PROCONNESUS

Several weeks earlier, a glossy flyer had appeared in Cole’s mail, among his weekly accumulation of bills, coupons and other correspondence. On one side the flyer read simply, “The future is yours,” and on the other side was listed a web site address, proconnesus.com. Nothing else. He had turned it over and back several times, looking for more information that clearly wasn’t there. The understatement was intriguing. What did they mean by, ‘The future is yours’? He was curious. So he had typed the address into his browser and discovered a series of web pages with large amounts of information about hibernating animals and ice crystal formation. Throughout, there was a repeated emphasis upon Proconnesus’ position at the very heart of something called cryo-preservation, which Cole had learned meant preserving objects through freezing. Interspersed with the text were photographs of brightly lit data centers and groups of smiling multi-racial people wearing safety glasses and white lab coats. It was positive, upbeat and inspiring.

   Hearing the word 'immortal' spoken aloud for the first time, his skin started to tingle, and the room seemed to shift around him. “I’d like to know more,” he said, his voice suddenly coming from a long way away.

   Peterson nodded sagely, a wise old uncle. “Here is an interesting point. Most people today consider the beating of the heart to be indicative of life, and they link the stopping of the heart with death. But I ask you, when trained medical personnel can find no pulse, do they accept fate so easily? Do they shrug their shoulders, turn away and call for the coroner?”   

   He cleared his throat to speak, but then stopped, for Peterson was continuing. “Not for an instant do medical staff consider someone clinically dead and beyond medical aid. They administer oxygen and stimulants; they apply shocks using a defibrillator. And of course, they connect the patient to an electrocardiogram machine more easily to monitor their status.”

   Peterson’s speech pattern definitely seemed awkward; this time he had specifically avoided splitting the infinitive. He was choosing words that, though ungraceful, were technically correct. He was choosing accuracy over convenience.

   “These are all activities that could return the patient to good health,” said Peterson, “because death is not a singular event. It is a progression of many steps, beginning with the termination of the heartbeat and continuing through a period of attempted resuscitation until the patient is pronounced dead. Until that moment, the patient is considered revivable, recoverable, still alive. Although the stopping of the heart’s beating might be the beginning of the dying process, it is certainly not the end. So we can choose a different moment to pronounce death.”

   Cole rotated slightly in his swivel chair. The wall behind Peterson was painted a uniform light grey, anonymous and soothing, unadorned. But projected across it, lattice-like, was the geometric shadow of the window’s venetian blind. The lattice was aligned with the afternoon sun, not quite horizontal but angled slightly downward. Parallel lines meet at infinity, he thought, or at some point so distant as to be considered infinite. He wondered how quickly the angle would change as the setting sun traced its downward path. He wondered if the movement would be discernible.

   Peterson had paused, to let this all sink in. A milestone was coming, and by now Cole knew enough to remain silent and let Peterson continue. “The real secret is that it is not the operation of the heart that controls life or death. It is the operation of the brain.”

   “The brain,” echoed Cole.

   “Yes. Think about it for a moment. Not only does the brain govern all the lower order functions such as breathing, balance, digestion, and so on, but it also contains all the essential uniqueness of the person. Memories. Personality. And when blood flow stops to the brain, there is a period of time, lasting from a few minutes to several hours, during which the critical structures of the brain remain uncompromised. This is our window of opportunity to interrupt the dying process and pause it at that point.”

   Cole realized he had picked up his coaster and had begun tapping its edge on the surface of the table. He put it down quickly, and Peterson resumed, “Here at Proconnesus we understand that this is when we must act. We will come quickly for you. And we will take care of you.”

   These were powerfully seductive words, and again Peterson paused for effect. Cole was really getting the hang of this, and he said nothing, waiting until Peterson spoke again. “We will issue you with a bracelet, and we ask you to wear it at all times. It is a beautiful sterling silver bracelet, and I promise you will like its aesthetics. Contained within the bracelet are a GPS locator, a tiny but powerful wireless transmitter, and a power supply that recharges through the movement of your wrist. This tells us where you are at all times. If an accident were to befall you, at any time, in any place, we would immediately dispatch a team of technicians to your location. Typically, we would not expect this to occur until many years in the future. Ideally you will be very old, you will be in your home or in hospital, and our team will already be waiting next door. But, whenever and wherever it happens, our technicians will prepare your body for transport by the fastest available method to the Proconnesus facility.”

   He knew this was a key point. The Proconnesus web site had contained oblique references to some kind of body preparation program, but no further detail.

   “What’s involved in the preparation?” he asked, half expecting Peterson to demur, but Peterson answered him readily. “First we pack the patient in ice and pass his blood through a cooling pump – this quickly lowers the temperature of the body from within and without. We create an environment of acute coldness to reduce brain activity.”

   “Sounds just like my mother-in-law,” said Cole with a grin.

   Peterson stopped and stared at him in horror. The color drained from his face. “I did not realize you are married.”

   “I’m not. It’s just a joke.”

   Peterson continued staring, clearly not sure what to believe. He had picked up his leather folder and was gripping it by its sides.

   Cole repeated, “I’m joking.”

   Peterson took another few seconds to process this, and then his initial distress faded to relief. He smiled. “For a moment I thought we had an error in our data.”

   “Nope. No wife, so no mother-in-law.”

   Peterson put down his folder, still unopened. He drew a breath to help regain his composure and resumed his explanation. “We also introduce medications through intravenous lines attached to the aortic arch and right auricle of the heart. These medications contain anticoagulants to support blood flow, and free radical inhibitors to maintain blood pressure.”

   Cole was only half absorbing the details because he was reflecting upon Peterson’s expert knowledge, repeated eloquently and perhaps verbatim, “. . . this is just the initial cooling to protect the patient during transport to our facility here in Vermont. Then, immediately upon arrival, the patient is transferred to our laboratory for the decapitation. With our focus on . . .”   

   “Wait,” interrupted Cole. “You said decapitation.”

   Peterson frowned and hesitated.  “Mr. Cole, we have already spoken of the criticality of the brain’s operation. . . “

   “Jack.” He said it by instinct, the word already out of his mouth before he realized.

   “I apologize,” said Peterson, and smiled thinly. “We have spoken of the brain’s central role as the very core of who we are. This is why at Proconnesus we have chosen to concentrate upon neuro-preservation.”

   Cole’s throat was dry. “Neuro-preservation,” he repeated hoarsely, and then, “You only need the head?”

   Peterson nodded once. “We only need the head.”

   Cole tried to speak and realized he couldn’t. He swallowed and tried again. “I think I’ll take you up on that offer of a drink after all,” he said.