by Dhtreichler
BARELY HUMAN
By dhtreichler
© 2018 by dhtreichler. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Table of Contents
THE CHOICE
THE PRESS CONFERENCE
IMPATIENCE
THE FIRST EXPLORATION
THE CHOICE
BARELY HUMAN
NEWS
THE WEAK LINK
PREFERENCE
PANDORA
AMAZON
INTRIGUED
MR. RIGHT
UNDERESTIMATED
GENTLE
SMARTER
FIT IN
ORIANA’S COMPLAINT
SPECIAL TREATMENT
FIRST DIBS
LE DIFESE
SEXUAL EXPERIENCE
THE FOG
TOO
THE TIDAL WAVE
THAT LOVIN’ FEELIN’
NO IDEA
THE STRANGE THING
KLONDIKE SLED DOG
ADJUSTMENTS
YOU OR HE
GAMES
HALF
MORE LIKE YOU
A CHANCE
LOVE, HATE OR ENVY
WRONG ASSUMPTIONS
FRIDAY
RECOVER
INDEPENDENT THOUGHTS
About the Author
Also by dhtreichler
THE CHOICE
I’ve made up my mind. At least I think that until I reach to open the door to the lab where my consciousness will transition back to my disease-ridden body. Is death the final desperate act of a wounded soul seeking to come home? To peace and quiet. To a loving embrace from those who passed this way before you? Or is death simply the final act? To be followed by nothingness. Forever. I wish I knew the answer to that question. It would make what I have to say to Dr. Bart Woodall, who waits for me inside, much easier. I hesitate before opening the door to my return, plagued with doubt.
Dr. Woodall’s starched white lab coat contrasts with his blue jeans and wavy brown hair. He waits for me in the lab, reviewing my chart on the large screen at one end of the room. The lab always reminds me more of a mechanic’s garage than a hospital suite. But it is every bit a surgical suite. Through the window I see my biologic body, eyes closed, head nodded down, but supported in an upright position by a wall mounted set of braces. I then see my own reflection in the window. A much younger appearing version of the same body only with Mediterranean colored skin and almond eyes. I engage the good doctor’s bright and warm smile. “Hi.”
Dr. Woodall apparently tries to decipher my decision from my facial expression and my walk. I know he would rather I stay an immortal. Transitioning back to my biological body will be a failure for him. It means his attempt to save my life has failed, not because of his remarkable medical skills, but rather because I’ve decided I would rather die. He must notice I’m not smiling. Probably means he has judged I’ve decided to go back to my dying self. I watch his smile disappear. His serious expression tells me he is not happy with what he perceives to be my decision. “The staff is waiting. What do I tell them?” He is matter of fact, but the tone confirms his unhappiness.
“What does it mean to you if I go back?” I have to ask this question because it has invaded my thoughts more than I’d like. I remember I should care for this man who saw a hopeless case and gave me another chance to live. Gave me a chance to be more than I could have ever imagined.
He shakes his head. “Your decision has to be based on what’s best for you. I’m unimportant.”
“I understand all that,” I’m shaking my head now too. Only I’m shaking my head because I’m not ready to make this decision even though I’ve had thirty days to weigh all the factors. I’ve talked to everyone important to me. Obtained their perspectives. But they’re not inside this immortal body that will only require periodic part replacements to probably live forever. They’re not faced with periodic upgrades that constantly increase the speed with which I handle data, extract insights and make decisions so fast no one else other than my boss at AppleCore, A’zam, can keep up. They also aren’t devoid of feelings. They can laugh and love, curse and shake with rage. I’m not capable of any of those other than as a thought instructing my body to act as if I felt those things. A thought to replicate a memory of how I or someone else behaved in similar situations before I transitioned to be what I am now.
My doctor informed me I would not survive the year. The combination of conditions that had taken over my body were lethal. No cure existed for either syndrome. So my chances of survival were zero. How do you respond to that kind of news? I admit I went home that night and had more than one adult beverage. Even those beverages did not permit me to sleep. I’d noticed the increasing fatigue, but brushed it off as working too many twenty hour days. Never taking a break from the sea of email that interrupted my days and nights. I have software development teams working around the clock and around the world simultaneously. That made me successful. But it also imposed a toll on my body I’d simply ignored as not important. That is until the prognosis.
Okay. I’d crammed a lifetime into ten years. And all my success made me a very dull girl outside work. Probably inside work too, if I were completely honest with myself. But who is these days? No one wants to socialize with me other than my college posse. Friends from back in the day when I wasn’t trying to lead the revolution. Just be part of it, at least in my own mind.
Dr. Woodall is looking for a response from me, okay, “You’re the last person who knew and saw me as a mortal. A dying mortal. One who had so much potential and such lousy prospects. You have to advise me of what you think I should do, from a medical perspective.”
“From a medical perspective?” he frowns. “Why is it important for me to give you a personal opinion, reaction, set of cause and effects, whatever it is you’re looking for?”
