James Halperin - The First Immortal

“It wasn’t like that,” Toby said. “He was the man assigned to put me away, so I hated him, too, of course. But after it was over, I started thinking about it, and he was a real stand-up fellow.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Well, I figure Noah must’ve been hounding him to accuse me of murdering you for the $200,000 you left me. Or maybe Banks just coerced Jan into suggesting it. I’m sure he knew the accusation wasn’t true, but that wouldn’t’ve stopped most assistant D.A.’s from making it, or at least using it as leverage. Career first, justice if convenient. And if Butters had made that argument, the judge would’ve had no choice; he’d have been required to uphold the autopsy writ.”

“Really? I had no idea!”

“Good thing Butters was such an even-handed prosecutor, or you’d be worm food right now. He enforced, or attempted to enforce, the law, but he did not make sport of it.”

“Luck enhanced by honor,” Ben confirmed. “Today I feel damned lucky. Let’s just hope our good fortune holds up for one more reviv.” Wishful thinking, he feared, after those two hours Gary spent underwater.

Tabula rasa .

Ben fumed at himself for even thinking the words, but couldn’t help it. Wasn’t a “clean slate” between them exactly what he’d been hoping for since 1982? It was a dark thought which Ben knew had no place in his rational self; a gremlin, burrowed into the soft pulp of his cerebrum.

Lord, no! He did not wish his son ever to forget what he’d done, he just needed Gary to reconcile with him for it. To make it clear and open again. In other words, they both needed a miracle.

Ben’s three daughters and his granddaughter Katie entered my office.

Toby smiled at all four women. Only Jan had any difficulty mustering a sincere return greeting. There was no enmity in her now, only chagrin. Toby’s expression assured her that nine decades was far too long for either of them to bear a grudge.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered to Toby.

He responded with a grin. “No harm done.”

“Thank you for saving my father,” she said, “…from my ignorance.” She’d spent the better part of a month composing those words in her mind.

Toby reflected for a moment. “Whatever happens today, Gary’s gonna need us, and we’re all gonna need each other.”

I maintained some measure of hope. Granted, Gary had been submerged nearly two hours, while Alice’s memories had been lost after just twenty minutes of disruption. But the water temperature in Boston Harbor that morning had been only 37 degrees, and perhaps Gary did not drown right away. Every 18 degree drop (10 degrees Celsius) slowed ischemic brain damage by half. Gary’s neurons should have deteriorated about one-twelfth as quickly as Alice’s had, not even taking the microwave thawing devices into account. Furthermore, Gary was younger. So his two hours may have been less dangerous than Alice’s twenty minutes. Theoretically.

Thus when Virginia’s call came, I was pleased but not amazed. I told the six awaiting news in my office, “The early reports are encouraging.”

The group was ushered to Gary’s recovery room; the updates had been consistently positive. All damage and trauma had been repairable; his long-term memory was intact. Still, even with the latest mood-boosting medications, nobody expected this reviv to be easy.

Gary opened his eyes and looked at our very young, otherwise-familiar faces. “Where’s Father Steve?”

“Don’t you recognize any of us?” Toby asked.

“No. Who are you?”

“Listen to my voice, Gary.”

Gary’s head tilted forward as if staring at an oasis in the desert; making sure it was no mirage. “Toby? Toby Fiske? But you’re a child!”

“So are you. Now. Young and good as new. Even your leg is perfect.”

Gary felt his left shin and knee. No pain at all.

“Perfectly healed,” Ben announced. “You can run marathons on that leg if you want.”

Gary stared at his own young, smooth, strong hands. “Where am I?”

“You’re almost home,” Ben said. “Here in Boston, with your family. Welcome back.”

Gary pounded his fist against the wall behind him.” No. This can’t be right. Father Steve and I were supposed to watch the sunrise in Boston Harbor. I have to finish The Dawn of Life. My painting. Six and a half years of my life, for chrissake. Where’s my equipment?”

Katie stepped to the side of his bed. “Gary,” she said, hugging him, “the important thing is that you’re alive, with your memories intact. You have a thousand years to finish your painting if you need it. You’re alive, Gary! Thank God.”

“Katie? You’re back!” He finally began to understand. “When?”

“About three months ago.”

“Everyone made it? Alice, too? Where’s Grandma Alice?”

“At home,” Ben explained. “But her memories didn’t survive that terrorist attack. She’s young and healthy and smart. But she won’t know you right away, son.”

“Is she still… Alice?”

Ben considered the question. “To me she is.”

“I see. What year is this?”

“It’s 2081. November third.”

“Lord. And Father Steve? Is he okay?”

“We don’t know,” I said. “He’s frozen. At a facility in Wellesley. But you’re fine, so there’s a good chance he is, too.”

“So what happened to me, Trip?”

“Boating accident on Boston Harbor.”

“I don’t even remember going out there.”

“Short-term memory loss,” Virginia Gonzalez explained. She was now the only person in the room whom Gary did not recognize. “But otherwise, you’re completely sound. A miracle. You were underwater for two hours.”

“Two hours? I thought brain damage was irrevocable after fifteen minutes.”

“That was because passages in the brain begin to clog as soon as blood flow ceases. Blood coagulates in the vascular system, and medical science couldn’t reverse that. Not true anymore. Nanomachines can clear all the plaque even before we restore blood flow. And information in human neurons usually lasts at least an hour even at room temperature. But the water that morning was much colder than that. You were lucky.”

“I don’t remember the water,” Gary said. “We were just walking toward the harbor. Talking. Looking at the buildings and the stars. Then nothing. Then, what? Forty-eight years? Simply vanished. God. It all happened without me. Just like that.”

“You have forever, Gary,” Maxine said. “What’s forty-eight years compared with a thousand?”

“I’m not sure I want a thousand.” He stared at Ben, his father, his suddenly young father, whose previous age and infirmity had for so long seemed his only vulnerability; Gary’s advantage over him, his only revenge. And now the man was young again. Young and strong and healthy.

As was he.

Gary began to tremble and sob, and hard as he tried, he couldn’t stop the tears. He cried for nearly an hour, not knowing whether he should feel joyous or miserable, grateful or angry, proud or ashamed.

February 28, 2083

—In the worst single irrevocable loss of human life on Earth in nearly two decades, an antiquated Energia lifting platform explodes at the WASA research facility in Salisbury, Zimbabwe, incinerating 342 workers. A freak, clear-skies lightning strike is blamed for the accident. Zimbabwe is one of only seven states that have yet to accept the installation of weather-control throughout populated regions. AIs predict that today’s accident will bolster weather-control’s acceptance there enough to sway next month’s referendum.—Zeppelins supplant ocean liners as the most popular sightseeing vacation option after Carnival offers a three-week around-the-world cruise aboard Aircity 50s, their 6,600-passenger luxury dirigibles, at half the price of comparable seafaring accommodations. Aircity 50s have recently been WAA-cleared for overland flights, now that the great airships automatically become sufficiently transparent over populated areas not to eclipse sunlight.—To foster species diversity and add fresh perspective to civilization, World President Montag Smits endorses World Referendum 62, which would allow several dozen Neanderthals to be cloned from reconstructed trace DNA found in 40,000-year-old fossilized bone. The vote will take place next month.