A Ghost for a Clue

by C L R Draeco

  I gave a lopsided grin. “Can’t have her heading for the light instead of me.”

  “Good move. You were startin’ to look and smell like the Devil ’imself. Where’s Jackson?”

  “On a holocall with Treble, her brother overseas.”

  “Bad idea.”

  I frowned. “Why?”

  “No one should let ’er tie up loose ends. She’s gonna not want to have closure. She’s gonna not want to be ready for it all to end. She’s gotta have every goddamn reason on the face o’ this Earth to wanna come back and get on with ’er life.”

  I lost hold of one spasm of angst. “She can’t possibly be ready. Can she?”

  “Hey.” Roy jabbed me on the arm, a lot lighter than how he usually did. I guessed he knew I was holding myself together by a thread. “O’course she can’t. She knows you’d be a mess if she left you now.”

  Enrik, the project director, came walking towards us. Though he was dressed in white coveralls like everyone else in the team, he stood out because of his copper-colored hair cut like freshly mowed grass and bright blue eyes that always seemed to sparkle with “Eureka!”

  “Bram, we’re about ready. We’ve sent someone for Dr. Jackson.”

  I nodded as my stomach muscles tightened in reflex, and my gaze fell to the ground.

  “C’mon, man.” Roy had to nudge me to follow him out to the corridor and into a small anteroom where we were each handed a pile of sterile medical garments. I retreated to a corner and laid the items down on a bench. Surgical gown, a mask, gloves, shoe covers, and a scrub cap. The feather-light garments seemed made of lead as I sorted through them. These were meant to cover me from head to toe, except that one part of me I needed to hide from Torula: My eyes. If she took one look at them, they were bound to betray my fears.

  More than anyone, she needed to believe that this would work. More than anyone, she needed to believe in me.

  “You need a hand, bro?” Roy had donned his medical wear quickly and quietly and was done.

  “No. I just need . . .” More time. Some answers. A drink. “. . . to just . . .” Find my courage that had suddenly gone missing. “I’m okay.”

  I walked towards the swinging doors that opened into the main room—the room where it would all happen. I peered through the view panels and folded my arms. The mere sight of the place made me shiver.

  The area was about twice the size of where we had tested the mannequin, also a wash of white from floor to ceiling. I glanced around the room full of strangers. No friends or relatives of Torula around, just as she had insisted—but there had been no stopping Roy from coming. The equipment he’d designed was about to be used in an experiment that would involve ending a human life. We’d told him not to come so he could claim innocence. But he’d made a case about how, if it hadn’t been for us, he would’ve lost his best friend, and that he knew more about this procedure than anyone else on the planet.

  NASA agreed: He had to be here.

  I had thanked him in some heartfelt, stilted, inadequate way. There was no expressing how grateful I was that he’d been so bullheaded about it.

  A handful of people in surgical garb stood working behind the new Motown—a modified cryogenic chamber, which Roy had helped customize for Torula. It had been fitted with a fine wire-mesh coating and transparent mu-metal foil, turning it into a Faraday shield.

  The Ames engineers had called the glass cylinder “a relic”—something they’d used in “bygone” studies on healing and pain management in case of injury during a space mission. But their so-called museum piece looked, in every way, space-age to me.

  The see-through cylinder resembled the pressurized hyperbaric chambers used in hospitals, except this one was constructed to deliver liquid nitrogen instead of oxygen—and it was meant for outer space. Temperature control would be extremely precise. They would be able to program the exact degree at which the interior would be on any given second, allowing for slow and controlled-rate freezing. Suspended above where her chest would be was the iCube.

  In my mind’s eye, Torula materialized inside the glass cylinder, looking like Sleeping Beauty—her porcelain face framed by her shiny, coal-black hair—but dead. Sweet Jesus. I stepped away and sank down on the bench, the immensity of what I was about to do a heavy, teetering globe on my shoulders.

  Enrik joined us in the anteroom. “Are we ready?”

  I wasn’t, but I said, “Yeah,” and put on the surgical wear as quickly as I could, save for the mask.