I walk up to him and kiss him, slowly, lingering. “This better than the one in Dallas so long ago?”
“It was what? Three weeks ago?” Dr. Woodall responds, “And yes. It’s much better.”
“You have to understand, three weeks for you is a short time. But since my clock speed is several times yours and I don’t sleep away a third of my life it seems a lot longer to me.”
“But in retrospect, a hundred years from now it will be a blink of an eye.” Dr. Woodall always seems to be a step ahead of me as I analyze the big picture issues.
“You aren’t attracted to me?” I pursue.
“You’re my patient. There are ethical boundaries I have to observe.” I hear more in Dr. Woodall’s response than he probably wanted to share with me.
“If I weren’t your patient.” I begin. “Just what if?”
Dr. Woodall looks away, but won’t respond.
I turn, and my gaze brings me back to the window into the surgical suite where my body awaits. I look closer. My body looks pasty. Not at all healthy. And again as I look at that body my gaze catches my reflection in the window. I see my twenty-year-old appearance staring back at me, healthy, more capable than ever and with unlimited potential. “Why should I stay?” I ask looking apprehensively again at what awaits me if he transitions me back.
“Your l
ife’s not important to you?” Dr. Woodall reluctantly re-engages.
“You haven’t given me a single good reason not to go back,” I challenge him.
A big sigh from Dr. Woodall. He knows he can’t escape my question. “You are in a unique place. You are the first. No one else has been where you are as long as you have.”
“You’re talking about A’zam.” I guess. “Has anyone else transitioned?”
“Not yet. We start the new class next week.”
“And”
“We’ve learned a lot since you.” Dr. Woodall leaves a big but out there.
“Like don’t put a woman in a man’s body?” I suggest.
Dr. Woodall shrugs but continues without missing a beat. “We’ve learned you’ve lost the feelings that quite frankly made you human.”
“I’ve lost that lovin’ feelin’?” I parrot the words to the song and wait his response.
A fleeting turn up of the corner of his mouth appears, but it’s gone in an instant. He’s not even blinked all this time. The only reason I know he heard me was that momentary facial reaction.
“I remember feelings,” I begin. “And react according to the way I remember I would have had I actually felt those things. I’m surprised few notice my reactions aren’t felt.”
“And therein lies the problem.” Dr. Woodall points out. “You don’t feel things, so you don’t create new feelings and react the way you would if you were a biologic entity experiencing feelings for the first time. A new reaction rather than a remembered reaction.”
“Okay. We’ve talked about this before. The vagina was a perfect example. We don’t experience sex the way you do. We don’t get all teary at someone’s funeral. We don’t love anyone else because we can only remember what we’ve experienced. Love either ties you to someone or if you’ve never experienced it, keeps you from forming emotional ties.”
“That’s a good term. Emotional ties. You don’t have them. But that’s a major part of the human experience. Another is emergence. Do you know that one?”
My turn to shrug.
“Humans contribute their psychological power to a collective unconscious that defines humanity.” Dr. Woodall summarizes for me, but I continue my shrug to let him know I’m not familiar with the term. “And what I’m trying to tell you is immortals like you have to have a human experience or at some point you will decide humans are unnecessary in your ecosystem. When you lose spirituality how do you connect to each other? Through the internet? Not even close. And do you have any idea what that would mean for those of us who have chosen not to transition?”
I close my eyes and let my mind process all the information he has given me. All the information available on websites across the globe. In only a moment I open my eyes again. I look at the good doctor. “You’re afraid if I transition back you’ll have lost an opportunity.”
Dr. Woodall nods, although seemingly reluctantly.
“You want me to be your ambassador in the corridors of power where immortals like A’zam and those who will join him make decisions about how society will accommodate folks like me.”
“Not the way I would have put it, but in essence you have the gist of it.”
“Then why did you ever agree to transition A’zam?” a point I’d been wondering for a while. “He didn’t have any illness I’m aware of.”
“He offered to help us grow our ability to transition people who need our procedure to survive.” Dr. Woodall admits. “He threw money at us. Offered much more if what we said we could do, we could in fact do.” Dr. Woodall seems ashamed to admit the reason he’d agreed. “You have to understand. A new hospital will be going up in Dallas. It will be just for transitioning individuals to immortals.”
“But not those who will die without your procedure,” I push back knowing the bargain he’d made with A’zam doesn’t include them.
“Not at first, but in time I’ll find a way.” Dr. Woodall doesn’t sound convinced, more hopeful than anything.
“So, the next person like me who comes along doesn’t stand a chance because of your agreement with A’zam.”
Dr. Woodall won’t look at me, “Maybe not the next person, but when I’ve completed A’zam’s requirements then I’ll be able to do so many more than if I said no.” Dr. Woodall finally glances at me to see how I’m reacting to his rationalization. I know I should feel sorry for him. That’s the memory that presents itself to me.
