Ashes of Foreverland (3 page)

The many questions and answers bouncing off the hard floor and glass walls lulled. Many of them turned toward Dr. Baronov, waiting for his response to this particular question.

“We have not. We follow the law.”

“What about Patricia Ballard?” a journalist asked. “Where is she?”

“Yes, she is here.” He addressed the room as a whole, an answer he wanted to be clearly heard. “She has been here for quite some time, but I assure you there has been no experimentation. We are only serving to support her life. I believe you would agree we are best suited for such purpose.”

“No research at all?”

“I believe you know her story, so I will not repeat it. It is very unfortunate what she was forced to do and we are respecting her life, as we were asked to do. That is all I will comment, thank you.”

Alex noticed doors on the other side of the room, not the ones where they had entered. Guards stood in front of them. Judging by the lock, the guards weren't necessary. But, perhaps, what was behind them wasn't meant to be seen at any cost.

Coco's nostrils flared.

Alex swore she heard something guttural beneath his chin. The photographer was too busy reviewing his shots to notice.

“What about reports that Patricia is still hosting a Foreverland?” someone asked.

“The doctor will not comment further,” Ellen announced. “We would like the focus to remain on the process and the future of this technology.”

A few more voices chimed in. The journalists had what they came for. Now they were going for the great white shark, the jewel of this story:
Patricia Ballard, the only living human to host a computer-aided alternate reality.

“Is she currently connected to a CAAR network?” someone asked.

Something moved beneath Coco's eyelids. His eyes moved back and forth as if, for the first time, he was experiencing REM. The saliva spread into surrounding wrinkles.

“How do you respond to reports of using synthetic brain cells on Patricia?” another person shouted. “Could she reach out to other people with brain biomites?”

“Is that why we're not allowed to use our enhancements?” somebody else asked.

“Any alterations we have implemented,” Dr. Baronov said, “have been within our code of conduct, the law, and for the good of Patricia Ballard.”

“Are you monitoring her inner world?”

“Can you communicate with her?”

“What does her world look like?”

The walls went black and the lights dimmed. The scientists were leaving. Coco's eyes continued to dance.

Alex ignored the chill down her back and leaned closer. Her scalp began to tingle. Warmth trickled from the top of her head, down into her chest, pushing away the chills. She didn't notice that she had stopped shivering.

“We will continue the tour through the staging area, where you will get a glimpse into Coco's inner world on computer monitors,” Ellen announced. “Please, everyone, exit to the left where—”

The eyelids popped open.

Dark brown irises stared up.

Alex saw her reflection in the engorged pupils. But behind her she saw not the fluorescent lights or the black walls. It was something entirely different, something she didn't expect, not in a million years.

Palm trees.

“Oh!” Alex jumped back. Her fingers trembled over her mouth. Her chest was buzzing.

Her thighs filled with icy water. Her knees came unhinged.

Mason caught her before she hit the floor.

The energy shifted in the room. Several people ran to her. Mason laid her on her back. A red light reflected off the black walls. Ellen directed traffic. The journalists were ushered out of the room. Mason was the last one.

The red light and buzzing were coming from the identity card around Alex's neck. The monitor had been activated.

Her enhancements were engaged.

New York City

T
he waiting room was nearly empty.

Alex sat in a row of thinly cushioned seats that were linked at the armrests, staring at a properly dressed young man sitting almost statuesque. He was reading a
National Geographic
, an odd choice, so it seemed, for a kid with shoulder-length hair and clothing he likely found at a resale shop. The color of his hair matched the trunks of the palm trees on the front cover.

Later on, she would remember that.

She watched the traffic crawl, from the sixth-story office. Forty-Sixth Street was worse than usual. She attempted to ignore how long it would take to drive home, but her mind kept doing the math. She thumbed through emails on her phone.

Another one from the Institute.

Her lawyer had made it clear for them to leave her alone, that any contact be directed to her attorney. This health screening she agreed to had already eaten a day out of her life. They said she had violated her terms of agreement by engaging her enhancements while on tour. She explained the nature of her condition, that she was prone to seizures and her biomites had auto-engaged when one was coming.

But the thing was this: she hadn't felt one coming.

If she thought about it, the whole auto-engage incident was nothing she had ever experienced. Even if she hadn't agreed to see a doctor, to document the seizure-induced auto-engagement, she would've gone to see him anyway.

Coco opened his eyes.

He woke up, she was sure of it. But when she told the EMTs, they assured her everything was all right. They even brought the photographer out, the young man that was snapping photos when she
went ape,
as someone said. Not a single shot with the eyes open.

“He never moved,” the photographer said.

Her phone rang. “Hey,” she answered.

“Still there?” Her husband's voice piped through the Bluetooth cells implanted near her auditory nerve.

“Still here.”

“Have you heard the results?”

“No, not yet.” She checked the time again. “They're running late.”

“Okay.” There was a long pause. “How you feeling?”

“Good.” She told him about traffic and the rude receptionist that still worked for the biomite doctor. If the doctor wasn't so good, she'd go somewhere else. And, oddly enough, it wasn't far from the Institute. She could see the front door from the lobby if she stood to the right.

“Thought you'd be done,” Samuel said. “We're back at the car, suppose we could walk around.”

He said
we,
but she didn't catch that. She did notice his voice was a little off; it sounded like he had a cold.

“I'll text when I know, but it could be another twenty minutes or, I don't know, twenty-four hours.”

He chuckled. “We'll just double-park. I'm sure the parking fairies will understand.”

“We?”

“Mrs. Diosa?” the receptionist called.

Alex stood slowly and paused before walking toward the receptionist, making sure the floor was steady. That was the other thing she didn't tell Samuel, just how unstable everything felt. If she stood too fast or walked too quickly, the world felt...unreliable. Like walking on thin ice.