  “Just a final recap of what’s ahead.” Enrik flashed the uneasy smile of someone tasked to do an awkward thing at an awkward time. “We need to emphasize that there’s no guarantee we’ll take Dr. Jackson to a state of suspended animation. All the liquid nitrogen will do is buy her a few more minutes. After which, we will need to see a definite indication that a hyperwill transition is in progress. Only then will we have legal clearance to keep her clinically dead for several hours with machine-assisted circulation to finish the transition.” He took a breath. “Otherwise, the doctors will be morally- and dutifully-bound to resuscitate her and abort the next stage of the procedure. Once stable, she will be discharged, and we will be released of obligations on any further medical procedures needed. That, in essence, is what’s in the document that Dr. Jackson signed.”

  “I know. I understand.” I turned away, my head throbbing with a secret I held with Dr. Grant and Torula. She had signed a DNR, a do-not-resuscitate order should she fail to activate the iCube in time. The decision had been made not to tell the rest of the team—because otherwise, no one would have agreed to take part in this mad plan. “Burn the ships,” she’d said, in a feeble attempt at humor because she wanted to set her sights on nothing but the willdisc. Reviving her immediately after what we were about to do would only mean waiting for the end to come again before she could regain enough strength to go through surgery.

  “I’ll see you inside then,” Enrik said with a sigh of relief, having no clue as to my anxiety.

  I put on the surgical mask, my eyes fixed resolutely ahead.

  “Yo, Morrison . . .” Roy looked like a man struggling to say something good when there was nothing good to say. “You’re doin’ the right thing.”

  I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure I believed him. We walked into the main room together, and all eyes turned to me—the man who would give the signal to end Torula’s life. I glanced around at everyone watching me, straining from a distance to gauge how I felt. Despite my doubts about what Roy had just said, with every step, I found it in me to prove I was doing the right thing. Everyone had to believe it: We were doing the right thing.

  The mood shifted back to business when I got to my post by the Motown: The cryogenic Faraday chamber. It helped that the machinery had been intended for space travel. As far as everyone here was concerned, it was a space capsule, and Torula, the test pilot. It gave us all a rational way to deal with what was about to happen.

  “Enrik, ven aqui,” said a woman in a firm, commanding voice. It was Elena, the perfusionist—the clinical expert whom everyone referred to as “the Spanish dictator” in charge of the heart-lung machine, though with her plump physique and kind brown eyes, she made me think more of a doting mother. She was the key person whom everyone credited for having suggested using biological antifreeze to safely keep Torula in cardiac arrest for several hours to complete her transition. The doctors, after some deliberation, acknowledged she could be right.

  I slipped the willdisc into the iCube. Somehow, my gloved hands remained steady, even though every part of me was shaken.

  Then came the faint swoosh of doors swinging open, and a hush fell over the room. I froze, and after a strained heartbeat, turned to face Torula.

  “Hey there.” I smiled beneath my mask as I gazed at the woman who brought sunshine to my mornings and starlight to my nights. Here was the bravest person I knew—even though everyone else around me probably just saw a pale and fragile victim of a degenerative disease, si
tting in a wheelchair, wan, weak, and sad.

  Torula reached for my gloved hand. “How are you?”

  “How am I? How are you?” My tone managed to stay light and casual like a straight line drawn by shaking hands. “You’re the astronaut this time. You beat me to it.”

  She blinked in response, her quick wit now dulled by drugs and dread.

  “Hi, Roy,” she said. “Thanks for everything.”

  “Hell, what you thankin’ me for? I’m gonna put all the work I did ’ere into your tab. With a rush fee to boot and overtime pay for m’boys. You owe me, y’hear?”

  She smiled weakly. “You’ll always be my favorite DJ.”

  Roy’s expression shifted from flattered to flustered within a second. “You sayin’ you like me now? Goddamn it! Who are you, and what’ve you done to Jackson?” He took a step closer. “Listen, yo. I want the real Torula Jackson in that willdisc. The same one who always confangled me with ’er vocab. The one who always stood up and fought to get to ’er goal.” He pointed towards the iCube. “And that willdisc in there—that’s your goal. You got fifteen minutes to find it. And with your smarts, I’m sure you can do it in fifteen seconds.”

