Frankissstein

by Jeanette Winterson

  Depending, repeats Ron.

  On its future. Not all severed legs have a future.

  Do you know in advance? asks Ron.

  Usually yes, but sometimes we have to amputate unexpectedly. And it depends how much of the leg we need to remove … and whether the patient will be able to use a prosthetic. You should discuss prosthetics with Professor Stein. Transhuman enhancement may begin with computer controlled prosthetic limbs.

  I like my legs, says Ron, looking down. They’re not fast, and they are both fat, but I’ve had them a long time.

  I understand, I say.

  There is a pause while Ron contemplates his legs. He asks me, with the childlike trust people put in doctors, How much does my leg weigh?

  Ron’s legs are short but substantial. I take a guess: Around twenty kilos, detached here … I run my finger at groin level. He dresses on the left.

  Ron jumps, and looks down apprehensively at the crumpled cloth of his still attached lower limb.

  What big hands you’ve got, he says.

  All the better to amputate you with.

  Ron steps back.

  Have you considered donating your body to science, Ron? I ask.

  You’ve got a bloke’s hands, says Ron.

  I do have big hands, it’s true. My mother had big hands. She died giving birth to me, but in the photographs I have of her she’s strong and clear-eyed and unafraid. Can you miss someone you never knew? I miss her.

  I am not especially tall at 5 foot 8. My build is slender. Narrow hips, long legs. When I had top surgery there wasn’t much to remove, and the hormones had already altered my chest. I never wore a bra when I was female. I like my chest the way it is now; strong, smooth and flat. I wear my hair tied back in a ponytail like an eighteenth-century poet. When I look in the mirror I see someone I recognise, or rather, I see at least two people I recognise. That is why I have chosen not to have lower surgery. I am what I am, but what I am is not one thing, not one gender. I live with doubleness.

  Victor comes back over with another glass of whisky for Ron.

  You two seem to be getting on well, he says, looking at me quizzically, in the way that he does.

  I was telling Ron about your body parts, I said. I was explaining to him about our special relationship.

  Ah, yes, said Victor. Every lab needs its body parts. Now he’s looking at me anxiously: how much have I said? Too bad. Let him sweat. Like Ron Lord.

  What I didn’t say to Ron is that Victor Stein needs more body parts than his research allowance allows.

  Just then two security guards in blue shirts come running through the room pulling on gloves and waving their Tasers. STAND BACK STAND BACK STAND BACK!

  Victor follows the guards and I follow Victor as they run towards the cloakroom. The cloakroom attendant is looking pale.

  It’s in there! she says. It’s alive! It moved! There’s an animal in that bag.

  The guard moves towards the Adidas gym bag. He leans down. Blimey! I can hear something talking!

  His colleague bends over the bag. He’s sceptical.

  He says, You fancy yourself as Doctor Dolittle? Give it a prod!

  He prods the bag. Nothing happens.

  By now there is a crowd at the cloakroom. The guard stands on a chair. Is anyone responsible for an Adidas gym bag?

  Ron Lord’s pink hand appears above the crowd-line.

  That’s my bag!

  Open it up, please, sir! says the guard.

  I can see Polly D standing on a chair, videoing this with her phone.

  Ron shoulders his way through the crowd like he’s his own bouncer at his own nightclub. He picks up the bag, lays it on the cloakroom counter and unzips it. Out comes a sex-doll, folded in half. Her denim jacket has CLAIRE written on it in sequins.

  DADDY! says Claire.

  I don’t know how she got set off, says Ron. She’s controlled by an app.

  What is this thing? asks the security guard.

  She’s a sexbot, says Ron. The prof asked me to bring her to the talk. In case anybody wanted to see one. Wait a sec. She needs unfolding.

  Ron pulls down Claire’s legs one at a time.

  OPEN MY LEGS, DADDY! WIDER!

  Embarrassed giggles, horrors, OMGs, Yikes, This cannot be for real, Yuck, Cool, Let me see that!

