PROCONNESUS

Peterson rose to his feet and crossed to the alcove. He slid open a wall panel to reveal a collection of glass tumblers. He selected one and closed the door, then picked up the pitcher of water and poured the glass full. He poured none for himself. Replacing the pitcher, he returned and handed the glass to Cole. It was very heavy, and remarkably clear, and chevrons had been etched sharply into its exterior. Rainbow slivers of color danced around the edge, kaleidoscopic reflections from the glass’s many surfaces.

   Cole took a deep sip, then held the glass up to the light and rotated his wrist left and right. “Nice glass,” he said.

   “A thing of beauty is a joy forever,” answered Peterson, and then, “John Keats.”

   Cole paused for a moment. “Who?”

   Peterson smiled. “An English poet from the Romantic era. A friend of Shelley. Keats’s view was that ordinary objects inspire only temporary effects in their beholder, whereas the effect of beautiful objects is permanent. Neither time nor space can destroy them.” A wistful gleam appeared briefly in Peterson’s eye. Then he re-focused. “Our objective is to preserve the essence of the individual for as long as possible. With our concentration upon the brain, we are confident that the patient’s unique characteristics can be retained with a high level of fidelity.”

   Cole ran his fingernail along the deep groove in his water glass. “Okay, I’m listening,” he said. 

   Peterson regarded him evenly. “Removal of the head is a complex step and requires delicate surgery. The procedure involves the insertion of lines into the carotid and vertebral arteries. When the arteries have been isolated, precise incisions are made between the first and second vertebrae, and gradually widened until the head can be carefully separated from the body.”

   Somehow, Cole’s expectation had been much less dramatic. Possibly influenced by science fiction films, he had imagined a straightforward freezing of his body in a comfortable casket, of lying horizontally, napping pleasantly, awaiting an uncomplicated thawing at the appropriate time. In his mind’s eye the casket was smooth and white, and in the front it had a small window through which a technician could check his status. Perhaps the inside of the glass had frosted over, perhaps his skin had a slightly bluish tone, perhaps tiny ice crystals had formed on his eyelashes. He had visualized an environment that was neat, clean, sterile and orderly. He was slowly discovering that the reality was very different. “Why not preserve the whole body anyway?” he asked. “Just in case.”

   Peterson gazed at Cole reflectively for a moment. If he was irritated by Cole’s questions, he hid it well. “You must remember that our patient has already died of an illness or injury, which has caused the heart to stop, and medical science has already adjudged him dead. The patient will be better served by transplanting the brain into a new body. Surely, if given the choice, most people would choose a new strong healthy body over an old used one, would they not?”

   Another rhetorical question. Cole just nodded.

   “And recently there have been some remarkable developments in robotics,” said Peterson, and here he smiled again, “. . . of which Proconnesus has been a pioneer.”

   Cole reflected that Peterson, with his mannerisms and his speech patterns, was somewhat robotic himself. Aloud, he said, “This is all much more graphic than I had expected.”

   Peterson nodded slowly. “Would you like to take a break before we proceed?”

   Cole noticed that the shadows had changed on the wall behind Peterson. The lattice pattern seemed different, the fingers of shadow now longer and more gently angled. He realized that the shadow was moving, subject to the changing light, the lines and angles altering as the sun described its arc across the sky. He realized Peterson was sitting waiting patiently, unaware of the chiaroscuro playing out behind him. “No,” said Cole, “Let’s carry on. What happens next?”

   Peterson raised a finger. “This is where the genius of Proconnesus comes into play. If I may say so. When water freezes it expands to create ice crystals that can puncture the body’s cells and ruin their integrity. But we have created a preservation procedure known as vitrification. We replace the water in human cells with a protective solution based upon glycerol. This disrupts the crystal formation of ice, so when a body or organ is cooled, it does not freeze. Instead, it vitrifies, and is reduced in size by approximately ten percent. No water is involved, so no damaging ice crystals can be formed. This preserves the structures of the brain at the microscopic level.” Peterson opened his palms and adopted an apologetic tone. “Unfortunately, I cannot disclose the exact formulae.”

