Pride comes before the fall; Wayne Dinsmore knew that all too well. The diagnosis had been sudden, although he guessed this sort of thing was always sudden. How many routine health exams with full bills of health had he had in 53 years? The doctors told him that the tumor must have started to grow shortly after his last health exam, 8 years ago. The routine check-ups would have found it, they said, if he had continued going.
"Mr. Dinsmore, I really would like to give you the senior citizen's discount, but you know how the economy is right now. Always up and down, it is." The man speaking had his back to Wayne as he sat behind a desk in the consultation room, beholding a vintage painting of a pastoral scene up on the wall. Wayne couldn't help but notice the painting was half-covered by torn, brown paper.
The suited man had a peculiar way about him, a napkin from lunch still tucked into the front of his black, custom-tailored suit, visible only slightly as he spun back and forth in his chair. "If I were to give a discount to every deserving person who came in, soon I wouldn't be able to pay for help. We all are just trying to weather the Recession, you understand." Wayne noted the man's gold watch glistened with the shine of more than a few diamonds. Something about him invoked images of the Mad Hatter mixed with a dash of Ebenezer Scrooge.
Wayne looked down at the blue business card printed in silver ink. Doctor Charles Bottwater, it said. Christ, this man was more of a shyster of a businessman than a doctor, that much Wayne was certain. But ol' Hannity had recommended the man, said this Bottwater had helped a cousin of his, and Wayne had never known Hannity to be a bad judge of character. That and Wayne didn't know technology for shit anyway. Besides, he didn't have time to shop around, if what the doc had told him had any truth to it. Wayne needed a solution now.
"Dr. Bottwater, I didn't ask you to give me a discount. I just asked if I could pay you in installments." Normally, Wayne preferred to pay everything up-front, but this procedure was expensive, and the product even more so.
Bottwater suddenly stopped spinning back-and-forth in his chair for a moment and stood up. "Aha!", he exclaimed, one index finger shooting for the heavens. "I see now." With one white-gloved hand, he reached out and peeled back some of the brown wrapping paper from the painting, revealing a long line of sheep waiting in line to behind a fence. The front-most sheep, previously visible, was in midair, descending to the ground on the other side. "So that's where they were coming from!" He laughed heartily as he tucked the brown piece of paper in his left pocket.
Definitely more of the Mad Hatter here. Wayne cleared his throat. "Dr. Bottwater, I need to pick up my wife from the hairdresser shortly. So if it's alright, could we finish transacting business?" Wayne looked up at the man, genuinely wondering if this doctor didn't need a doctor of his own.
"Ah, yes, of course." Bottwater sat back down and spun around in his chair, finally facing Wayne directly. He wore thick glasses with rather large circular wireframes that looked like miniature magnifying glasses. He was of fair complexion, with no more than four or five freckles dotting his cheeks. If he had to put an age to Bottwater, Wayne would have to say late-thirties. "Installments seems like the only way to do business these days."
Bottwater pulled out a drawer in his desk and withdrew a sheet of paper. From the desktop he deftly retrieved a feather pen, the kind which we once used for calligraphy and letter writing. The lid of an ink bottle popped as he uncorked it, dipping the pen inside. He scribbled silently for half a minute before setting the pen down and placing both hands on the table.
"Five-hundred and sixty thousand New Dollars shall be paid by a Mr. Wayne Dinsmore, you, to a Dr. Charles Bottwater, me, of The Infinity Clinic, LLC, 524 Circle St, Chicago, IL 12345, for services of reinstantiation, as defined in Legal Code 1374 Section 12 of the New Human Consciousness Bill of 2043." He looked up at Wayne through his circular glasses and turned the contract to face Wayne. "Have a look over the contract, Mr.Dinsmore. Nothing too surprising here. Just some details of the procedure on the second page you might find interesting. It states that you will pay the total in 360 monthly installments of one thousand five hundred and fifty-five dollars and fifty-five cents, a feasible payment schedule, no?"
Wayne looked over the document as carefully as possible given that he was dying and his wife was going to be furious when he got there late. "What does it mean that 'the patient should expect to feel disoriented for a period of, but not limited to, 24 hours'?"