  Her legs unfolded, Ron stands Claire up, holding her from behind like a ventriloquist. Claire is wearing a pair of shorts and a tight crop-top with a black bra underneath. Ron adjusts her hair.

  This is her travelling outfit, he says. You can’t fold up the legs in a skirt without splitting it.

  SPLIT ME! says Claire.

  Sorry about this, says Ron, Claire is sexually explicit if she is in Bedroom Mode.

  He reaches into his pocket for his phone. He says, I can go into the app and put her into Visitor Mode. Wait …

  DON’T MAKE ME WAIT, DADDY!

  I can’t get a signal down here, says Ron.

  I TOUCH MYSELF DOWN HERE!

  Claire is like a parrot on heat. Her programming allows her to pick up and repeat words. Ron is holding his phone above his head. He says, Can somebody grab Claire while I sort out my fuckin’ phone?

  Ron thrusts Claire at one of the women standing near by.

  The woman can’t believe she’s holding a sex-doll.

  Turn it this way! Towards me! shouts Polly D from on top of her chair.

  Oh my God! says the woman. She’s got, like, a 20-inch waist and 40-inch boobs.

  BOOBS. NIPPLES. COCK, says Claire.

  Awesome! says a geek boy.

  What’s this bracket in her back? asks one of the guys, examining Claire.

  That’s an optional extra, says Ron. She can be wall-mounted.

  Like a trophy on the wall? says one of the women.

  No! says Ron. So that you can fuck her standing up.

  FUCK ME STANDING UP, DADDY.

  That is gross! shouts Polly D.

  Ron shrugs. Suit yourself …

  Some of the boys are enjoying this; I can tell from the rise in their jeans. Ron is sweating visibly as his fat fingers work his iPhone.

  HOW WAS YOUR JOURNEY TODAY? says Claire.

  Thank God for that! says Ron. She’s in Visitor Mode now. I realise this place is a serious scientific institution.

  HAVE YOU COME FROM AN INSTITUTION?

  Just let me explain, says Ron, that Claire is a sex-therapy aid. This model isn’t sophisticated, but she will do what you tell her.

  (Sniggers from the crowd crowding round.)

  Here, says Ron, let me show you. Put your finger in her mouth. Go on.

  One of the men hesitates but he does it. He jumps back like he’s been bitten. That’s weird!

  Vibrates, right? says Ron, beaming. And that’s just your finger. And that’s just her mouth.

  (Laughter.)

  What’s the point of this? I say to Victor. Why are you encouraging him?

  Victor shrugs. This is the coming world. When people have nothing to do all day they will have time for a lot more sex.

  That isn’t sex, Victor.

  I can’t decide with you, Ry, whether you are a Puritan or a Romantic.

  I am a human being.

  And what if you were one of the millions of human beings who will have no place in the automated life that will soon be reality? Cars, trucks, buses, trains will drive themselves. Stores and supermarkets will use smart tracking for your purchases. Your home will use repair diagnostics. Your fridge will order its own food. Bots will take care of the housework and entertain your children. What will you do all day?

  That’s not how you sold it in your lecture.

  And that is not how it will be for those of us able to be part of the new world. For us, life will be unlimited.

  DO YOU ENJOY YOUR JOB? says Claire.

  For the rest, says Victor, there must be diversions and soporifics. Sex-dolls can provide both.

  Not for women, it seems, I said as we looked across at the cro
wd, now shaped into two groups, male and female, the men laughing and joking with Ron, the women talking to each other in low voices of despair or disbelief.

  I agree, says Victor. Women are harder to please.

  Polly D looks pretty pleased with herself at this moment. She jumps off the chair and skirts the crowd to leave.

  She’s on to you, Victor, I tell him.

  There’s nothing to worry about, he says. I’ve seen her before. She’s a journalist, that’s all.

  And what about Ron Lord? I ask him. Why do you want his money?

  Victor shrugs. Why not? He is a maverick, an outsider. He wants results. There are things I want to do …

  What kind of things?

