Second Chance

Credit: Vitaly Bulgarov

When my eyes closed that night, to all those tearful faces, it was not fear that I felt. It was a nervousness, that pang of nervousness before a first step into the unknown. The questions followed me into the darkness, questions about my chances, questions about Abe’s words, questions about the life I had lived, the decisions that had brought me to this moment, and a fate I did not ask for. Then came the memories. My own heavy eyes seemed to slow down in that final breath, the faces of my loved ones frozen in sorrow, as I recalled it all…

For the first few years of my life, I was as ordinary as any little girl could be. A good home, a loving family, in a continent risen from the darkness. I was not born yet when the Great Reform happened, and the stories of my people’s past – how lost they were back then – always amused me. My parents would tell them to me all the time. They knew what Africa was like before. They had lived it. And from my perspective, hell did not begin to describe it. They taught me the important stuff in their own ways, Mama as the lifelong activist, Papa as the scientist, and their lessons would play no small part in the person I would become.

Those were the precious years.

I was 19 when I experienced the first symptoms, nearly tumbling down the steps of the university library as my legs seemed to vanish from beneath me. The diagnosis was swift. I had joined the ranks of the untold millions throughout human history who were doomed to walk the Earth knowing not just that their days were numbered, but exactly what that number was, to live every day with a timer counting down in their mind’s eye. Despite the acuteness and unusually early onset of my condition, I got played a good hand as far life expectancy was concerned. I’d certainly see my own graduation, maybe even enjoy a bit of a career afterwards, but eventually, inevitably, I would lose my ability to walk, move, speak and breathe.

Every day was a new shot in the dark, as my family and I reached out, scouring the cybersphere for answers. Africa had evolved, but motor neurone disease was a condition even the earlier technological birds across the big pond hadn’t figured out yet. There were encouraging studies, exotic experimental therapies with exotic costs, but nothing that could really save me. Between the hopeless marathons, I tried to live as normally as I could, spearheading my campus club, hanging out with my friends – who had quickly come to associate me with my walking stick – and speculating about a future that seemed a little darker every day. And one day, at a guest lecture at school, I met Abe Hailu, CEO and lead researcher at Isidǟ Corp, the AU’s first cryonics company. He had given a presentation on advances in longevity medicine, and I had asked a question clever enough to get his attention. As we walked down a serene pathway through the campus, I poured out the rest of my thoughts, fascinated by the promise his field showed, and his company’s relationships with other firms advancing bionics and genetic engineering.

“So how long have you had this illness?” he asked, as we paused on a bench.

“2 years now,” I said. “And I have about 8 more to live if I’m lucky.”

“What if I told you I could help get you more time?”

“I would tell you I’m barely getting by financially as it is,” I said, with a smirk that barely masked my sadness at the fact.

“Good to know. Well... Isidǟ, on the other hand, is doing just fine. Of course we’d never say no to a donation... but we’re not currently interested in profit. I’m certainly not.”

“You’re being serious, aren’t you?” I said, after a long pause in which my lips may or may not have been an inch apart.

“You’re a gifted woman, Alaere,” he said. “It would be a shame to let the whims of natural selection rob the world of those gifts.”

At that point, I’m certain my mouth was wide open. Then I gathered myself, saving trying to believe this was happening for later. The conversation continued a while, flowing effortlessly from topic to topic, and then we parted ways, his card in my hand, and a million questions running through my head.

I called him the next day, after telling my parents about our talk, and feeling the same amusement at their shock that he probably felt at mine. A meeting was organized, mostly to sort out all the paperwork and get me acquainted with reps from the other firms we’d discussed. To Abe, Isidǟ Corp was a labour of love. He wished to further the science of longevity by any ethical means necessary, with the hope that a profitable but accessible industry could be born in the coming years. An idealist’s dream, but then this was an age where ideals flourished. I was given a slot, and was free to pursue alternatives in the meantime, with Isidǟ’s technology being a last resort, a final card to be played against fate when all else failed.

On the day of my graduation, a good bit of my speech had been effectively reduced to slurs, but with some effort I could still walk. I graduated with honours, and endured much applause from a supportive academic community, from my family and my dear, stupid friends. It was an embarrassingly clumsy walk across the stage to shake hands and grab my diploma, but the outpour of love and goodwill gave me ease. A happy day, made even more special by the uncertainties that lay ahead.

