Bio-Justice Read online

  Felice Bennett was shaken. Her eyes had witnessed the aftermath of Premium Sentencing at least two dozen times and yet, Danny’s weathered face, his slumped body, his sorrowful lament haunted her. Maybe his file revealed something undeserving of this fate, maybe in his eyes she saw something that contradicted all that she had believed before about the process. Maybe looking at society separate and apart from the individual menace was a mistake.

  She stepped into her windowless office and closed the door, locking it. Sitting down in her chair, Felice stared at the wall that backed up against the front of her desk. Taped on the wall was a snapshot of her taken two years ago in Versailles with Ben, grinning together like happy, oblivious fools in front of the circular fountains of the Colonnade in the palace’s resplendent gardens. Ben was gone, after bumping into an old girlfriend shortly after the picture was taken, whom he confessed he had never completely gotten over. For Felice, the photo had captured the last frivolously wonderful moment of her life.

  The wonderful moments since Versailles had been formal, professional ones—test result triumphs during the course of her research at the facility, or working closely with Dr. Gordon Conlan, the Nobel Prize winning scientist whose esteemed body of work in age progression proved groundbreaking in the development of Premium Sentencing. Three years ago, Dr. Conlan had read some of Felice’s published journals on genetic manipulation and asked her to assist him on his new venture. Felice remembered telling Ben what a professional validation it was to be hand-picked by Conlan and Ben had told her how proud he was of her.

  Had she ever been happier?

  Conlan already had another scientist on board, Dr. Rhys Sarkis, with his fervent commitment to making chronological age advancement a viable process fully embraced in the scientific and commercial realms. Sarkis struck Felice as having the dedication of a zealot when it came to pushing the limits of Conlan’s theories, but it was that fanaticism, perhaps more than anything, that accelerated the astounding success Premium Sentencing was now achieving. Where Conlan had projected five years for a viable result to Felice just two years earlier, Sarkis had surpassed startling thresholds in less than eighteen months.

  But it was that relentless pace, that unyielding timetable of Sarkis’ that worried her, for in Felice’s experience the good work of science could not be rushed. There was too much room for self-righteous neglect, of problems overlooked, of subjects unnecessarily compromised and therefore harmed. Rushed scientific method brought on bad result, especially with regard to maintaining ethical standards. Sarkis was not one to question himself and he certainly was not going to allow a colleague such as Felice to act as his proxy and impede his momentum.

  When Felice tried to question Sarkis on the number of test animals he was “processing” weekly, her steely-eyed associate reacted to her dismissively. And when Sarkis started to recruit homeless men to undergo various tests, Felice had reviewed the suspect release forms with the signatures illegibly scribbled as if the signatories never bothered to read what they were signing. Adding to her suspicions was the fact that Sarkis had scheduled those tests on a floating timetable, Felice believed, to keep her from monitoring him too closely.

  Sarkis had ordered the surveillance cameras removed from all floors except for the front reception and parking areas. He had convinced Conlan that there should be no photographic record showing the comings and goings of the test subjects and processees, a record that could wind up misconstruing the important work being done and threatening the future of Conlan’s scientific breakthroughs. Felice suspected it had more to do with Sarkis finding it more desirable to work in stealth. But Conlan had agreed, allowing Sarkis to assign guards to patrol the floors on a rotating basis, guards whose confidences could be secured by legal and monetary means.

  Once, Felice had chanced upon one of the test subjects being escorted down the corridor to the freight elevators. Felice was startled by the second degree burns on the subject’s face, the deep grooves, like irrigation rows, carved into the forehead and cheeks. When Dr. Conlan was told of this by Felice, her mentor seemed peeved towards Sarkis and reasserted that the tests were only to induce small incremental changes. She remembered wondering if she had gotten Sarkis in trouble. She even allowed herself to speculate whether Conlan might ask her to take over Sarkis’ duties. But the next day, Conlan greeted Felice with the “good news” that Sarkis no longer needed to recruit any more volunteers. It was time, Conlan had said, to ask the State for a real test case, probably some old lifer rotting away in a penitentiary, disowned and forgotten by family and deplete of appeals.

