Negative Energy

Re-bodification

When Matt Harmon discovered that his brain pattern had been restored to life in a cloned body after seventy-one years, he didn't know what to say.

The doctor read his mind. "Let's begin with the circumstances surrounding your death. Burst appendix. According to the police and coroner's reports, you were driving at a dangerous speed when you collided with an SUV stopped at a traffic light. Maybe you blacked out at the wheel? You were rushed unconscious to the hospital where they treated you for broken ribs and a collapsed lung. By the time they identified the burst appendix, you had gone septic. You were declared dead a few hours later."

"I don't remember any of that," Matt said.

"That's not surprising. In a traumatic situation, the brain often doesn't have time to consolidate the information. What is the last thing you recall?"

Pain. Raw and corrosive. Like a balloon filled with acid had burst in his gut and was chewing holes in his insides. Crawling on the floor to reach his keys, which were on top of the dresser. Dragging himself up by the drawer handles, sour bile rising in his throat. Now the long crawl to the garage. Lunge and collapse. Repeat. "I was trying to get to my car."

"Why didn't you call 911? Your phone was found in your pocket."

"I suppose it didn't occur to me." He had acted purely on impulse, carrying out the routine drilled into him after all those times he'd rushed Miriam to the ER in the middle of the night. Long after she left, finally cancer free, plastic sheeting still covered the back seat to catch vomit and shit.

"At least you had the foresight to opt for head preservation," the doctor remarked.

"I must have checked the box during annual enrollment," Matt said. "Some sort of last-ditch life insurance? It was more of an afterthought, really."

"The best decisions often are." The doctor shone a pen light into his pupils. "Please stare straight ahead at the wall."

A wall screen displayed a diagram of the nervous system that resembled a man-of-war jellyfish with bright pulses traveling along its tendrils.

"Follow my finger." The doctor moved it side to side. He snapped his fingers, and Matt blinked. "Good. Sensory integration is nearly complete. Booting up old thought patterns into a new body requires a fair amount of calibration."

"My body has been...," Matt searched for the right word, "replaced?"

"Your connectome, the pattern of neural connections, was read out of your old brain and imprinted on a new one in a cloned body. Rebodification, in simple terms. During the process, we made a few cosmetic alterations and eliminated hereditary defects such as an enlarged appendix. Have a look at the new you."

The wall screen transformed into a mirror. The man reflected in it was both familiar and strange. The pale, waxy complexion was tanned to a light suede. The pronounced brow ridges were diminished, making the gaze more direct and giving the eyes a bit of sparkle. The birthmark on the right cheek was gone along with four decades of crinkles and sags.

The doctor placed a stethoscope against Matt's sternum. The wall screen switched to a diagram of the circulatory system, the model heart beating in sync with his own, low and resonant like a plucked cello. The doctor gave a satisfied nod. "There are some side effects to rebodification. You may experience heightened sexual arousal, impulsive tendencies, agitation, and restlessness. It's a result of having your middle-aged consciousness hot-wired into an eighteen-year-old body. Some people describe it as feeling all revved up, like getting behind the wheel of a Formula One race car. You can mentally override these sensations, and most people quickly adapt, even come to appreciate them."