"Oh, that little bit? It happens to a rare few patients and relates to how quickly the mind adapts. I'm sure a mentally strong man such as you won't have much trouble." Charles Bottwater fumbled through his desk, looking for something. "Ah! Here it is." He produced a pamphlet with creases in it, having more like the wear of a theme park map than clinic paraphernalia.
Wayne wasn't so sure this Bottwater fellow was being entirely straight with him. "What does it mean 'disoriented'? Like I'll feel dizzy?"
"That's a possible reaction...likely at first, I would say. It takes a bit for the mind to adjust to the new inputs. In some ways, you'll be a far more enhanced you, a better you." Bottwater smiled at his, white teeth glinting in LED diode lighting. Yeah, this doctor had a bit of the Cheshire Cat as well.
"Better me?" Wayne was trying to imagine how whatever came back after death was going to be a better him.
"Well, in some ways. Your eyesight will be far improved. No more left eye astigmatism. Sense of smell, heightened, even adjustable, if for example the neighbor's dog is using the bathroom on your lawn. The sky's the limit once we complete the procedure. Yes, I'm confident you'll be very pleased."
Wayne wasn't so sure, but what choice did he have. This was the cadillac of options for him. And, despite his unseemly nature, this doctor was certified, not like the black market goons he had read about in the newspaper. Their patients, more like victims, often ended up insane rather than a 'better version of themselves'.
Alright, Dr. Bottwater. Let's see what you can do. Wayne took the pen from the doctor's outstretched hand and signed his name at the bottom of the contract.
"Excellent, Mr. Dinsmore! It seems we have an accord." Dr.Bottwater snatched up the contract, slid it through a copying machine and produced the carbonized copy for Wayne, fitting it neatly into a paper envelope. "For your records," he said, handing the envelope to Wayne. Wayne took it from Dr. Bottwater.
Dr. Bottwater looked took out his pocket watch and, looking at the time, exclaimed, "Good lord! It's almost time for my next appointment. A rare case, and one I'm quite looking forward to. A Jack Russell terrier. Never reinstantiated one of them before." He stood and reached out a thin, pasty white hand to Wayne. "Watson in the front will help you schedule your next appointment." He paused a looked more closely at Wayne for the first time, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. "And do try to get some rest. It's important to not push yourself too much at this stage. Tata, for now."
Clasping Bottwater's thin hand in his own even thinner hand, Wayne shook the man's hand, then turned and hurried out the office, already wondering what Betty was going to tell him since he was already fifteen minutes late.
~ * ~ * ~
Two questions floated through Betty's mind as she approached the register at Glenna's Hair Salon.
The first was how a haircut that used to cost fifteen dollars now cost thirty. The second was why her good-for-nothing husband wasn't there yet. Wayne was always late, or not listening, or not watching carefully, or sometimes just being plain dumb. For the twentieth time this week, another question - why she ever married him - crossed her mind. Dumb, animal attraction, that was the best answer Betty had ever come up with. In their younger years, she has just been young and foolish and defenseless against his charms, though the idea that Wayne was crafty enough to have wiles at all threw a wrench in her explanation. Now it was just too much of a hassle to get rid of him, that good-for-nothing, tw...well, he was sick anyway and Betty wasn't inhuman.
"Mrs. Dinsmore, would you like to call your husband on our telephone?" The hairdresser looked at her, batting a set of eyelash extensions.
"No, thank you, Dearie. It wouldn't help. I'd be better off calling a taxi and getting help from them than calling my Wayne." A bitter laugh that the hairdressers were all too familiar with exited her lips. "Here you go...and keep the change," she said, passing the hairdresser thirty-five dollars.
Exiting the salon, Betty walked down the steps and stood at the curb, taking out an e-cigarette and resigning herself to waiting for Wayne to arrive. She breathed in a few pulls on the cigarette, spitting out vapor into the wind. She glanced across the street at a vendor selling some kind of middle-eastern wrapped food, a shawarma, she thought they called it. Betty wasn't really one for that kind of food, but Wayne was always trying out strange cultural delicacies. Steak and potatoes were good enough for her.
She looked down at her antique smartphone and checked the time. Five minutes past 4. Wayne knew how much Betty hated him being late and yet he still couldn't show up on time. How infuriating!