   Cole thought about that for a moment, his fingers idly playing with the diamond shapes on the side of his glass. “Anti-freeze is glycerol, isn’t it?”

   Peterson pursed his lips. “Glycerol is simply an arrangement of hydrogen, oxygen and carbon atoms, and it is completely benign. But, in any case, our protectant is a variant. In recent years we have developed more sophisticated solutions that combine glycerol with compounds derived from nature. Our biology lab has investigated the cryonic behaviors of hundreds of species of plant and animal. Frogs, snakes and lizards – even lobsters – produce chemicals that prohibit the growth of ice crystals. Cockroaches and various beetles can survive extended periods of freezing. Through our testing, we have isolated a set of gnats in the genus Exechia as the paradigm for our latest procedures. These unusual insects recover well after being frozen and revived, and an individual insect’s learned behaviors are exhibited after revival, indicating that memory has been preserved intact.”

   Cole wondered how many times Peterson had told this story. He noticed that the shadow of the window shade had crept farther along the wall, the intricate geometric pattern deformed and elongated as it turned the corner. Fingers of darkness were reaching out toward Peterson, the intervening brightness now diminished in the late afternoon sun. He focused for a moment on one, concentrating hard to see it moving. No, it was no use. He knew the light would move along the wall, imperceptible but inexorable, until it met Peterson’s silhouette. Then the shadows would fall not upon a smooth flat plane, but on the contours of Peterson’s body. He wondered how they would distort on such an irregular surface.

   Peterson leaned forward, and his body moved out of the shadowplay, monochrome once more. “We have very high hopes for some of our latest blends. In fact, we have been honing our final version for several months, and we anticipate FDA approval any moment.”

   Cole summarized. “Brain cells contain water, and water expands when it’s frozen, which damages the cells. So you replace the water with a glycerol solution based on insects. Then, when you reduce the temperature the brain doesn’t freeze.”

   “Exactly. It vitrifies. We also add dye to the solution to make visual confirmation easier, and we perfuse this through the brain until the all the water has been replaced.”

   Cole shifted in his chair, which creaked under him. “What color is the dye?”

   Of all the questions he had asked, this one seemed to surprise Peterson. “Why, it is green.”

    Shrinking and turning green. He thought again of the green statue outside, and the water rushing over its surface. They were talking about removing someone’s head and filling it with anti-freeze. Possibly his head.

   Peterson waited for a moment, then continued, “Now it gets much easier. With the patient vitrified, we simply apply a protective casing around the head, and slowly cool to the long-term storage temperature. Then we immerse in a container filled with liquid nitrogen.”

   “And that’s the coolant? For the freezing?”

   Peterson held his eye. “Yes. Liquid nitrogen is stable at negative one hundred and ninety-six degrees. It’s called cryo-preservation, from the Greek word cryo, meaning icy cold.”

   “And where are these containers kept?”

   “Downstairs in our storage facility. We may tour it later if you desire.”

   The fingers of shadow had now progressed across the wall and were superimposed across Peterson’s suit coat. The curve of his shoulder had bent the shadows into hooks. They were almost, but not quite, touching his neck. Cole paused, imagining a series of human heads wrapped in plastic, bobbing and rolling in dark steaming liquid. Beneath their feet.

   Peterson spoke again. “The containers are sealed and well insulated, so there is no evaporation. In practice the containers could remain undisturbed for many years without requiring any intervention.” Peterson smoothed his tie. “So there you have it.”

   He suspected Peterson had told this story many times before. It was smooth and practiced. He took another sip of water, then centered his glass back on its coaster. 

   “Aren’t we leaving out something?”

   “Of course,” said Peterson, “The last and the most important step, but it comes later. Much, much later. The final stage is revival.”