  She gave his arm a feeble squeeze. “Thanks again, Roy. For everything.”

  I hated that she kept thanking him. It sounded so . . . final.

  Roy sniffed. “Well, I ain’t done givin’ yet.” Everyone was moving into position, and Roy’s role, at this point, was to stay out of the way. He took a seat at a console table, next to three anonymous others in sterile garb.

  Enrik handed me an earpiece, similar to the discreet device clipped on everyone else’s ears.

  I wheeled Torula towards the cryogenic Faraday chamber, each step bringing us closer to the executioner’s block. My gait became slow and deliberate as I willed time to stop so the next moment wouldn’t have to happen.

  With the whoosh of a vacuum seal being released, the hatch at one end of the chamber was opened, and its bedframe holding a thin mattress slid out. My heart thudded, and I couldn’t imagine how scared Torula must have been. I helped her to her feet, and the medical team enveloped us in a protective huddle. The woman averse to getting attention was now at the center of it, blindly trusting strangers with her life—and what would happen beyond it.

  The preparations for the procedure would be uncomfortable, painful, and frightening. The stress could easily cause her to seize or have a stroke, so the doctors had asked her what might help keep her calm. Was there music she wanted to listen to? A video she could watch?

  All she had asked for was that I stay by her side. I had smiled and squeezed her hand, grateful and relieved she had said so.

  Torula eased herself onto the mattress, covered in a white sheet, as I took a seat next to her and held her hand. A mass of bodies surrounded us, inserting needles and attaching tubes and electrodes all over her bare limbs. I kept up a shallow stream of conversation, digging up silly memories from our childhood, teasing her about her little quirks. Every now and then, she would wince, bite her lip, or scrunch up her eyes as the doctors pierced and punctured her with their needles. I stroked her hair, taking care not to dislodge the electrodes that had been attached to her temples. All connections carefully snaked through the hatch that had been reengineered to accommodate all the medical tubes and cables attached to the equipment around us.

  Torula squeezed my hand tight and closed her eyes. A tear coursed down her cheek—a tiny drop so potent, it tore a hole through my heart, and I went silent. When she opened her eyes, she gave me a reassuring smile, offering me comfort instead of the other way around.

  “You’re one amazing woman, you know that?”

  “I don’t really feel amazing at the moment,” she said hoarsely.

  “What are you talking about? You’re about to wow the world as a pioneering hyperwill.”

  She crinkled her nose. “Now that I’m about to become one, the term doesn’t sound so good. Hyper makes the afterlife seem like such a stressful state.”

  I bobbed my head in agreement. “Well, you’ll be the best person to rename it.”

  When the medical team finally parted, Torula was hooked up to every contraption, monitor, and machine surrounding the chamber. Tubes had been attached to the arteries in her groin area, her lower limbs strapped down, slightly bent like frog’s legs, exposing the inner thigh to keep the tubes from being dislodged or kinked. Beneath all the electrodes and wires that crisscrossed her body, she lay naked with two, slim pieces of hospital linen draped over her chest and pelvis, her feet and hands covered with dark socks and mittens as protection against the oncoming cold.

  “Dr. Jackson?” Enrik said.

  “Yes?”

  “All systems checked. We’re cleared to go. You all set?” He held two thumbs up.

  No amount of congenial, business-like demeanor could dispel the finality that came with those words. The slightest trace of anxiety flickered in her eyes, and I had to fight to hide the anguish that flared inside of me.

  With one deep inhale, she nodded.

  “All right.” Enrik’s tone and manner remained hearty, but the furrows on his brow had become very much pronounced. “I just need to buckle up this arm . . .”

  He needed me to release her hand, but instead, I clasped it tighter.

  “Bram?” Enrik said. “It’s time.”

  After a long and painful pause, I let go and took a step back.

