to see that being prodded in the right thigh feels like something else. Now, we make that a form of pain it can interrupt.” A sharp, plastic spike on a flexible arm was being poked into the same place on the monkey’s thigh. In response to the pain, it instinctively reached out to its left shin to bat away the pain. “Now we know where the reconstructed sensory nerves lead to. Next, we help the monkey to react properly by training it to knock away the painful spike. It gets it in the end.”
“This should be marginally easier for me to learn, given that I know what’s going on and I’m not a monkey.” James said. “Once I’ve got a reasonable level of sensory coherence, we can try a second round of reconstruction with motor neurons. I need sensory first in order to exercise motor control. Without sense, I don’t have a closed feedback loop. Like trying to walk when one’s legs are anaesthetized. Imagine dancing with two dead legs.”
“I managed to woo Jessica with a dancing style just like that. It’s got its uses, bro.”
“She’s just an incredibly charitable person. You’re her rescue Scottie dog, Scotty.”
Scott didn’t bother to question whether James was sure about what he was embarking upon. James had already weighed things up for himself better than any other patient could. He was his own test subject and needed to be in direct receipt of the experimental data in order to understand.
“Are you gonna explain all this to mom and dad? You might wanna manage their expectations but I’d think twice about showing them those videos.”
“I’ll explain it when they come in later. We need to agree a way to explain it that’ll keep dad around for as long as possible. Some kind of goal-based timeline. Give him one more reason to keep going. Two weeks for my initial treatment. Arm results two weeks after that. Spinal results four weeks after that. Just keep rolling out goals. Fuck what his conventional prognoses are. We’ve already screwed with them all just by using mushrooms, THC, CBD and everything else.”
“If this process greatly depends upon neuroplasticity,” Scott said, “what are you using to increase James’ plasticity? From what I know, I’d suggest that a suite of psychoactives would make sense. You’ve got to maximise the programmability of James’ grey matter.”
“The first two weeks of James’ regime will be unaided. Then we’re going to cycle through various psychoactives, mostly natural. Modafinil is in there as well. Depending upon the results, we might be able to develop a mixed drug regime that enhances his neuroplasticity.”
“One factor that we will be testing for is memory effect. I’ve lost a lot of conscious memory of what my legs felt like, although I still have dreams about being fully able. That diminished memory may make it easier for me to cope with the sensory miswiring and maybe even the motor miswiring. I’ll just learn to work with things as they are. We’ll see.”
“What about other means of influencing consciousness? Without drugs?” Scott looked across at Hayley. He could feel her smiling inside.
“My nature is to follow strict experimental protocols, but the psychoactives are off the books anyway,” said James. “I’m open-minded. What did you have in mind?”
“I can bring in a trainer today but you’ve got to be dedicated. Trust me on this, bro.”
Oh, I liked that very much. Can not "suss it out" if was reading fiction or nonfiction. Absolutely fascinating and, I'm not off "scientific mind" either.
Thank you for affording me the pleasure of reading it.