Robbie Dorman - Regrowth

“It’s huge,” said Tommy.

Jon had expected quarters like in a submarine, with cramped space. But their apartment was enormous. The door opened into a small foyer which then transitioned into a massive living area, with a giant flat screen television. Jon could see the kitchen beyond, big as well.

“You each have a bedroom and a bathroom,” said Sabrina. “Each is catered to your needs. Your kitchen is fully stocked with essentials, and if you want anything, call operations and they will do their best to get you it. Not just food. Anything.”

“Do we have internet?” asked Tommy. It was a good question.

“Of a sort,” said Sabrina. “As I’ve said, Mr. Shaw is highly guarded about the secrecy of this place, but working without the internet is nigh impossible. So he built his own.”

“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?” asked Tommy.

“You’ll still have access to most websites,” said Sabrina. “But there are security protocols in place for all connected devices. And everything you do will be monitored. But unless you’re trying to leak secrets, I wouldn’t worry about anyone stopping you. You’ll also find your cell phones and tablets functionally useless. But you’ll notice new devices in your rooms, which can be catered to your whims.”

“Can we call outside?” asked Jon.

Sabrina paused. “You’ll have to speak to Mr. Shaw about that. It’s on a case-by-case basis.”

Jon wanted to argue with her, but knew it would do no good. He would talk to Mr. Shaw, like she said.

“How does it look, Tommy?” asked Jon.

Tommy wheeled himself farther into the living room.

“Do you have video games?” asked Tommy.

“Yes,” said Sabrina. “Call operations. The numbers are already on the devices in your room. They’ll deliver anything you need.”

Tommy looked to Jon. “It’s a start,” he said.

“Speaking of Mr. Shaw, when do I meet him?” asked Jon.

Sabrina opened a tablet and flicked the screen to the left multiple times.

“Right now, if you’re ready.”

He had forgotten. Jon had known, he knew it at some point, but it had slipped his mind.

But that knowledge came flooding back when he met Eaton Shaw, and Shaw extended his right hand for a handshake.

Eaton Shaw didn’t have a right hand, or a right arm, for that matter. The distant headlines flashed through Jon’s mind:

Billionaire in terrible accident

World’s richest man feared dead

Shaw survives; loses arm

He had forgotten, but the stainless steel prosthetic that reached for a handshake reminded him. Jon didn’t hesitate, reaching out and shaking. The grip was cold and firm, and he felt a strength behind that grip that could have crushed his hand.

“Nice to meet you, face to face, Jon,” said Shaw, smiling. He had come out from behind his massive desk, solid, made from a redwood that probably cost more than Jon’s whole life. Shaw was a few inches taller than him, his hair cut in tight lines on his head. Jon had heard the rumors about hair plugs, but tried not to study Shaw’s hairline.

He couldn’t help but look at Shaw’s face, and noted the strange plasticity to it, and despite Shaw’s money, the signs of plastic surgery were hard to miss. He didn’t know Shaw’s age, and it was impossible to tell from looking at him.

Jon smiled back. “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Shaw. I thought we didn’t shake hands down here.”

“The rules don’t apply to me,” said Shaw. “For multiple reasons. You may go, Sabrina. Don’t let me keep you from your work.” Sabrina smiled and was gone, out of Shaw’s enormous office. It shared similarities with his apartment, with curved surfaces, neutral colors, and aesthetics straight from older Star Trek. There was a bar set up on one side, although everything was put away. Shaw’s desk was empty, a vast landscape of clean red. “Please.” Shaw gestured to a seat, and he returned to the massive chair that sat behind it. Jon felt like he was on a talk show. Shaw sat above him, and Jon had to cast his gaze at a slightly upward angle to meet his eyes.

“How was the flight?” asked Shaw.

“Comfortable enough,” said Jon. “Sudden, but I feel like that’s partially my fault. I hadn’t checked my email in weeks.”

“They are shutting down labs all over the world,” said Shaw. “Just as we need them most. Foolish. It’s part of the reason this place exists. To provide a home for the homeless, so to speak.”

“Thank you for this opportunity,” said Jon. “I’m glad to just be working again.”

“No, thank you for coming here, Jon,” said Shaw. “I’ve had my eye on you for a while.”

“Really?” asked Jon.

“Yes,” said Shaw. “Some are obvious reasons. Others are not. Have you heard of the term traumatropism?”

“Honestly, no,” said Jon. “Although it feels like I should have.”

“There’s no shame in not knowing,” said Shaw. “Especially when it’s outside your field, technically. It’s from botany, from plants. It’s when a plant or tree regrows after catastrophic damage. After being struck by lightning, for example.”

“Ah, that makes sense,” said Jon.

“The tree will survive, despite being nearly cleaved in half. It will regrow from the damage, and live, perhaps for hundreds of years, but the evidence of the damage is ever there. The tree will grow, sometimes to huge size, even after being nearly rent in half, or burning from the inside. The signs of the trauma are always there. It’s something that’s always fascinated me. The Hibakujumoku as well.”

“The what?” asked Jon.

“Hibakujumoku. It’s Japanese,” said Shaw. “Bombed trees, literally. They are trees that survived the atomic bombs of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. They are cataloged. I’ve visited all of them. The ones on record, at least.”

“Never heard of it,” said Jon.

“Visiting them is powerful,” said Shaw. “It was one of the first things I did after I recovered from my accident. Reminded me of the power of perseverance. Something the accident challenged in me. There is a particular tree, in Hiroshima. The bomb, it ripped it apart. A massive trunk, torn into five parts. Still together at the roots, still alive, but blown apart by the incredible force of the atomic bomb. When people returned to the city, they found it in this state. Do you know what they did?”

“No,” said Jon, shaking his head.

“They found rope,” said Shaw. “And they wrapped that rope around the pieces of the trunk, and forced them together, and the tree lived. But as it aged, the five separate pieces of the trunk grew upward, with more and more branches, thicker and heavier over the years. The tree still stands, with rope still holding that trunk together. Now what do you think would happen if they took off that rope?”

“I don’t know,” said Jon. “I imagine the tree would die.”

“It would split itself apart,” said Shaw. “The weight of the tree itself would kill it, without the rope supporting it.”

As he spoke, the fingers of his prosthetic arm bent and flexed, and Jon couldn’t help but look at them, watching them bend and move back and forth, back and forth.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” said Shaw. “It’s reflex, at this point. The arm—it requires constant physical reinforcement. I almost never stop using it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jon.

“It’s quite alright,” said Shaw. “It’s one of a kind, but it’s an enemy of your work.”

“I’m not opposed to prosthetics,” said Jon.

“This arm,” said Shaw, “is rope. It is technology. More advanced, but still rope .”

“In a perfect world, we wouldn’t need them.”