  Felice took the photograph of Versailles down from her wall and tore it into four pieces, scattering the remnants into the trash can. Ironically, one of the remnants kept Ben’s face intact, smiling up at her from the waste can.

  She had believed in Dr. Conlan’s work and believed it to be a magnanimous calling. The result of all her hard work would be to ease pain and cruelty and suffering. Any great change, she had told herself, came with error, missteps and sometimes, tragedy. This was a small price to pay for human progress—at least she had always thought so. But now, as she sat in the silence of her office, with the dire debate raging in her own conflicted mind, she wasn’t so sure.

  After Danny drank two small bottles of water and swallowed some of the broth, he lay back on his bed and tried to reconcile the physical realities of yesterday and today: who he knew himself to be and what they had made of him. It was done and now it became a matter of acceptance. Ever since the day he had watched the film with the others, Danny had been made perfectly aware of what was going to happen to him and why. He understood that he was supposed to see himself on the cusp of a new beginning—that he had done his punishment and now he could be forgiven by society. Someone had to pay for that dead cop and his traumatized wife and kids, and now he had. They had been straight with him but he had kept the impending reality of transformation and deterioration like an abstract thought that his mind could maintain a safe distance from. Now it was here and all the mirrors in the world he avoided looking into could not dispel the horrible change—there was an absence of vitality, of strength, his eyes felt filmy and the bones in his body made themselves known to him in every labored movement. His eyes caught the sag of his flesh and the loss of tone, his hair felt thin and waxen. Maybe, he thought, this was just a natural physical reaction to all his body had endured; that was why he would have therapy and consultation, to bring his head back in sync with his body. He thought of Sonya and he thought of his son, and somehow this seemed to work; this noble distraction was the tonic for the onslaught of this consuming malaise.

  Danny convinced himself that the key to overcoming his immobilizing trauma was mental discipline. He rolled from his mattress and sat up. He lowered himself onto the floor and tried to perform push-ups. The first attempt was feeble and he could feel the rush of discouragement overtaking him, but he focused on steadying his arms and tried again, this time pushing up from his elbows so they helped lift his torso off the ground. Grunting and falling, over and over, Danny slowly made progress and after a few minutes, he counted out six completed push-ups. He allowed himself to rest after that and he was still on the floor when an attendant brought in a newly replenished tray of liquids and soft food. After checking to make sure Danny was not disabled on the floor, the attendant tried to lift Danny up. Danny motioned the attendant away and slowly rose to his knees and then his feet, and lowered himself onto his mattress in a sitting position.

  The attendant left the cell and before Danny walked to the table where the newly stocked tray awaited him, he lowered himself into a crouched position and squatted up and down five times before he allowed himself to stop.

  Felice Bennett left the subterranean parking level through the security gates around eight forty-five that evening. Her car followed the night down an empty Highway 1. In her rear view mirror, she could see the Conlan Laboratories building, the gleaming glass-plated monolith with fifteen floors c
onducting the business of her mentor’s patents, licenses and contracts, commodifying his scientific discoveries, while in the six levels below ground where Premium Sentencing was administered, where science and humanity intersected to create a consequential new alchemy, the real work of Dr. Gordon Conlan, Dr. Rhys Sarkis, and Dr. Felice Bennett made its mark on the world.

  CHAPTER 6

  The psychiatrist’s name was Angstrom and he encouraged Danny to be as casual and comfortable with him as possible. Dr. Angstrom’s office, tucked away in an inconspicuous corner of Level 2, was a modest space but roomy enough where a patient wouldn’t feel claustrophobic. It was painted a pastel blue and decorated with tasteful art prints and a Tour de France poster that hung next to a Native American inspired sculpture atop his bookcase. The bookcase was completely filled with volumes of psychiatric case histories with two conspicuous exceptions: a Tuscan cookbook and a John Grisham novel, as if to prove Angstrom was in fact human and relatable. The office was, however, curiously devoid of any intimate artifacts such as a framed photograph of Angstrom’s wife or a Little League medal his son might have earned, nothing that would provide insight into Angstrom’s own personal life. He offered Danny an anything-goes pact, where he was free to say whatever came into his mind—in fact, Angstrom discouraged him from editing himself, even saying that profanity would not be frowned upon in their sessions.

  “What is the dominant feeling going on inside of you, Danny?”

