Repetition

by Alan Gallauresi

  No, it seemed pretty unlikely he would die of something swift and spectacular like a stake to the heart, just wear out in a body that wasn't meant to last. That's how lucky he and 17-D were -- lucky enough to die another way, another time.

  If you say something, reflects Wald, don't say that either.

  ###

  We're all dying -- that's nothing new. They can make an entire fucking city fly, and people are still dying from heart attacks.

  Modern medical science has made great strides: nano-robots repair our clogged arteries; cloned cells reproduce and replace our failing organs; holistic diagnostic machines keep us sane; gene-therapy treatments for cancer that help us as effectively as a cure. Yet it has had its disasters too: three decades of subjecting the terminally ill to toxic "synthetic cures"; the first brain transplants of the very early 21st century that left the patients in such pitiable mental states that the procedure was universally banned; criminal over-prescription of anti-biotics leading to mutated, virulent disease strains. Medicine does not follow a gentle curve of increasing knowledge -- otherwise the late Chalcolithic peoples wouldn't have been saving the lives of head-wound victims with trepanation while dying of arsenic poisoning from the act of smelting. The surgical know-how to saw, sew and graft takes precedence. It is a consequence of treating the human body as a broken machine without knowing how it works, but poking at it until some measure of result is achieved.

  No, medicine doesn't advance so much as it lurches forward, fumbling and tripping on the way. Are things so very different from the Roman times when surgeons sweated over patients, precise in their knowledge of muscular anatomy, sewing them up and then soothing their thirst with water drawn from leaden pipes? Or 1901, when Landsteiner classified human blood into categories and unwittingly added phenotypology to the pseudo-rational lexicon of physiognomists and phrenologists? How much better off are we?

  In 1950, the average life expectancy in first world countries was 68.2 years. Fifty years later, it was 77.1. In 2050, it was 81.3, half of the previous increase for the same period. The truth about life expectancy is that it's a magnanimously inclusive statistic, selfishly applied. We think we are riding a wave of medical miracles, saving us from an early death when we are 30 and postponing the inevitable when we get old, and the average life expectancy proves it. Yet it's a statistic that has almost nothing to do with the middle-aged or elderly and everything to do with babies.

  Prior to 1900, death in childbirth was a common occurrence for both the mother and the child. During the 20th century, the chance of dying in childbirth dropped dramatically. New generations of children were born into a world of immunizations and vaccines, protecting them from the commonplace and fatal diseases of the past. Doppler sonography, basically the same technology as meterologists use to predict the weather, served the same purpose in both applications: it showed problems coming before they arrived. More kids grew up to die of coronary failure instead of small pox -- and average life expectancy made a marked jump. What happens to that statistic when childhood death has gone from expected to extremely rare?

  From another angle: the average age of a person in the world is older than it has ever been. We are an elderly populace, every year getting older, and every year our expectancy gets more static -- a mass of people that doesn't have an extra 50 years to gain from temporarily avoiding death like we did in youth. And you have a thousand more things wrong with you than you did in your youth, piling up like compound interest.

  We're dying. What is there to do? Death and taxes, people say, because both are inevitable. It's all insurance, actuaries say -- you put the details of your life into a chart and you come out with a number for paying the piper. Not necessarily for you, but a person like you. Those statistics are magnanimously inclusive, and not meant to be selfishly applied.

  ###

  There was nothing at all to do on the ship. Chandrasekhar had checked and double-checked everything: the core systems; the waste and atmosphere renewal devices; the course the computer had plotted. That last was more from paranoia than real scrutiny. Chandrasekhar’s knowledge of mathematics and astronomy was rudimentary in comparison to what the computer could handle.

  He got up from the control chair and walked back to the primary passenger cabin. It was a small room, unadorned with any decoration. The few shelving and storage units it had were empty and built flush into the bulkhead. The near wall was a pure white, designed for projecting images onto – the others had a soft putty tone. A large float-down bed was embedded in the ceiling, large enough for two. It was designed to save space; when desired, it would descend to within inches of the floor and hover there.

  The bed wouldn’t function as intended, now. The space below it was occupied by a human-sized pod, a slightly flattened cylinder of transparent white aluminum set on a rectangular base. The pod was currently opaque. Chandrasekhar had installed it himself and checked it dozens of times – he didn’t need to see through it to know what it contained: a concave well to lie in and a bank of raw medical materials. Synthetic blood, nanomedics, lasers, perfluorocarbon liquid. A high grade repper installed in the base could manufacture almost anything else required automatically. This Matsushita medipod was an extremely advanced piece of technology, designed both for complete medical care and hibernation sleep. No medical facility could offer better treatment. It had taken Chandrasekhar months to purchase one, longer than the time it would have taken to steal one, and the cost of the second, installed in the other berth, had been even more astronomical than the first.

  He asked both the pod and the ship’s computers to run diagnostics and received the same positive response he had every time before. Now check the other one.

