Remember (36 page)

The two empty seats at the other end of the table remain the only in pristine quality. We pass by every chair, not by convenience or choice, but by necessity to meet up again on the other side.

Irena sits in the first seat, across from Gary, and next to my mother. The head of the table needs to stay empty for some reason I can’t think of. Irena models a dress inspired by rain with the embossed velvet and tear shape cutouts. A striking midnight blue almost as black as night itself highlights the embossed sections of a rich blue as processed indigo leaves. She looks happy and animated with the group conversation. Gary is in a black suit covering up a shirt, aquamarine as the shallow waters of a warm tropical sea.

I’m surprised to see Morris in somber black like from a funeral party celebrating the life of someone no longer with us. Jenna dresses up in something strapless that I don’t even glance at. Report ventured here in a white suit and black shirt. I pull a chair out for Claire, and seat myself next to Morris and across from Report. I look down the table at everything set up in all our names. A runner of leather lines the length of table and then some. The table dresses with candlesticks of silver holding nothing more than sand. Each place setting, a bowl housed over a silver charger.

We expatiate upon something incoherent but somehow understanding that it means something good. My mother leaves to get the meal out to all the visiting people and family. Her return is accompanied by a cessation, the complete body of idle conversation taking place. The green soup is passed around from person to person, each one scooping an amount into their bowls.

The meal is underway with the consumption of this blended concoction of leeks, potato, tomato, and pepper. The pleasing taste — reminding me of even better days — lulls me into a feeling of security besides the presence of the people from the Division. Everything around me lurches left then suddenly right. This turns into shifts in every direction that doesn’t make sense unless this is an earthquake table, which this house clearly isn’t. I feel myself lurching forward, commands to my body useless. I can’t stop myself with my arms or even my neck. I fall, headlong into the soup bowl. Luckily my head lands sideways, rendering just one eye and nostril useless. Someone comes up behind me. They lift up my head as if saving me from this loss of control, far from the aim of drowning me in soup. Soup drowning it is. My head is completely submerged in this heavenly soup despite my struggles against it. I can’t move anything except my face and breathing. I can’t get out, better to just accept it. I do.

(—)

I wake up in my apartment coughing, like I have been, the first day of my Division bequeathed sickness. The sudden lightening flash shows everything then washes it out. I start the light with my tech and look up at the rain drops flattening over the pane and moving off. I look into the darkness beyond the feeble power of light for comfort.

The lightening shows me a vase in the corner of the room from the office and filled with lilies of orange, burgundy, and red. Anyway, I go back to sleep.

Wed 8/23/17 7:51 a.m.

M
y 3 days of sick leave now over with the first day as the mission. The Division decided, with their infinite wisdom, to bestow a viral cold. Now my sick leave can’t be doubted. I feel better today, so I enter the hallway’s swift air current to get chills. Not over the cold, yet. I walk to the elevator. Someone on one of the benches gets up and joins me — just Claire.

She stays smiley. “How was your 3 day vacation?” Claire has on a tangerine shirt, button down cross hatched in lavender inside a royal blue velvet pantsuit.

Vacation?
“It started out great. I caught something on the second day, hardly left my room the rest of the time.”

“That’s too bad. Are you any better?” She grimaces briefly.

I snort trying to sound less nasally.
“Today is much better. Has anything changed?”

“Have you heard? Mr. Stephens, our esteemed leader, passed away 2 days ago from sudden cardiac arrest syndrome.”

Not too broken about it, I see.
“How is Gary handling it?”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him more than twice, let alone talk to him. After he got the news, he just left silently. Yesterday, I saw him entering by the coffee shop surrounded by people in business suits. He just rushed by,” Claire says. We’re now inside an empty elevator heading to six.

“He should feel better in a few days. Time heals all wounds.”

She glances over from my reflection. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. A moment as emotional as that is forever ingrained in your mind, like a vein in marble. Sometimes small things may fade away, but most of it will remain. It is true that you get better at coping and dealing with it, but it will never truly go away.”