“You realize it's an hour after my appointment?”

The woman behind the counter pointed at the door to Alex's left without looking, her fingernail tapping on the iPad's glass. She wrinkled her nose like Alex wasn't wearing deodorant.

“Dr. Mallard got called out.”

“Then who am I seeing?”

She sighed. “Dr. Johnstone.”

“Who?”

Alex continued to stare. The receptionist didn't look up, pointing at the door instead. A sharp letter to Dr. Mallard was in order.

——————————————

E
nhance Your Life.

That was written on the only poster in the examination room, attached to the back of the door, an elderly woman beaming at children on a playground.

Biomites.

The medical industry introduced synthetic stem cells as the cure-all to human suffering, engineered to replace organic cells in the body, to regenerate damaged tissues, immunize cells and heighten senses. And now the possibility of wireless communication.

Some people seeded their legs to become better athletes; some improved a faulty heart. Others used them to replace skin cells; there were even rumors they could change the way they looked. The government only let you have so many biomites, so seeding your skin to look younger seemed more than superfluous.

It was idiotic.

But, hey, enhance your life.

The old woman looked so happy with her white teeth and wrinkle-free smile, like she would live forever and love every minute of it. Because that was what people wanted, they wanted to live forever.

Alex touched the poster, leaning in as if closer inspection would reveal the deep-down dirty secret. She had seen enough dark corners in humanity to know we didn't deserve immortality.

No one wants to live forever.

The door opened. Alex jumped and, regrettably, went, “Eeep.”

Dr. Johnstone didn't notice. He was young, athletic and handsome. His hair was brown and curly, a little longer than usual for someone in his profession. And he smelled clean. Almost too clean, as if that was possible.

He introduced himself and apologized for the last minute substitution. She kicked the tires and asked for qualifications. He gave her a rundown.

“Have a seat.” He gestured across the table. “Let's talk.”

“That sounds serious.”

“Everything's fine, Alex. There's nothing to worry about.”

He docked an iPad on a round table. The glass surface lit up with an image of a naked brain. Her brain. He swiped his hand across it and various colors appeared. He began explaining how things worked, referring to methodology and seeding rates and recent biomite strains.

“You had a full scan with some biofeedback after your incident at the Institute and there's nothing abnormal. The majority of your biomites seeds are in your brain and the proliferation is proceeding nicely.” He touched a thicket of red cottony growth near the frontal lobe. It looked more like a tumor. “Your cognitive functions are at peak performance for a woman your age.”

“My age?”

“Mid-thirties, I'm guessing?” He smiled devilishly. He was only off by ten years. “Have you experienced an increase in performance since seeding?”

This was starting to sound like an erectile dysfunction commercial. “So why did I auto-engage?”

He shrugged. “The biofeedback didn't provide an answer, but that's not unusual.”

She mentioned seizures, but he was doubtful.

“Have you ever done meditation?”

“No.”

“You'll realize that we typically entertain more thoughts than we're aware of. There's all sorts of static going on in our minds, usually just below the surface. The subconscious is deep and mysterious. It's possible you engaged them without knowing.”

“Wouldn't biofeedback show that?”

“In most cases. Or maybe you just don't want to remember.”

She frowned. She didn't like to mix existentialism with her doctor's appointments. Stick to the facts, and the fact was this: Coco opened his eyes.

“Is there any chance someone could engage my enhancements?”

“What do you mean?”

“Some sort of wireless chatter that crossed over.”

He shook his head. “Currently, there's no evidence of person-to-person mindjacking, if that's what you mean.”

“But biomites can wirelessly communicate.”

“Within your body, that's the extent.”

She didn't mention what they said at the Institute, that the needle might become irrelevant due to biomite connectivity. Doubtful he would even believe the needle part.

“Subliminal messaging and thought hijacking are in the movies, Alex. Biomites are meant to enhance your senses, to heal injuries, and prevent genetic disease. They're not magic. You've got to take care of yourself—sleep right, eat right, moderate caffeine and sugar, lower your stress.”

“My lifestyle never bothered me.”

“Spicy food never used to bother me.” He'd used that line before. Something told her he had this talk with a lot of his patients. He scribbled on the iPad. “I'm writing a prescription for anxiety. Take it for a month. It'll help you sleep, calm you down. Let's see how it goes. Come back in a month.”

She nodded, but that was a white lie. “Just so we're clear, all the tests were normal?”

“Correct.”

“I need an answer for the auto-engage, Doctor. I didn't do it.” The doctor shook his head. “Can you at least recognize that I have a history of seizures and that there is a possibility of auto-engagement?”

“It's already in my report.”

“And would you also include that there is a chance that biofeedback would not necessarily tell you it was auto-engagement that occurred, that a subconscious thought beyond my awareness could be responsible?”

“That's a small chance, Alex.”

“Still a chance.”

He sighed. She was gearing up for a lawsuit. “I can do that, if you promise me something. Slow your life down. Biomites don't make you invincible.”

He looked at his wristwatch, a round antique with two hands and a second hand ticking across the numbers.
Strange choice for a man steeped in technology.

“I'll see what I can do.”

He left before she could ask about the wristwatch.

——————————————

T
he waiting room was empty.

She didn't hesitate leaving the office, the receptionist busy texting or posting photos of quitting time. The hinges on the glass door squealed at a pitch that could shatter diamonds. It was unnerving and unacceptable and that would go in her tersely worded letter to Dr. Mallard, along with her reservations to continue as a patient.

The elevator doors were open and waiting. She punched the button and texted her husband, watching the traffic lights and endless line of brake lights.