As if summoned by her thought, she spotted Wayne's blue Cadillac stopped at a red light a block away. A red-haired woman in a tight, black dress walking her Doberman passed in front of Wayne's car, and she noticed his head turn following her. Betty's skin started to burn.
She waited for him to pull up to her before descending the stairs in front of the salon, a queen approaching her unruly subject. Wayne stepped out of the car and opened the right passenger door for Betty. "Sorry dear, the doctor's appointment went longer than planned." Without a word, Betty stepped into the car and popped open her purse, digging through it. Wayne walked around the car and got into the left passenger seat.
"You certainly got a good look at that red-head back there." Betty flipped down the visor on the car and took out her powder and proceeded to fix her makeup, not even looking at him.
"Huh? Who?" Wayne looked at her, furrowing his brow as he closed the door.
"You know who I'm talking about. The one walking her Doberman?" She flipped her compact mirror shut in a punctuation of irritation.
"Oh, yeah...she was using one of those leash-less leashes. Did you see it? Funny things, those. No clue how they work." Pushing a button on the dash, Wayne stated the destination, their home, and relaxed back in seat. He then fished in the dash and retrieved a newspaper and proceeded to read it. The car set into motion.
Betty decided to change the subject. "Wayne, why are you always late? When you make me wait around like that, I look like a laughing stock to all the women at the salon. Suzie's husband picked her up, and Cheryl's husband left her the car." She felt a little bad about railing him, but he never seemed to appreciate her enough. That was what it was. Yes, appreciation was totally lacking.
Wayne set the paper down and stretched out his legs. He wondered at how spacious cars had become, now that they didn't require large gas tanks, engines, or steering wheels. Even this car, about ten years behind the latest trends, felt more like a horseless carriage than the automobiles of his childhood.
Recently, since he had been visiting Dr. Bottwater, Wayne had begun looking at his car in a new light. Was it conscious, even a little bit? How much was it aware of its surroundings? It drove the car far better than he could ever have. He didn't quite understand how it worked, but it wove in and out of cars on the road, somehow knowing when they were going to slow down or speed up. Traffic moved like clockwork. It was really very beautiful. "Wayne, are you even listening to me?"
Betty's irritated voice woke him from his reverie. "Oh, Betty, I'm sorry. Like I said, the doctor kept me longer than expected. He's a weird one, that doctor." He loosened the collar of his shirt and leaned his chair back.
"Which one? Dr. Collins or the liver specialist, what was his name...Dr. Gershwin?"
"Goodwin. Yeah, but it was a new guy today," he lied. "Goodwin was out." Even little white lies like this made Wayne uncomfortable. He loved Betty and never liked to be dishonest to her. But if she knew what he was planning, she would try to stop him. Of that, he was sure.
"Well, be sure to let them know your schedule next time. You always neglect to communicate to people, which ends up causing problems for you and me." She picked up a magazine she had purchased a few days ago from the dash.
Wayne let the silence stand, having learned when pushing the point with Betty was only going to make things worse. He gazed at window again and noticed his own reflection. He was wasting away, just as the doctors had told him he would.
~ * ~ * ~
Wayne lay on the operating table in the Infinity Clinic. He knew that he wasn't undergoing any operation, the procedure was in fact completely non-intrusive, but he still felt nervous. What would Betty think? Would she still love him, regardless?
"Dr. Bottwater, why do you do this?" Wayne had been curious since the first day they met why this addled scientist had chosen to partake in such a controversial science. It could become outlawed any day. He looked back over his shoulder at the doctor, who was fumbling with some cables.
"Why do I perform reinstantiations? Is that what you're asking, Mr. Dinsmore?" He picked up a blue cable, about two inches thick from a pile of unsorted cables and plugged one end of it into the table that Wayne was lying on, near the floor. He furrowed his eyebrows, clearly puzzled about something. Falling to his knees in his orange checked pants, he began digging through the cable pile again.
"I suppose it is because I believe that death is an abomination. Take, for example, someone such as yourself. You live almost sixty years, gathering all sorts of experiences that, granted you probably can't communicate clearly to anyone else given your limitation, but still much valuable stuff there. And when you die, it is all gone, lost to society. Don't you think that is terrible? Or maybe I reinstantiate because there is good money in it? You know, I never really stopped to think about it." He threw a few cables aside casually, searching earnestly for something.
