Tham Cheng-E - Surrogate Protocol

“The law of a demented world as old as Creation itself.” Arthur heard someone say before he lapsed into unconsciousness. “Murphy merely attached his name to it.”

Poppy sat by the store window with his second cup of half-eaten ice-cream. The rain had subsided to a drizzle, the air was humid and the store window, chilled by the store’s air-conditioning, misted up from the bottom. Poppy earnestly tracked each passer-by along the sheltered five-foot way, expecting that at any time one of them would turn out to be Arthur.

He pried open the lid of his biscuit tin with podgy fingers and took an inventory of its contents. Little stringed trinkets of plastic beads, a faux jade necklace, a brown rubber ball, a peeling wooden top, some old coins and a monochromatic photograph of Arthur seated in an eatery with himself perched on Arthur’s lap.

Then a thought crossed his simple mind: Arthur would probably return only if he finished the third cup of ice-cream he was promised. He replaced the lid of his biscuit tin, picked up the teaspoon and fed himself a scoop of his melted ice-cream. Then he took another, and another, all the while scanning the passing crowds and merrily kicking his slippered feet over the edge of his chair.

LANDON AND JOHN sit on black granite benches and watch the rippling bay in the shade of crepe myrtle trees. Landon feels out of place when couples are occupying most of the other benches and it doesn’t help that John is a far bigger man than he is. Just as his stomach reels with its first hunger pangs, John fishes two packets of food from his backpack and hands him one of them.

“Taco?” he says. “It’s almost dinnertime.”

Landon seizes one packet. “Where’d you get them?”

“Before the museum. About two hours old. It’s soggy but still good.”

In his hunger Landon bites off an entire third of the taco in one mouthful. When they finish, John hands Landon a caramel-nut bar.

“You eat junk all the time?”

“When I’m on the move. It’s a habit.”

Landon nibbles on the bar and broods. “I don’t understand. Why me?”

“Chronomorphs are safe as long as they stay hidden,” John says. “But not many of you are adept at that.” He pauses, chewing on his candy and staring at the water. “Everyone knows you’re the thief who stole that woman’s IC for the birth registration.”

Hot shame creeps up Landon’s neck.

“You compromise yourself, you compromise the Serum.” John adds. “CODEX opened a file on you and here I am. It’s a damn shame.”

“Thing’s a curse.” Landon muses bitterly. “Upends my life and empties it.”

“For some Chronomorphs it’s the price to pay,” John says. “The Serum was meant to function as a black box for those seeking the Unknown, but it ended up offering unexpected gifts. The absence of human senescence is a consistent one. Some obtained abilities they never had. Others, like you, got the downsides like amnesia.”

Landon shakes his head. “Had to receive the wrong end of the stick.”

“There are worse ones: insanity, death. Ever heard of running amok?”

“Vaguely.”

“Incidents happened frequently at the turn of the century. But Nobody but us knew why.”

“So we’re basically insane and amnesiac immortals?”

A shade of annoyance flits across John’s face, as if he has got the same question many times over. “You live a long life, but you can die,” he says. “That’s longevity, not immortality.”

“So how long does a typical—Chrono- thing live?”

“Don’t know.” John shrugs. “They always get killed off before we find that out.”

The words weigh upon him like anvils. They remind him of a frailty he has forgotten, and Death returns to his mind like an old friend. There were times when Death beckoned temptingly, after solitude had taken too much out of him. Now it terrifies him. It just isn’t the same when you know someone’s out to erase your existence because it isn’t worth snot.

An elegant, silver-haired lady wheels a very old man towards them. A younger Caucasian couple walks with her and three children run on ahead. Tourists—British or Australian from their accent. The wheelchair comes close and its occupant pivots his head on a withered neck; he has a blanket over his lap, and his stare reminds Landon of the dribbling patient at Loewen Lodge.

“You,” the old man struggles with a hoarse croak. Landon feels John go stiff with tension beside him.

“I know you.” He lifts a weak finger at Landon. “You got out, like I did.”

Landon, stupefied, tries to smile and his cheeks quiver at the effort.

The old man strains to look at the lady behind him. “He got out, he was with me.” The lady smiles apologetically and tries to wheel him away but his insistence keeps them in the same spot. “You got out, didn’t you?” The old man holds up the bony finger at Landon. “There were others who didn’t. And I told them… I told them—”

Age has disfigured him. It’s the brutal, honest truth. Landon stares at the puckered face before him and finds no recognition in it.

“Tell him you don’t know him.” John’s whisper drifts into range.

“I’m so sorry.” The lady addresses them both. “He’s ninety-three.”

Landon smiles at her. Beside him John adds, “Return a smile and leave it as that.”

“I—I was sorry for them, y’know?” Beneath thick, hawkish brows the old man’s eyes are stretched open like marbles. “It was the airconditioning… I was—”

The lady pats his chest. “Don’t bother the men, Papa.”

“You don’t know him, Landon,” John whispers.

The old man puts an arthritic hand to the wheel and stops it. “I didn’t—” He shifts, sucks in his saliva and reaches for Landon. “I remember their names—them all—”

John leans closer. “Tell him goodbye.”

“Oh for the crap of it!” Landon shrugs him off. “This isn’t the first damn time I’m getting this, okay? Stop telling me what to do!”

His outburst scares the group into scuttling off, their strides so brisk the kind lady had no time for a final apology. The old man strains to catch one final glance at Landon. An embarrassing antic of one too old—that’s what his family will think. And it’s a good thing because Landon knows it’s much more than that. He saw it in the eyes.

As they leave he rounds on John. “Who’d you think I am? I’m a bloody amnesiac! I don’t remember anyone!” A gust of wind sweeps hair across his forehead and a grain of sand into his eye. He stands, rubs it, braces his hands petulantly on his hips and stares at the skyline at the opposing bank. “I make coffee and I don’t hold friendships very well. Been doing that for—” He gives up and goes quiet for a moment. “Everyone who knew me once is either dead or dying.” He looks at John. “Do you know how that feels? Did you see the look on his face?”

“Sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Landon shakes his head. “Truth is I don’t remember him anyway. Each time I try to build something it gets whittled down to nothing.”

“You knew any kids then?”

“I don’t know. I’ve had customers but they weren’t kids.” He sits back down and stares at the unfinished caramel bar in his hand. “I knew a bunch in their thirties and forties and they’d be antiques by now. Like him.” He nods in the direction where the old man went. “It was all touch and go—all the friendships. The better ones have written down.” Landon tongues a cheek in thought. “And the rest, they’re all gone now.”

The light of the setting sun sets the scattered clouds aflame. John considers the merit in Landon’s amnesia. He has no need of a masquerade, his perplexity about his past sins so genuine others would doubt themselves. Sometimes it is better to forget. The gift keeps him sane.