PROCONNESUS

In the room it had grown darker. The setting sun was peeking between the trees, casting its pale orange glow across the lawns and through the long windows. The elongated shadow of the window blinds was no longer so clearly drawn, and the growing gloom had softened the edges and blurred the lines of the fresco. All that remained were some darker strokes, painted diagonally across Peterson’s face.

   “Revival,” said Peterson, “is our greatest opportunity. And also our greatest challenge.”

   Cole didn’t like the sound of that. “Why is it your greatest challenge?”

   “Revival of the human brain, with all its complexity, still eludes us.” Peterson spoke lightly, but Cole was sure the words must be well rehearsed. “We know how neurons in the brain transmit chemical signals across synapses, and we even know the types of chemical. We know that short-term memories are stored in the prefrontal cortex, and that long-term memories are indexed in the hippocampus. But resurrection of these memories, in all their richness and sophistication, is still a work in progress. Our understanding of the brain is not yet deep enough to restore a unique individual, with all his personality intact. Although we are pushing forward the boundaries of knowledge, at this time the technologies to support revival are still anticipated.”

   A long silence followed this, Cole digesting the information that of course no person had ever been successfully revived. He decided that anticipated was a rather optimistic word. “Anticipated,” he said, “but not guaranteed.”

   Peterson squared his shoulders a little. “With every day that passes, with every new advance in cryonic technology, we take a step closer. We are well on the way to solving the last remaining challenge.”

   Cole sat looking at the cut crystal tumbler on its coaster. It was a nice tumbler. He wished it contained a nice scotch.

   Peterson let the silence continue for another moment, then resumed, “In the properly vitrified patient the cell structure has been well protected. So we would simply administer a serum of nanobots to deliver enzymes and repair any remaining cell damage before transfer to the new host.”

   'Host' was a word Cole didn’t like. But another jarred him even more. “Nanobots?” he asked.

   “Tiny robots. Machines that operate at the molecular level. It is all rather magical, for they are only nanometers across, thousands of times thinner than a human hair. And of course, synthetic bodies will soon exceed human capabilities in immeasurable ways. In the brave new world, our brains will be housed in more advanced vessels. Stronger, lighter, more resilient.”

   “That’s what you mean by immortality,” said Cole.

   “That is what we mean by immortality,” agreed Peterson.

   It was now fully clear to Cole why Proconnesus only needed to retain the brain and not the entire body, and it wasn’t a reassuring scenario. “So we don’t wait until there is a cure for whatever kills me, we wait until there is sufficient progress in robotic or replacement technology. Whenever that is.” He couldn’t believe he was saying these words.

   Peterson spread his hands apart. “It is easy to plot the trends of progress, but it is more difficult to time them. We are aggressively driving progress in medicine, robotics and computing, and the rate is increasing. Most futurists speak of a convergence of these technologies into what they call a ‘singularity’, when all becomes possible.”

   Cole forged on. “Give me your best guess.”

   “Many futurists predict this Singularity will occur around the year 2050.” That seemed remarkably soon. Suspiciously soon. Cole smiled. “Looks like I’ll just miss it.”

   “Hence your visit here today. With our help you can be preserved in time for as long as required and then returned to full health. I have endeavored to demonstrate how comprehensive is our service, how profound is our commitment to your well-being. For your edification.”

   Cole reflected again on Peterson’s vocabulary, half listening as Peterson continued, “When you join Proconnesus you become part of our family, and we will treat you as we would a family member. There are well over two thousand of us, you know.”

   Cole noticed that Peterson had said when, not if. “Nicely done,” he thought. Aloud, he asked, “You have two thousand dead people frozen in this facility?”

   Peterson allowed himself another small smile at this. “Alas, no, Mr. Cole. Currently we have about two hundred clients vitrified. But we have another two thousand enrolled for the service.”

   He had long since given up hope of ever hearing Peterson use his first name.

   Peterson reached for his black leather folder and pulled it toward himself. He ran his fingertips along its edges, squaring it alongside the table’s edge, and opened it smoothly.

   Inside, Cole could see a thick sheaf of paper, perhaps half an inch tall. Obviously, many pages. There was text on the top page, but he could not read it upside-down across the table.

   Peterson picked up the page, lowered his eyes to it, and read aloud. “Neuro-preservation program includes, but is not restricted to, the following services.” He raised his left hand and began ticking off items on his fingers. “One, real-time diagnostics and remote monitoring. Two, client interception and transportation. Three, cranial isolation and perfusion. Four, stabilization and maintenance. Five, reversal.” He held his hand open, all five digits splayed.

   Cole said nothing.

   Satisfied, Peterson dropped his eyes to the paper again, and read, “Client guarantees funding payable to Proconnesus upon legal death of the client.”

   Peterson continued to peruse the document, allowing the silence to continue for a few more tantalizing seconds, then he reversed the page and offered it to Cole without comment.

   Cole reached out and took it, held it up to the waning light. Under the summary list of services that Peterson had read was the following:

                    Proconnesus Funding Requirement:

                              Neuro-preservation:

                                     $200,000

   Peterson said, “Most people simply take out a life insurance policy and name Proconnesus as the beneficiary.”