"I suppose that makes sense." Wayne was really starting to wonder if he really should be on that table.
"Reinstantiation is also, incidentally, a very fascinating science. I could talk for hours about it." He finally located what he had been searching for, holding it up triumphantly. "Here it is!" He held a rather largish device with a screen attached to it. A convenient, curving handle was attached to the bottom of the screen so it could be held, almost in the same way an artist holds his palette.
"For example, the parts for the bodies are designed by the Swiss, manufactured in China and assembled here in the US. Very sturdy, the body frames. The skins I source from the Japanese. That's the most risky part of it, but I think it's well worth the challenge. They're the absolute best at bringing reality to these kind of things." He smiled as he walked around Wayne, snapping pictures of him from all directions. Even knowing that Dr. Bottwater was a real doctor, Wayne still felt uncomfortable to have naked pictures taken of himself. "The neural emulator itself is built here in the US. I and my assistant Watson assemble all the pieces in this very clinic. It's really a global effort."
"So what would happen if the authorities found out what you're doing here?" Wayne watched Dr. Bottwater frantically punching buttons on the hand-held device he had previously attached to the cable.
"Oh, they'd probably put me in prison. I try not to think about it." He reached up and moved a strange device down over Wayne. "I'll need you to take three deep breaths, then hold your breath." Wayne did as Dr. Bottwater asked, inhaling three times. After the third inhalation, he paused to ask a question.
"Won't the radiation affect you too Doctor?"
"It doesn't seem to." Bottwater smiled at him, his mouthful of white teeth showing. He motioned for Wayne to hold his breath. "Cheese!" he exclaimed to a bright flash. \
"That's it! Time to get your clothes on."
Wayne sat up. "That's it?" Wasn't this whole brain imaging thing supposed to take a while?
Dr. Bottwater was already walking away, data cables draped over his shoulder while fluorescent light from the hand-held terminal reflected off his pale face and he gleefully pressed buttons and muttered to himself.
~ * ~ * ~
Betty Dinsmore leaned over the hospital bed containing her frail husband's body. "Betty. Throat's dry. Can I have a glass of water?" Her husband looked up at her from the hospital bed. Betty stood up and filled a plastic cup of water from the water fountain and held it in front of his lips with a caring that belied her usual treatment of Wayne. Wayne drank a bit too greedily and coughed. "Thank you, dear."
Wayne looked terrible now. He was hardly the strong man she had married twenty years ago. Oh, how the disease had caused him to waste away. The skin hung from his atrophied arms and dark rings lined his eyes. It hurt to look at him, and Betty almost decided not to. But she wasn't heartless, no matter what Wayne's friends might have said. Looking in Wayne's eyes, Betty knew he didn't have much time left.
Time. Betty felt the time slipping away from her, and something about it uncorked a bottle she had kept sealed for years. "Wayne?" She hesitated, a knot in her throat. Was it alright to bring this up when Wayne was on his deathbed? Wasn't she being selfish, unloading on him at a time like this?
"Wayne? Why did you do it?" There she went. No stopping her now. She had said it. The feelings, bottled up inside for so long, were surfacing now.
"Do what, Betty?" Wayne looked over at her, confusion on his thin face. Why couldn't he know what she was talking about? Wayne always had to infuriate her, even at the very end! Maybe he needed his memory jogged. It had happened years ago.
"...S...sleep...with...her." Betty had to drag the words out of her mouth like pieces of bitter gourd. She felt vile even speaking them, but the fuel of the emotions inside wouldn't let her do anything else. She couldn't bring herself to look at Wayne now that she had breached the topic. She focused on a green flower vase situated on a coffee table near the window.
"Huh? Betty, you're not making any sense. What do you mean?"
Infuriating, to his very last breath, but she wasn't going to let Wayne get away from this one. The anger and resentment for 14 years bubbled to the surface. "Who do you think, Wayne?" She could almost see it now in her mind's eye. "One night years ago I was driving home from playing bridge with the girls, and stopped by the drug store on Fourth and Simmers to pick up something." Oh, Christ, she could almost see the floozy, in her tight, yellow dress, arms wrapped around Wayne and kissing him goodbye on the cheek, her hand on the lapel of his suit coat. The memory stung as much as the day it had formed.