  We are at an interesting moment … says Victor.

  Ron Lord comes over. He thinks he is a success.

  They love her! he says. Once they get to know her, yeah, they all love her. Tell you what – I’ll take us all out for something to eat. Prof! Ryan? I could murder a steak.

  Good job it’s already dead, I say.

  Ron looks at me more in sorrow than in anger.

  Ryan, I am extending the hand, he says.

  Thanks, Ron, but I’m vegetarian.

  I knew you wasn’t a bloke, says Ron.

  Ry! Come with us. We can walk up to Sheekey’s. You can have vegetarian fish.

  Ron turns to retrieve Claire from her admirers.

  Victor says to me, Will I see you later?

  Do you want to see me later?

  I want to see you now and later.

  I’ll call you, I said.

  Ron returned with his Adidas bag full of Claire.

  I raise my (big) hand to signal goodbye. Going, going, gone.

  Outside on The Mall, the buildings are blurred with light rain. My boot cleats leave prints on the cellophane smoothness of the wet pavements. I look back – there’s a trace of me, and then the prints disappear under the rain. On the road, cars queue in tail-light red. Horns. Traffic noise. Ceaseless. Comforting. The rain increases. On the street, under hoods and umbrellas, people are walking quickly, going somewhere, leaving somewhere, earphones in, their faces lit by phone-light, atomised and alone.

  I am alone.

  Am I alone?

  There is always something to break the solipsism.

  She falls into step with me. Polly D.

  Look, I was rude. I am sorry. Can I get you a drink?

  Sure, I say; where do you want to go?

  I’m a member of a club – not far – 2 Brydges Place. Just the other side of Trafalgar Square.

  And soon we’re sitting in a tiny wood-panelled room in a maze of tiny wood-panelled rooms, some with open fires. The year could be 1816. Polly D gets wine in a decanter and asks for a plate of bread and cheese. She says, I love this place. I like anything that sits across time. Makes me feel free.

  It might be a little phony, I said. Maybe a little too theme-park? Welcome to the 1800s?

  We’re all here as something we’re not, aren’t we? she said. Playing a role of some kind.

  (I don’t answer. I look at her suede boots with fringes.)

  I overheard, she said. You’re trans …

  Yes.

  It’s a good look.

  It’s not a look; it’s who I am. Both of me. All of me.

  I get it. I get it. (But she would say that.) Then she says, Do you prefer women or men? As partners?

  I have had both. I seem to prefer men.

  For sex?

  Yes, for sex.

  Was it like that when you were fully female?

  I said, I am fully female. I am also partly male. That’s how it is for me. But to answer your question – I was in a relationship with a woman for a while. It didn’t work out.

  The love or the sex?

  The love.

  (I don’t want to talk about this.)

  Maybe I could interview you? Trans is hot right now.

  It’s not a fashion choice, OK?

  No, no, I mean, you, as a doctor … what was it like taking all that testosterone? Having the surgery? You could be an icon.

  Polly, I’m not Caitlyn Jenner. I don’t want to be in Vanity Fair.

  Polly D looked genuinely confused. She said, Why not?

  I sat in silence eating cheese. After several minutes of this, Polly recognised that she needed a new topic of conversation. She poured me more wine. She made eye contact.

  So you know him? Victor Stein.

  I know him. You seemed rather hostile tonight.

  It’s not that … (She undoes her hair, shakes it loose, leans forward.) I don’t trust the way AI is being sold to us. People aren’t in the conversation, let alone the decisions. We’re going to wake up one morning and the world won’t be the same.

  That morning could be any morning, I say. It could be climate breakdown. It could be nuclear. It could be Trump or Bolsonaro. It could be The Handmaid’s Tale.

  That’s just what I mean, she says. We think change is gradual, incremental, that we’ll get used to it, adapt. But this feels different. And I hate the fuckin’ sexbots!

  You do? Intelligent Vibrators??? Teledildonics?