   Cole eyed his heavy crystal tumbler. Yes, he could definitely use a good scotch, with just a drop of water.  “Do you take cash?” he asked.

   Peterson took him seriously again, and started to say, “Of course,” but Cole forestalled him with a smile and a wave of his hand, and asked instead, “What kind of person joins up?”

   Peterson answered this readily too, “People who predict a better future world. People who predict a utopia of comfort, sophistication, peace. What rational, thinking person would not wish to be part of that?”

   He remembered the flyer he had received, and the Proconnesus motto. “‘The future is yours’?” he asked.

   “Just so,” said Peterson, sitting up a little straighter, and Cole felt he had passed some kind of test. “I assume you’re signed up,” he said.

   Peterson glanced over Cole’s shoulder at the gathering dusk outside. He shrugged slightly. “Of course.”

   “What about Anna?” Peterson’s brows furrowed.

   “Anna?”

   “Downstairs. Your receptionist.”

   “Ah, Miss Bentley,” said Peterson vaguely, “I have no idea who has subscribed and who has not. That would be information only our Human Resources department could access.”

   They sat in silence for a few seconds. Peterson, who obviously knew that a client ultimately sells to himself, waited.

   It was becoming so dark in the room that it was hard to see. There were no longer any lingering shadow patterns. Cole glanced at his watch: it was after five. He wondered why Peterson didn’t switch on the lights.

   Peterson reached his hand to the contract and flipped to the last page in the stack. He swiveled it around until it was facing Cole, and then with both hands he slid it carefully across the table. Cole glanced down at the page, could see his name printed there, with a solid black line underneath, awaiting his signature. The date was already filled in. Today’s date.

   In the gloom Peterson was silhouetted, his eyes glittering. He produced a silver fountain pen from his inside pocket. It was slim and elegant, another thing of beauty. Keats would have liked it. It too glinted slightly in the last of the sun’s rays. With a flourish, Peterson removed the cap and placed the pen gently upon the paper in front of Cole.

   Cole lowered his head and looked at the signature page of the contract, with Peterson’s fountain pen lying on top. It was willing him to pick it up, to feel its smoothness, its coolness, its balance. He felt a longing to touch it, to use it, to feel its heft in his hand as it moved across the paper, scratching slightly, spilling its ink evenly across the page. He glanced at the pile of paper. He hadn’t read it, but he knew its contents. Peterson had explained it all. He thought of the vats full of human heads, plastic-wrapped, floating in their pools of liquid nitrogen, each one stiff from the cold, each containing its own glycerol-filled, green-tinted shrunken brain. This beautiful silver pen was so at odds with the topic they were discussing. It was so at odds with the image it represented.

   There was an audible click, and the lights came on. Not overly bright, but enough to illuminate the room. Soft fluorescents glowing into life in recesses around the edges of the ceiling, controlled by photo-electric cells monitoring the ambient light.

   Suddenly Cole could see clearly.

   He inhaled deeply and sighed. Outside, it was fully dark. Soft external lights were also illuminating the border shrubs.

   He rubbed his eyes, then placed his hands flat on the table, on either side of Peterson’s black leather folder. He looked again at the folder, at the contract, at the pen. He didn’t touch any of them.

   He had approached the Proconnesus office today telling himself he was prepared to make a big decision. He suddenly wished he hadn’t wasted his day. “Mr. Peterson,” he said, “thanks so much for your time. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to decline.”

   But Peterson had more in his arsenal. “Benjamin Franklin once said he wanted to be woken up every hundred years so he could see what happened. A sentiment I greatly admire.”

   Cole thought, “You really are very good, Mister Peterson. I bet you close a lot of sales.” He pushed his chair back and stood up.

   Peterson nodded, then placed his own palms on the tabletop and got to his feet too. “I see,” he said, a little stiffly. He slid his chair back into place and squared it against the table. Together they walked to the door, and as Cole stepped through, he glanced back into the room, at the table, at his seat. The chair he had used faced carelessly away at an indecipherable angle, the silver pen lay atop the stack of paper in the black leather folder, and next to that his water glass stood inert on its thick stone coaster. The trappings of his visit, the tangible evidence of his presence for that short time.

   Peterson, conversely, had left no trace: his place was empty, bare, untouched. As though he had never even been there. As though he had never existed.

   Peterson pressed the button to summon the elevator, and with a ping the door slid open immediately. They stepped into the elevator’s dim interior, turned around, and stood side by side staring ahead at the door in the manner of elevator goers.

   Peterson pressed the button marked L for lobby. Cole crossed his wrists in front of him.

   They descended in silence, and when they reached the lobby it too was dark and still. The reception desk was, disappointingly, vacant.

   They crossed the tiles diagonally to the front door, where they shook hands again without speaking. Cole nodded his farewell, then turned to the revolving door and pushed through. He stepped out into the cool evening air and felt the breeze on his face. He breathed deeply, squinting up at the stars twinkling merrily in the blackness, and realized he was tired.