She looked at Wayne and saw the puzzled look on his face and lost it. "That tramp Linda, from your work!"
Wayne blinked a few times, his tired mind taking moments to register. He broke out laughing, until the laughing turned to wheezing and coughing. Once he settled down he spoke, grinning.
"Betty, you think I slept with Linda?" More laughter erupted from Wayne. Confusion descended upon Betty. This wasn't the reaction she had imagined. Maybe some desperate lies to cover it up, but not laughter. "Even if I'd wanted to – which I definitely didn't – Linda was a lesbian! She'd sometimes joke about stealing you away!" Mirthful laughter erupted from his whole being.
"But, but...that's not true! I remember you said that night you were going to play poker with your friends." She wasn't about to let him weasel out of this, but for some reason she started to feel unsure about herself.
"At Linda's house! That's where we always played. Her partner, Julie – you remember her – was a bartender and had built a mini-bar in their basement that was perfect for poker night." He looked at her, grinning sickly, but looking genuinely entertained. "NFL on the big screen, food and drink. What more could we ask for?"
"But, but...," Betty's mind spun as she put all the pieces together. Wayne was many things - slow, stubborn, a bad communicator - but he was a terrible liar. She knew he couldn't lie this convincingly.
"Heavens, Betty!" Wayne shook his head, still laughing and wheezing. "Sleeping with Lezzy Linda. That's funny." He wiped some spittle off his chin with the cuff of his paper hospital robe.
She felt mortified and embarrassed and relieved, all at the same time. Betty had held a fourteen year grudge over something that had never happened. How much she had punished Wayne again and again over the years. How could she make it up to him for fourteen years of her being a shrew. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Oh Wayne, I'm so sorry...." She was bawling like a teenage girl would found out her prom date hadn't stood her up, he'd just been kidnapped and finally released. "I...I don't know why I never asked before. I should have asked you about it. Oh, how much time I wasted." She started to reach up to touch his hand, a foreign action after all these years, and she drew it back. Why was it still difficult to even touch him even now? Still bawling like a child, she threw herself face-down on the hospital blanket. A few moments later his hand touched her head and for the first time in years, she didn't draw away with disgust. She cried even harder.
"It's alright, Betty. I don't care about that anymore, and I don't want you to either." He coughed and his head started to feel lighter, and he knew he was going. "I don't think I have much longer. Starting to feel strange."
"No Wayne...don't leave me yet." She spoke into the blanket, still sniffling and grabbing him tighter with her arms.
"Don't worry, Betty. You'll be taken care of after I go. I've made sure of that." As he smoothed her hair, he felt life slowly leaving his body and all was dark.
~ * ~ * ~
Upon arriving home, Betty discovered a letter in the mailbox with nothing but her name on it. No address, no postage. No return address either. Her name was the only thing written on it.
Betty closed the mailbox, turning over the envelope. A stamp with C.B., written in the most grandiose cursive she'd ever seen, sealed the letter shut. Normally such an enigmatic letter would have peaked her interest, but today wasn't a normal day.
Instead it spent three weeks on the kitchen counter before, by chance, it caught her eye again. She furrowed a tired brow and picked up the envelope, opening it in a flurry.
A navy blue card fell out. She picked it up and turned it over. In silver writing was written "The Infinity Clinic, Dr. Charles Bottwater". An address and telephone number were also written. Setting the card down on the table, Betty looked inside and removed a letter she discovered there. It read:
Mrs. Dinsmore:
I hope this letter finds you in good health. My name is Charles Bottwater. I made the acquaintance of your husband some months ago when he visited my clinic. Since then, I have been working on something for you on his behalf.
Please come to my clinic on or after Thursday, Aug 27th to pick up your package.
Yours truly, Charles Bottwater, Ph.D.
Betty set the letter down on her kitchen counter again. A package? From Wayne? Now that this Dr. Bottwater mentioned it, Wayne did say something about having arranged for her to be taken care of. She wondered what it was all about.
Betty stepped outside the door and summoned her car with a key press. Sliding in the right passenger seat, she used one of her rush tokens and the car sped off. Twenty minutes and a short ride from their home saw Betty at the doorstep of a building marked "The Infinity Clinic, Charles Bottwater, PhD". She walked up the steps, bewildered, and entered the clinic.