  Danny took a moment and said: “Confusion. Then anger.”

  “Why anger, Danny?” Angstrom wasn’t taking any notes; an electronic file was recording their conversation and transcribing it into readable script for later review.

  “I don’t feel like me. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

  “Danny, you’re the same person, only chronologically older. This confusion is normal and even the anger is normal considering we all need the security of understanding what our reality is. Yours has been jolted, displaced, but—and this is the good news—it will soon be realigned, body and mind, during the orientation process you will undergo, starting tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know, Doc. I—”

  “Do you wish to commit violence?”

  “No. I just want to understand—”

  “Good. Now I’m going to ask you some questions and you will answer. If you answer incorrectly, I will correct you. Do you understand?”

  “I guess so. I—”

  “What is your name?” Angstrom asked.

  “Danny Fierro.”

  “How old are you, Danny?”

  “I’m twenty-five.”

  “You are fifty-five years old. When were you born?”

  “November fourteenth, nineteen nin—”

  “That is not a question you need to answer to anyone. You are fifty-five years old. That is all you need to say.”

  “What if someone asks—”

  “Listen. The correct answer is that you are fifty-five years old. Period. Now where have you been?”

  “Prison.”

  “What happened there?”

  “Bio-Justice. They turned me into—”

  “Incorrect,” Angstrom said, his voice raised. “You served your time,” he said simply.

  “I served my time,” Danny repeated.

  Danny would have slept another fourteen hours had Felice Bennett not shown up the next morning with the usual guards to get him prepared for the orientation. His breakfast tray was already waiting for him on the table. He noticed fresh fruit and cereal had been added to the menu.

  “Danny, I want you to shower, eat your breakfast, and I will be back in forty-five minutes to take you to Orientation. Do you understand?”

  Was it being physically older that made him feel more docile, or had they introduced some drugs into his food and drink to make him unwilling to do anything but comply?

  “Yes,” Danny said wearily, “I understand.”

  The Orientation room was on the same floor as the numberless room where the nightmare had started. Danny was led into a large circular open space, his guards two steps behind him, and was introduced by Dr. Felice Bennett to Amity Price who supervised the chronological time adjustment therapies.

  Amity was tall with broad shoulders like an Olympic swimmer who still took her daily laps every morning. On those broad shoulders was draped a white lab coat which hung open to her knees. Her eyes were cheery but her mouth had a series of fixed expressions as if she were called upon to perform her personality instead of live through it. A clip kept her long hair from falling into her eyes.

  Felice left Danny in Amity Price’s care and he was led into a room with three heavily padded seats that resembled to Danny a row of alien barber shop chairs on Mars.

  “Have a seat, Danny,” Amity said.

  “Any seat?”

  “Take any one you’d like, Danny. It won’t even matter. You’ll see.”

  Danny took the middle chair while Amity retrieved the helmet.

  “What’s that?”

  “Put it on,” Amity Price said, placing the helmet into Danny’s hands. The helmet resembled a virtual reality gaming device, like the one Danny had seen Milo put over his head when he got obsessed with the kills he was racking up on a zombie invasion program. This one was sleek with no adornments on the outside, just a smooth, non-textured stainless steel casing that made it look familiar and unsettling at the same time. Inside, the back of the helmet was padded for comfort and the front was a screen which was wide and swallowed the periphery of the wearer’s vision. It was faintly lit on the inside instead of a startling pitch black.

  Amity Price fastened wrist and waist restraints as she spoke. “Do not get nervous about the restraints, Danny. The orientation works better if the subject is fixed in one position. They are not there to make you feel unsettled or uncomfortable in any way. I am also fastening your legs. Again, it is only for you to have the most complete and satisfactory experience possible. In a moment, you won’t even notice them. Just sit back, take a deep breath, and relax.”

  Danny could not see the cool, methodical review Amity Price’s eyes gave his restrained figure, searching for any anomaly, anything that could prove calamitous later. She held a control device in her hand and pressed the power on.

  “You have nothing to worry about, Danny. We are monitoring your entire experience. All right, we will begin.”