Way to break any hope of recovering from loss.
“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“You remember talking about tech invasion?”
That is when tech entered her body in high school. She went through a lot.
“Well, after that I couldn’t go in the lab again, without symptoms. My hands and feet became clammy, sweaty, and freezing cold. My heart started racing. Nothing worked to make me feel better. Leaving the lab was the only solution. My doctors, at the time, said it was a stress attack or pseudo-panic attack.”

Somber.
“How did you get over it?”

Claire opens her jacket button, gets her rolled up pad, and holds it. “They gave me medications to help. I wanted better results. What seemed to work best was meditation, in my case yoga. It seemed to get me almost back to normal.”

Thanks for the answer, as always.
“That’s good.”

She crosses her arms. “I still have some issues with it, especially if I don’t have time to meditate. Every little thing has the possibility to set off an attack.”

The elevator has stopped on every floor — nine and eight, for some reason.
“It’s good to know that you aren’t perfect.”

She laughs gently. “Did you get to do anything on your vacation?”

“I found the existence of a common cold vaccine. I didn’t go too in-depth. It said something about the immunological impact was too great. Antibodies aren’t everything.”

“I happen to know a bit about the subject. It is true that antibodies are the biggest experiential part of the immune system. You, of course know about the genetic toolkit that allows different people to have slightly different immune systems. The second part of experience induced changes comes from the prevalence of infectious diseases." She relaxes her grip on the rolled up pad with metallic crinkle sounds.

I pretend not to notice.
“What changes can… this cause?”

“The frequency of infections causes the body to reduce the production of white cells by making them more efficient. The threshold to induce a fever can also be increased. These changes allow the body to produce a more sustained immunological response.” The doors open on seven, every floor looks exactly like ten with a few extra doors.

Interesting reasoning, but why?
“What is the practical use of this mechanism?”

“For example, say subject one gets infections often. The other subject has almost never been sick. Introduce them to a chronic infection, like tuberculosis. Check back on both subjects. You will find that subject one has fewer complications than subject two, with treatment.” Claire itches her ear.

“If this change makes a difference, why doesn’t everyone have this adaption?”
Good, my stuffy nose cleared for the first time in almost 2 days.

“It carries risks. The reduced number of white cells cause a below normal resting level. The body is slower in detecting infections and responding to them.”

Makes sense, but can it really be true? My tech collects evidence that I stow away for later.
“That sounds clear.”

“I have to go. I have a meeting in… I’ve missed it already.” She hits my shoulder on the way out. She walks backward saying, “Sorry about that.” She runs down the hallway. The crowd slows her down. I have nothing to do except more testing, so I go to the sim body lab, next to the genetics lab.

Wed 8/23/17 8:13 a.m.

I
rena packs up her stuff inside the sim body lab. Over the last few weeks, she relocated over half the pads, beakers, and other stuff from her office (just for something to look at). She puts everything in a box for transport. I keep my pad on the other desk in there, look at my sim body parts, and see if I can help Irena in any way.

Irena moves the loaded box up onto the desk with a sigh. She has a black calf-length pleated skirt with a high wait, halfway up her ribcage “Are you feeling any better?”

“Yes, I’m almost over it.”
A yawn escapes with the memory of a day devoted to sleep.

Irena shifts her eyebrows in serious posture. “Have you heard the news?”

“Claire just told me about Mr. Stephens.” I lean on the desk edge, facing the isle between desks.

“Gary is going to take the lead.”

“That’s good for him. I’m sure he’ll do a good job.”
He finally gets what he wanted but at what a cost.

Irena drops into the chair. “My situation just got a lot worse. Let’s face the truth, Gary never liked me much. I never gave him a promotion. His father sent him down here for some reason.”

“Maybe, he respected you for it. You have always done the right thing. How can he have issues with that?”
More like resented her.