At the front desk a woman, short, dark hair cropped to her shoulders, fair-skinned and pleasant looking, greeted her. "Good afternoon, ma'am. What can I do for you?"
"I received a letter from a Dr. Charles Bottwater instructing me to come here and pick up a package? My name is Betty Dinsmore." She removed her black hat, now that she was inside the building.
"Ah, Mrs. Dinsmore! We've been expecting you. Please have a seat here and I'll notify the Doctor that you've arrived. Please excuse me." With a smile and a slight curtsy, the woman turned and exited the lobby through wooden double doors.
A few minutes later a man appeared, clearly Dr. Bottwater, beaming an ecstatic grin. "Mrs. Dinsmore! We've been expecting you. Please come in and follow me. I'll show you what Wayne prepared for you. I could tell he loved you very much."
Dr. Bottwater led her through a hallway into his office. He motioned for her to sit at the seat in front of his desk. "Please have a seat, Mrs. Dinsmore. I'll retrieve the item your husband left."
He had an odd way about him, Betty thought as the Doctor shuffled out the back of the room through a beige curtain. A few moments passed and Betty casually gazed around the room. The giant wall painting, partially covered with brown paper, stood out to her. A dartboard lie behind her, directly above the door, though no darts were in the board.
Suddenly through the beige curtain walked a ghost, her husband, a handsome smile splitting his face. "Hi Betty. Don't be surprised." He motioned to his body. "It's me, Wayne."
"Wayne?" The words left Betty mouth breathlessly. "But...it's impossible. I was with you when you died."
"I've been brought back by the Doctor, love. It's not my original body, but it looks and feels normal enough." He laughed, the rich laugh he had before the disease took it away. He looked at her. "Well? Say something."
"Wayne." She rose from her chair and rushed to him, tears already glistening her blue eyes. The machine that housed Wayne opened its arms, accepting Betty. She clung tightly to him, weeping in his arms. She stopped and looked at him again, unbelieving.
"Dear...I don't remember anything since I came here to have my brain scanned a month before...I died. Did I miss anything?"
Betty hug him closer again. She wasn't sure if this was her husband or not. But she was just happy to have something of him to hold onto.
~ * ~ * ~
Charles Bottwater sat at his desk, typing up his final summary for the case of Wayne Dinsmore. Things had turned out swimmingly. The reinstantiation went off flawlessly, acclimation issues had been minimal, and the wife hadn't rejected him outright.
Charles had been concerned about that, given how Wayne had mentioned his wife was a rather conservative lady. But she had seemed very happy just to have a piece of Wayne to hold onto after his death, even if it wasn't necessarily the same as the husband she lost. Charles would keep an eye on her and see if he could collect her as well.
He had saved all roughly four petabytes of Wayne's neural data, comprised of his connectome and position and state of all one-hundred and fifty trillion trillion atoms in his brain, into his collection on a secure, cloud storage location, effectively backing up Wayne as he had been three weeks ago. His collection was growing steadily, though he had to be careful about it. Not everyone would agree with his approach.
Charles reached up and turns off the monitor in front of himself. He had been at Brightner Labs for a while, a lead researcher, before being dismissed for misconduct. He didn't really blame them. He shouldn't have started collecting consciousnesses while on the job. He guessed they objected to the waste of time? But during his time there, he had even worked on the original reinstantiation, the one of Professor Elias Graham, the grandfather of neural imaging. That had been ten years ago, but he could still remember the excitement. Oh, how many trials had there been before they successfully brought his consciousness back! If Graham's consciousness had been a tape, they would have completely worn it out by the time it worked.
Yes, things had gone well. His mother would be pleased, perhaps the first time in months. Maybe she'd tell Neville to be more like him this time. If not he'd just work harder.
As if predicting his thoughts, the intercom on his desk sounded. "Dr. Bottwater, your 4 o'clock appointment is here."
"Thank you, Watson. Please send her in." Charles reached up to his chest and was pleased to find that the pain in his heart felt real. The latest software upgrade had really included some excellent improvements. The folks at Brightner Robotics were really doing a great job. Reaching around his torso, he unplugged a charging cable from his back, releasing it to auto- retract into his desk.
Yes, this was going to be a good month.