  Inside the helmet, Danny watched the screen fill his vision with color—first red, then white, then yellow, and finally green. Then moving pictures went by—landscapes, seasons, faces he didn’t recognize, plates of hot food, a dog playing fetch in the park, a pretty girl—the kind you wanted to kiss sweetly before you took her to bed, then older people talking in the park. Suddenly, the images started to change quickly, faster than Danny could register. After a while, Danny could not discern details, only days and nights, the faces of men and women gone by too quickly to identify, more landscapes, the interior of a house, the ocean, the sun. Then the inside of the helmet went pitch black—Danny’s eyes could still see the previously projected images in the darkness until they finally faded away.

  Then Danny saw himself—a photo taken when he was just born, then as a boy of two, three, four, five, six. Then his school years: elementary—first grade, second, third…junior high, high school. Danny was familiar with the images—they were taken by friends and family and the school photographer—and they were visual touchstones that were comforting in that they were recalled. When the images of Danny reached his twenties, he started to pay closer attention, for these were the images of himself that he associated with his interrupted life. The boyish, handsome boy of twenty became more sexualized at twenty-two, twenty-three—the confidence, the careless swagger captured by the photographs. His face and body looked flawless to him, the muscles of his face chiseling sharp lines of masculine power, his arms, his shoulders—monuments of youthful perfection. Then he was over the time threshold, passing the age of twenty-five, and the pictures of himse
lf, he did not recognize as having seen before. His hair length changed, he sported a mustache briefly, even a stubble beard. He saw his face slowly widen, his hairline creep back ever so slowly. There was a slope to his shoulders that wasn’t there before, his arms became thinner, less undulated muscle. Lines webbed their way slowly under his eyes, around the mouth, under the chin. An earlobe became prominent, his nose swelled, the hair crossed the palette from jet black to gray streaked with white. Danny watched himself progress thirty years in five minutes. The face he watched now sagged noticeably, the wrinkles less lines than creases, the glow of youth in face and body now clearly in its decline, the evolutionary face of procreation now dissipated and lusterless.

  The progressive images of the transformation stopped and the final image was of himself now, completely naked, staring back at him, daring him to ignore the reality of what he was seeing, of what he had become.

  “I’ve seen enough,” Danny said, a sickening dread creeping into his voice.

  “Just a few more minutes, Danny,” Amity Price said.

  The next phase of the orientation was the construction of his personal history, not so much in terms of high dramatic moments or specific life-changing events but simple, mundane activities which tabbed the days, the weeks, the seasons and the years gone by in the void of those missing thirty years.

  Danny witnessed himself in court facing the judge and Taggart’s widow and Sonya. The gavel crashed as he was escorted out of the courtroom. Then a streaming montage of captured vignettes passed his eyes: Danny pressed up against the bars of his cell…Danny taking dinner in the mess hall with other prisoners…His hands pocketed in his trousers as he walked across the prison yard, the dry brown leaves of autumn scattering underfoot. Then it was winter in the yard, patches of snow, then spring again. The sun rose again and again, blanching him in light, then being swallowed up at the end of the day as it set beyond the hills outside the prison. Suddenly, the images were shooting by again: Danny, now in his late twenties, fighting with another inmate. Winter again, Danny peering out of the library window at the cold frost blackening the leafless trees. A thirtyish Danny was doing work detail, loading a truck. In his cell, he lay on his bunk reading a Stephen King book. Now forty, Danny leafed through a Playboy magazine, the centerfolds flipping by, month after month. His hair now streaked with gray, Danny was walking in the yard, speaking to a guard, then another inmate. He offers him something he has made with his hands. Sitting still in the chapel under a pastor’s sermon…working in the laundry, folding shirts…finishing breakfast, dabbing up the last crumb…lifting a forty pound barbell to his shoulder in the weight room…defecating on the can. The seasons kept changing as Danny wore different clothes to reflect the cyclical temperatures. The routine of scheduled days and chronological, monotonous activity were infinite in their predictable nature but the one visceral extracted feeling that fused to his senses was that of the continuum: the dense, lived-in heft of time-filled experience. Danny watched the final images of himself in his fifties—wearing glasses while writing a letter, watching television with others, eating more fastidiously, behaving with the more clearly etched idiosyncrasies of his movements, and then finally, leaving prison in generic street clothes, boarding a bus to take him into town.