“This has been coming for some time. I have no chance of advancement here. All the upper positions are held by members of the Stephens family. Competitors have been trying to get me for a long time, in fact.” Irena fiddles with her pad and puts it on the table.

“So the plan is to ditch the sinking raft, just in case it is sinking?”

“I just got an offer from the Windbank Neural Center. Everything is set. They have reviewed my qualifications and references. I think I’m going to take the job.”

“Well, good luck,” I say as I extend my hand in a handshake.

She refuses to take it. “I have agreed to stay on for a week. This gives Gary a chance to find a replacement and maybe a training period.”

“You still have a week here?”
I feel no amount of questions can find the answers about why she really wants to leave.

“Yes.”

“What is going to change for you?”

“Not much. I can keep doing the study I’m doing now. Anything I have published under the Stephens’ name, isn’t mine anymore. I can’t continue any of those lines of inquiry. I will have the same position.” Irena stands to shut the lid of box then freezes with the lid at her side.

“Does anything get better?”

She picks at the now closed box as she speaks. “I’ll have room for advancement. No one from the Windbank family has been associated with the center in more than two generations. My chances are good.”

“I wonder who is going to take your old job.”

“I’m not sure. I have to get this stuff back to my office.” She waves over the boxes of vials and syringes. “I’ll be right back if you need any help.” She shuts the box.

“I got everything under control.”

“If you need anything, you know where to find me.” She lugs the box and leaves the sim body lab.

I look over my three sim legs and check the support connection — a tube filled with blood delivering nutrients and oxygen, collecting wastes like ammonia and carbon dioxide. The other connection, an electrical one connects with a hub for resident neurons. The electrical impulses trigger these neurons to send neurotransmitters to the targeted neurons. Both securely connected to all three legs.

The starting states of each leg appear alongside. The hamstring and quadriceps grew bigger. The other muscles atrophied. I check the woolen sock on each foot, protecting the skin from damage. Good. The tech overlays an image of the pressure sensor in the right position, also good.

I sit behind the desk and gaze at the hovering screens over each leg, showing a zoomed in image of a neuron sample set connecting to the muscles. The first leg is the control. The second leg tests a greater number of neurons. Each one has the same voltage change capability as the first group. The overall voltage is increased with more neurons. The third leg looks like the first. The ion channels are more densely packed together.

The desk shows three boxes — one for each leg — with a start button, voltage indicator, force indicator, frequency gauge, and graph of force vs. time. I hit start on all of them. The frequency ramps up to four each minute. This continues until I stop the test. I just monitor everything runs smoothly while reading something.

Wed 8/23/17 10:05 a.m.

I
get a phone call from Dr. Stephens’ office, a female voice on the other end.

“Hi, I’m Morgan, Dr. Stephens’ executive assistant."
Tentatively,
"Is this Dr. Abby?”

“Yes. This is him.”

A sigh. “Dr. Stephens would like to see you right away.”

“Sure, I’ll be right up.”

“If you’re here in 5 to 10 minutes, that’s fine.”

“See you then.”

“Bye.”

I hit stop on the sim legs, which takes a few secs. I grab my pad off the desk. All the desk displays turn off and the virtual ones disappear. I leave the lab. The sound of the latches locking tells me the lab closed. No sounds stir the air with people having private conversations or mostly working.

I leave through one of the many doors into the hallway, turn towards the elevators, and make the quick trip to twelve. The rainy day casts the garden eleventh floor with a dreary and beaten down look. The door opens on twelve with Morgan waiting for my arrival in a yellow black trimmed dress. She seems happier, than anything seeing me there. She has one arm tucked around her back, grasping the other arm above the elbow.

“If you will come this way.” A black band runs along the top, makes straps that go over her shoulders, and produces the bottom hem across her mid-thigh. The sheer outer layer billows well over the bottom hem before securing into it. Morgan cocks her head to the right and floats that way. I follow her into the S-shaped hallway next to the elevator to arrive at a set of oak doors and move aside as Morgan opens them.