“And the only way to demonstrate you could do it again was to do him,” I conclude.
Dr. Woodall nods, although he clearly wonders if he’s made a bargain with the devil.
“Why should I stay as I am and not…” I look through the window again at my biologic body.
“Since doing the deal with A’zam I’ve given a lot of thought to the possible unintended outcomes of what we’ve created. Someone has to stand up.” He looks me directly in the eye. “You have not only the moral authority as the first, but the medical history no one can attack. You’re not in this role because you sought it out. You’re here because a medical condition placed you in an unsustainable position. No one can say you’re an opportunist. You should be on the short list for the next flight out to the great beyond. And even though we weren’t ready for you, today you are an immortal. Not a perfect one. But you were willing to mature as our technology and understandings evolve.”
“But what if I want a family? What everyone wants.” I should be teary-eyed, but my eyes don’t water. I only know I should be because I remember I should. There’s no feeling dictating it.
“You would only, maybe, be able to conceive. Carry the child to term? Doubtful. Be there to raise the child? Not possible. So, you leave a child with a father you barely know, because you don’t have a husband today. A stranger will raise your child in a rapidly changing world. Becoming less accepting and supporting of mortals as the immortals become so much more capable than even you are today.”
I consider the picture he is painting unhappily. “If I transition back how long will I live?” I have to know the answer to this question.
“If you transition back how long will immortals be human and not more machine than man? More ruthless and less caring about the things you and I take for granted every day? How do we know immortals won’t come to the conclusion that humans are terribly inefficient in comparison to immortals? Why keep the vast masses of humanity? After we empty out Africa and vast parts of both South America and Asia. What then? Does the hit list move up into the western nations? As long as we can afford to be consumers they let us live? That’s no way to run a civilization.”
“We aren’t like that.” I protest.
“Think about slavery, or the Jews. Think about any population someone thought was either inferior or a threat? What did we do to them? Did we respect their rights? Treat them as equals?”
As a black woman he’s hitting me right between the eyes. I have no answer for him.
“Mankind doesn’t have such a great record of respecting individual rights or ensuring the economic, religious or social freedoms of peoples who aren’t like those in control.” Dr. Woodall points out to me. “Will I fall into that grouping? I don’t know, but I’m not eager to find out. And from where I’m sitting, you’re the only one who has a ghost of a chance of changing that long term outcome for all of us who aren’t like you.”
THE PRESS CONFERENCE
Dr. Woodall tried to prepare me for the press conference that follows my decision. He intended to announce his capability whether I was there or not. The only difference is now that I am by his side he can show me off like a new model car.
The conference room is small. Three rows of chairs and a table with two chairs. No microphone because the room is small enough none is needed. Smaller than I’d thought given the magnitude of what he is about to announce. He tried to warn me. “The media doesn’t believe a press release. They only believe each other. Since I wasn’t overly specific about our announcement we can’t expect many to bite
.” But ten reporters show. Seems underwhelming to me. Only local media outlets.
Dr. Woodall reads his prepared statement. He then opens the floor to questions.
“You mean Miss Washington isn’t human?” The short pugnacious guy from the San Francisco Chronicle asks.
I step closer to him, “I’m as human as you are.” I touch his shoulder, “The only difference between us is I won’t die any time soon.”
The reporter reaches up and touches my face. “You can’t be a robot.”
“I’m not.” I respond winking at him. “A robot can only respond to pre-programmed behavior. My body responds to what I think just as yours does. The only difference is yours is biological and mine is electro-mechanical.”
“So instead of an artificial heart or hip or knee, you’ve got all artificial components. Only your brain is original.” The attractive young woman from KNTV, a local station in San Jose tries to understand what the doctor has announced.
“Think of it this way,” I suggest. “My body was about to give out. They couldn’t replace the heart, it wouldn’t have been enough. Knees and hips? Still not enough even with a new heart. They had to replace everything, including my brain. Everything except my consciousness. That was the only way I was going to survive. And even though they didn’t have everything perfected, Dr. Woodall and his team took a chance. I could have a seventy percent solution that would keep me alive or I would die. I agreed and here I am. Seventy-five percent now, maybe, of what I’ll be when they finish developing the rest of me that you take for granted.”
The reporter from the Chronicle asks, “What are you missing?”
“Feelings,” I offer immediately.
“You don’t feel anything?” The question is more disbelief than an actual question.
“I have various sensors, so I feel where things are, if I touch something I can feel if it’s hot or cold, hard or soft. All of that. But you ask if I’m happy or sad? Those are memories for me. I try as best I can to respond as a memory would suggest I should. But am I responding because you make me happy or sad? You don’t. I don’t react to you emotionally. I remember I should react in such and such a way based on a memory of a similar situation. That response may be right. It may not be. And I won’t know until I study your reactions to me, hopefully learn for the next time.”