  She laughed. When she laughs she looks calm, kind even.

  She said, I had to test the sex aids and smart apps for women. It was crazy. You know you can get a personal sex-therapy app, like the friend you never had.

  And probably never wanted, I said.

  Do you have friends? she said.

  Of course! Do you?

  She didn’t answer me. She said, So tell me about what you were doing in Memphis?

  You can read the essay on the Wellcome Trust website.

  Send me a link, she said. What’s your mail?

  I sent her the link. I said, The essay is about human relationships, mental health and the effect of bots on both of those things. I don’t believe the effects will be necessarily negative, by the way.

  Polly interrupted me (again). You don’t think sexbots are negative?

  Let me finish! It’s not only sexbots. Children will soon have mini-iPals to keep them company – bots with computer screens in their chests. Bots that will sing to the kids. Tell them a story. Play games. Mother’s little helper. Bots that—

  Polly dived back in: That’s just part of the sell, though, isn’t it? To make us feel good? And what about the big one? The real AI?

  We’re nowhere near that yet.

  How do you know?

  Victor knows.

  Do you like him?

  Yes, I like him.

  How did you two meet?

  (Is this what she is really interested in?)

  Why do you want to know?

  I’m trying to profile him. It isn’t easy. He’s elusive.

  I’m not the key to that door, I said.

  Are you in love with him?

  Do you say whatever comes into your head?

  I just wondered … something about the way you were with him tonight.

  Thanks for the drink, I said, getting up to leave.

  The rain is heavy now. The streets are empty. My hospital isn’t far from here. There’s a painted sign in the Terminal Ward; one of the patients made it:

  LOVE IS AS STRONG AS DEATH.

  It’s from the Bible. Song of Solomon.

  Death is where I met him. The Alcor Life Extension Foundation. Phoenix. Arizona.

  THE FUTURE IS NOW

  This futuristic charnel house. This warehouse for the departed. This stainless-steel tomb. This liquid-nitrogen limbo. This down-payment plan eternity. This resin block of nothingness. This one-chance wonder. This polished morgue. This desert address. A nice town to live in. This sunset boulevard. Dead men. Not walking. Hotel Vitrification.

  Alcor opened its doors in 1972 – the Chinese Year of the Rat. The ultimate survivor.

  Should you decide to gamble on your resurrection here at the Casino for the Dead, this is what happens:

  As soon as possible after death – and preferably the team is alr
eady assembled near by, masks on faces, discreetly waiting for your last breath – your body will be placed in a bath of ice water to lower its temperature down to around 60 degrees Fahrenheit. Blood circulation and lung function will be artificially restored using a heart – lung resuscitator. Not to revive you but to prevent your blood from pooling in your abdomen.

  The medical team will access your major blood vessels and you will be connected to a perfusion machine that will remove your blood, and replace it with a chemical solution that prevents the formation of ice crystals in the cells of your body. You are going to be vitrified – not frozen. The process of filling you with cryoprotectant takes about four hours. Two small holes will be drilled in your skull so that brain perfusion can be observed.

  Then you will be further cooled over the next three hours to make sure that your suspended body is like glass, not ice. After two weeks you are ready for your final resting place – at least in this life.

  I came by invitation. An invitation to be part of the Field Team, a team of medics and paramedics who will preserve your body fast enough if you die too far away from Alcor.

  (And most of us will …)

  The invitation was a mistake. I am part of a small group of transgender medical professionals. Some of us are transhuman enthusiasts too. That isn’t surprising; we feel or have felt that we’re in the wrong body. We can understand the feeling that any-body is the wrong body.

  Transhuman means different things to different people; smart implants, genetic modification, prosthetic enhancement, even the chance to live forever as a brain emulation.

  So, out of ordinary semantic confusion – the kind that humans live with every day – came the invitation to be a White Knight of Life. The Black Knight is Death. Here I am, charging to the rescue. There isn’t much time after the heart stops to halt the disintegration of the cells, systems, tissues of the body.