  “There we are,” Enrik said, securing her arm. “You’re all set. Good luck, Dr. Torula Jackson. You’ve got the best team around to help you take the next giant leap for humankind.” He gave a slight bow. “Have a safe trip.”

  Technicians stepped forward, prepared to assist me in closing the hatch. The signal to begin the procedure would be when I reached out to push the bedframe in.

  I couldn’t move. Lifting my arm seemed beyond me now. It had taken all of my strength to keep from falling apart.

  No one around us seemed to breathe.

  Torula gave me a weak, reassuring smile. “This’ll be worth it—if it finally makes you cry for me.”

  I answered in a voice surprisingly steady. “I’m never going to cry for you because I’m never letting go.” I leaned in closer. “See you around, Spore.”

  I reached out and pushed the bedframe into the chamber. Enrik yanked me away and—like a Formula One pit crew—technicians and engineers swooped around the cryogenic Faraday chamber, securing connections and checking all the seals.

  “Transition, Stage One, commence,” said a matter-of-fact male voice even before the last latches clicked into place.

  “Nuhh . . .” Torula groaned. Her vital sign monitors sent out piercing alarms.

  I sucked in my breath. The robotic arm had delivered the injection so quickly, I didn’t even see it happen.

  “Get your bearings, Spore,” I cried. “Find the willdisc.” I tore my mask, cap, and gloves off; I had to make sure she could see my face.

  The room filled with the din of her vital sign monitors, signaling her distress as the robotic arm continued with its series of tasks with cold precision.

  A heart-wrenching groan issued from Torula. I expected her to be arching in agony but realized she couldn’t even writhe through the suffering; her entire body had been strapped down.

  “You’ve got to move out, now!” I shouted, my hands gripping the surface of the transparent cylinder.

  The chamber filled with mist from a blast of liquid nitrogen, bringing the temperature inside below freezing in an instant, just like plunging Torula into an icy lake.

  “Spore, I’m right here. Stay with me.” I pictured her swimming madly in cold water, frantic and freezing, not knowing where she was going. “Keep going to the willdisc. Keep your focus on the willdisc.” I had no idea if she could even see anything anymore.

  Elena, the perfusionist, stationed behind the cage, issued updates in a clear and even tone, confirming that all connections to her equipment were secure and working.
>
  “We’re at ventricular tachycardia,” said the impersonal annotator as the alarms continued their cacophony.

  The haze inside the chamber settled.

  “Look at me. You’re not alone. I’m here.”

  Torula’s head flopped to the side. I pushed my face close to the enclosure, looking into her eyes. She let out a long, drawn-out moan through a tightly clenched mouth.

  “Focus on me. We’re doing this together. Focus on me.” I stared into her face as she struggled through her last, torturous breaths.

  A guttural sound escaped her.

  “Spore! Oh, Jesus.”

  Warning signals heightened in intensity, her EKG still running wild.

  This is way more than eighteen seconds. My fingers scratched at the glass as I ached to find a way to ease her pain.

  “We have ventricular fibrillation,” came a sedate announcement.

  “Is she still feeling all this?” I shouted over my shoulder to anyone who would answer me.

  A woman’s calm reply came through my earpiece. “She lost consciousness a few seconds ago.”

  “You can do this, Spore,” I cried. “We’re all watching over you. You’ll be all right.”

  A gurgling, throaty murmur—it didn’t even sound human—rippled from Torula. The alarms went silent, leaving behind a piercing, solitary tone.

  Torula had flat-lined.

  The room grew still. A sob escaped from someone behind me. And then I caught that instant when Torula’s eyes told me . . . she was no longer there.

  “No,” I whispered, suddenly afraid I couldn’t undo what had just happened. I fought to hold back the rising panic, but it gurgled up, and I grunted and gagged.

  “Keep talkin’ to ’er, Morrison,” Roy called out. “She needs you.”

  “EEG continues to show signs of electrical brain activity,” the voice from my headset confirmed. “In fact . . .”

  “In fact what?” I asked.

  “. . . it’s like there’s conscious processing going on,” the annotator said.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.