I had graduated with a degree in energy sciences, and wanted to get a taste of industry before I furthered my studies. The university’s placement program made finding a gig easy, a fusion plant about a mile from my home. It was a paid internship, the salary a good boost to my savings while I gratefully enjoyed my parents’ support. I was tasked with maintaining and upgrading the fuel cells that stored excess power from the reactors, to feed the grid when necessary. The disability forbade me to do as much as I’d have liked to, but I was content. What I lacked in coordination, I made up for with the fruits of my still vibrant mind, the innovations that guaranteed me a permanent place in the plant as soon as I was ready. I had only just surrendered to a wheelchair when the internship ended, and returned home for the long wait to apply for a graduate program.

Then the complications worsened. I could still blink, swallow, move my fingers and feet, use the bathroom, and manage the occasional cheeky comment, but my neurons simply wouldn’t communicate with the rest of my body. The usual medications increased, but did only so much to delay the inevitable. The clock had hastened. My time, short enough, had now been slashed again. And when a breathing tube stuck out of my throat at last, and I was all but perpetually confined to my bed, my mind was made up.

It took no time at all getting me to Isidǟ. I spent 2 days in the facility, as all the final preparations were made, and final consent given. The rest of my family were notified, friends too. The ones who could make it came, to say goodbye. Then the medications were halted, shattering that fragile barrier that kept the worst of my symptoms at bay, and on the final night, I was little more than a pair of blinking eyes, staring up at a somber world.

Abe’s friends in biotech had brought in a special device that could translate my brainwaves into speech. They’d coded in recordings of my voice for a better effect, and as soon as the sensor was placed on my head, I began my farewell. I thanked my parents for their unconditional love. I thanked my friends for their support. I joked, I laughed, we laughed, and we wept. The translator did a pretty good job. And when all was said that needed to be said, I gave the go-ahead, steeling myself as the euthanizing sedative was pumped into my bloodstream.

When my eyes closed that night, to all those tearful faces, it was not fear that I felt. It was a nervousness, that pang of nervousness before a first step into the unknown. Then the questions. Then the memories. Then a calmness…

Then darkness…

Then... nothing.

Then I awoke, laying down, as if from a dream. The room looked exactly the same as it did that night. How long had it been? Had it been any time at all? Did I actually die? Was this some kind of afterlife?

A critical mind soon found its bearings. This was real. I was back! But how? A hand reach up before me to touch my face, and my eyes widened in terror. Then I realized it was my hand. I had thought. It had moved. I could move!

The door to my left opened, startling me again, and a lady walked through, dressed in a white turtleneck top and trousers, with glittering patterns on both pieces: the signature attire of Isidǟ staff.

“Hi,” she said, with a warm smile. “I’m Samke. We were wondering when you’d wake. Welcome back.”

I just stared at her.

“I know how… strange this must feel,” she said, coming closer until she was next to the bed. “But you’ve adjusted just fine. Go on. Take it for a test drive.”

“Take…” I said, surprised at my own words, surprised to hear my own voice, as clear as it was before the nightmares began.

“Oh, your body, I mean,” she said, giggling at her poor phrasing. “Go on. Try to stand.”

I willed my legs to move. They did. I willed my torso to move. It did. Mouth agape, eyes welling up, I sat at the side of the bed, looking down at my dangling feet. Then I willed my toes to move. They did. I willed my legs to stand. They did. I took a step forward, Samke reaching for my shoulders with the speed of instinct as I staggered.

“Hey,” she said. “It’s okay. Look.” She pointed to the wall space beside me. I followed her finger, vision clearing as tears fell, and saw my 19-year-old self staring back at me in a hospital gown, as healthy as ever I was back then.

“How long has it been?” I said, still glaring at my reflection.

“You’ve been dead for 20 years, I’m afraid.”

The words ripped my gaze from the mirror and hurled it right back at her.

“20…” I said. Then realization shot through me. “My parents!”

“Alive and well,” she said, her smile broadening, her hand coming up to my shoulder again. “They’ve been with us every step of the way, gave some very useful input for your new body. We called them as soon as you woke. They’re on their way here right now.”

I stared at her for a while yet. The warmth in her smile had not wavered once. Bewilderment, relief, joy, sorrow – a storm of emotions threatened to rip me apart. But calm came soon, and curiosity found me stepping towards the window, drawing the curtains.

“The world has changed quite a bit since you died,” said Samke. “But I have a feeling you’ll adapt just fine.”

Looking out over this changed world, knowing that a great storm had indeed passed, and a future of even brighter possibilities stretched out before me, all I could say was…

“Thank you.”

***

© 2022 Barra Hart. All rights reserved.

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