  He was just delaying now – the proper time had already passed. He walked into the secondary berth and knelt by the pod’s manual display, and confirmed its readout correlated with the one the ship's computer had given. He touched a panel, and the aluminum turned translucent in a small window that framed Siri's face. They had spoken once more before she had entered the pod, when he explained the need for cryosleep. She had nodded without saying anything, already aware of what would happen. He could not fathom the acceptance she had displayed; not once had she protested or thrown recriminations at him. Sleep better, she had said, closing the door to her cabin. Not sleep well. Sleep better. Chandrasekhar had not slept better, laying out in the command chair while avoiding the medipod.

  He had not been in one of these pods since the reconstruction. After he had emerged from it, he had insisted the lab coats apply his treatments without resorting to the medipod. Perhaps he had been wary of what might happen if he went under again, despite the pain that urged him to. He told himself it was a matter of control; he did not want to be addicted to prop and reliant on the device for the rest of his life. Chandrasekhar had taken care to reprogram this medipod to do the minimum to keep him alive for seven months and nothing more.

  He reconsidered an idea he had already rejected: living out seven months aboard the ship without human company. He recycled the arguments against it and came to the same conclusion, that it was possible and yet impractical. The Boots of Steel certainly could provide comfort and sustenance for hundreds of similar journeys, and the ship's databases contained thousands of years of entertainment. No, it was a matter of control, and he was being irrational.

  Chandrasekhar touched the metal pod. The lid retracted, inviting him to lie on a subtly ribbed bed. Warm fluid surrounded his limbs, relaxing him to the point that his gag-flex failed to fire as the liquid flowed through his nasal cavity and down his throat, filling his lungs with fluid. The lid closed over him, noiselessly.

  Chapter 7

  Carnival | CARLOS | Ticking Machines

  The cart is finally coming around, and it is like a travelling carnival arriving in Wald's tiny little town. A soft murmur accompanies the grinding wheels, and passengers crane their necks, struggling to overhear which juices they would be allowed and which would be denied;
how much the airline had the gall to charge for alcohol; which misrepresentative image of a sandwich others were choosing from the in-flight menu. It is the adult version of an ice-cream truck covered in Chipwich and Fat Frog stickers. The highlight of the whole damn flight.

  There's no meal? It's almost an eight hour flight! The man's voice seems astonished. Other passengers glance at the man with the half-hidden disdain of familiarity which locals heap on ignorant tourists, as the cart's momentum stalls a few rows ahead.

  You have your choice of meals, sir; they are just not provided complementary. You can pay with a credit card or with your phone. Also, if you would like to sign-up for our rewards program you can earn double miles for the items you purchase on your flight today.

  Wald misses the man's blustery reply. He wishes that the man would hurry up so the cart could come quickly. Stephen Wald is hungry, but he is peeved primarily with the hold-up in efficiency -- the disturbing of routine -- rather than the extra seconds the man was delaying his meal.

  Wald opens his tray table and rests his forearms on it. Stretching his arms feels good, especially when he shifts the position of his cramped left arm that had been dangling uncomfortably in his lap. The cart rumbles forward, serving another row. 17-D raises herself up, running her arm along her side, tugging at her sweater. She tosses her hair back and asks the attendant if she has yerba maté tea.

  OH sweet baby Jesus in the cradle, thinks Stephen, unable to stop himself from rubbing his brow. Hot tea? We have hot tea and iced tea, said the attendant. No, yerba maté tea. The attendant shook her head and said, we have a couple flavors ... lemon, English Breakfast.. I don't think we have .. what you asked for. 17-D put on a pretty-please expression and asked: Can you look for me?

  Lady, they don't even have fucking Dr. Pepper, what makes you think they carry a South American herb just for people who like to pay extra for things that say organic on the label.

  The attendant pretends to look and holds up a water bottle with a last-chance expression. 17-D looks down the aisle, as if there are better options -- wandering cart vendors who might just have it. She meets Wald's glance for a moment, then turns around and accepts the proffered bottle with an emphatic thank you, as if that was what she had ordered all along.

  I Saw You: Long flight and you looked like a perfect queen. You -- gorgeous, yerba-matte fan forced to drink water. Seat 17-D. Me -- quiet guy wrongly seated in the row back and across from you, with no chance at all... unless???

  The wheels are in motion once again, as the cart presses on. The hard-faced attendant looks to his row. 17-A puts down the book he has been studying and buys a couple ludicrously sized packets of low-fat cookies, stuffing them in the seat pocket in front of him for later. Wald orders a ginger ale and a plastic container protecting a turkey croissant sandwich. Returning his credit card, the attendant says, It's been some time since you flew with us, Mr. Wald - I hope you'll consider flying with us again soon. Stephen mumbles out a reply as he returns his card to his wallet, careful not to upset the open containers on his tray.

  Their systems must remember better than I do, thinks Wald, digging into his sandwich. He has a small moment of satisfaction. The sandwich is not particularly good, but he is hungrier than he thought. His elbows are enjoying freedom from the tyranny of the tight seats. The noise of the cart and questions has moved past earshot and people are contentedly munching on snacks, or getting as intoxicated as the flight attendants are willing to put up with.

  He looks at the packet of mini-cookies that came with the sandwich. They are low-fat and look like the burnt flakes that fly off when scrubbing down a barbeque grill. He puts it in the seat pocket, saving it for a later time of greater desperation.

  When you become an adult, you realize that the carnival is nothing but a scam: nasty overpriced food and uncomfortable rides; but at least it gives you something to do. This was the twilight time, the last day of the fair, before the boredom of the days to come. Nothing else memorable would happen on the flight, unless it was bad. Another year with nothing to do, said the poet. 17-C turns her head toward him and gives him her half-smile. God, had he said that aloud? He grimaces, sheepishly and involuntarily, then concentrates on the remains of his sandwich. An improperly serviced engine might die, or a cracked window could pop, spontaneously depressurizing the cabin. Well, I suppose someone could propose. And then the flight attendant could admonish him for blocking the aisle and tell him to return to his seat. Now, sir.

  Wald slowly swirls the ice in his plastic cup, covering them with another inch of ginger ale. He watches the bubbles rise and waits for the quiet crack as the ice dissolves.

  Several minutes later, a male attendant passes by with a trash bag for a second time. The last bit of ginger ale swishes hollowly in the can; Wald bites through the remaining chips of ice and hands his trash over. His arms protest the way he is unnaturally holding them on the tray table, so he closes the tray up and puts them back into their previous uncomfortable position.

  The cabin grows imperceptibly dimmer as overhead lights begin to click off one by one.

  ###

  CARLOS, have you prepared yourself for the coming of the beast-things? Revelations is the Word, and it has already been revealed to you. In the 32 MONTHS AND 6 DAYS since you last visited the house of our Lord, have you not felt the need to repent of the daily sins of man before His judgment falls upon you?

  When your FATHER died of COMPLICATIONS RESULTING FROM ARRESTIVE PULMONARY DISTRESS (HEART ATTACK), HE laid his soul bare before God knowing that the final day is near. Do you want to follow him to HEAVEN?

  On this day, no sin will be forgiven as the hell-creatures rise from the bowels of the earth: the man-lion who drinks the blood of innocents; the fire-lizard who devours the soul; the foul and the pestilent, the ravagers and the forsaken.

  On this day, your (2 OR MORE) children will ask why you have not done everything you could have to ensure your places together in the Kingdom of Heaven.

  On this day, the shroud of perpetuity will be swept aside, and there will be only now.

  CARLOS! Do not wait until EASTER SUNDAY OR CHRISTMAS EVE MASS! Repent now, for today may be the last!

  This piece - or rather, the manner of its construction - made Thomas Carsten, Lutheran, amateur scientist, and notable eccentric, into a millionaire.

  Carsten's earliest tracts were indulgent, impersonal rants written in a faux antiquated style - seen, though rarely viewed, blowing waywardly above subway terminals and bus benches. They were titled with the lurid appeal of pulp novels: "The Blood of the Heathen Kings"; "They Writhe in Agony"; "Damned Are We"; "The Oversexed Bared to the World". Colorful and easily mistakable scenes of gore and ample flesh from biblical history splashed across the covers of the pamphlets in full gloss.

  That water-resistant gloss, combined with a stiff high quality, made the circulars popular with the destitute who used it as a preferred material when papering their boxes and shopping carts. The 20's were hard economic times for the homeless -- a period of transition from paper to plastic credit where business people leaving coffee shops could say sorry, no change honestly, without averting their gaze. Many homeless started carrying cheap cell phones in addition to their cardboard. The basic signs read Text 52384 to send a dollar to feed the homeless; a thousand variations spoke of past service or hope for the future. The most successful ones, as tracked statistically by the brokers who took a cut to pay out in cash what the bums had made, were the entertaining ones. People sent 40% more money when a sign made them laugh, and roughly 30% more when the sign added anonymously -- reassuring the giver that a homeless person would not be calling them up later in the evening.

  Newspapers had fallen to the same problem: the death of the penny. In a bid to save small print, some state governments had allowed small run producers such as local newspapers to receive a refund on unread copies of their editions. The benefit was small, pennies on the dollar - much less than the rising cost of production - and the
subsidy phased out quickly for high circulations. It was also difficult to cash-in on, as the vendors had to demonstrate that the editions were made available and not purchased. This narrow window allowed Carsten to produce a set quantity of literature and make money, whether anyone saw the inside or not. Certainly, amongst those purposefully marching in and out of clicking subway stiles, Carsten's works were not widely read. In the 2020s, The Rapture had fallen out of favor for more popular forms of Armageddon, ones that connected with their audience and offered near instant gratification.

  In 2024, looking for a way to connect with his audience, Thomas Carsten invented and patented a networked high-speed printing device enabled with a high resolution camera. As pedestrians passed in front of the camera's eye, the device searched through databases of public profile images and incorporated that person's details into his latest tract. An instant horoscope of customized spirituality: personalized, often ludicrously inaccurate, and a little too real to the right person.