Prologue

I waited, as patiently as possible considering the circumstances.

Life no longer interested me. Aged muscles and joints, pains, and memory with more holes than a termite-infested stump had seen to that. My close relatives and friends were dead, most of them long ago.

But something felt different when I woke up. The pains were gone! How could this be?

This room was different too, not the one the hospital the EMT’s had put me in. The walls here were white, not the pale beige I remembered. Where were the machines, the hanging intravenous drip, the wires connecting the machines to my body? Why had I been moved? Was it too much to ask, to allow an old man to die in peace?

My thoughts wouldn’t focus. I drifted, drowsy, half-awake, confused, but my bladder was insistent. There was an open door and I could make out bathroom fixtures in an adjoining room. Could I make it in time? Could I even walk? I felt no pain, so maybe...

Thoughts muzzy, but my body driven by the familiar morning urge, I pulled the coverlet aside and got up. I stumbled briefly, then braced my hands against the wall for a moment while I caught my balance. Recovered, I straightened my back while barely avoiding a muscle-memory flinch. If you’ve ever had serious back pains, you’ll understand what I mean! But there was no pain, so I walked carefully through the doorway and entered the bathroom.

I used the toilet—that part worked as well as it ever had—and I marveled for a moment at the difference, then cleaned myself, and flushed. I had no balance issues when I stood, another marvel. My muscles were waking up, becoming useful, but even after washing my hands and face I didn’t feel alert.

But for whatever reason, I felt none of the symptoms that had plagued my last few years. Mind-boggling! Walking into the bathroom had been easy, no distress, no pain and except for that brief stumble, my muscles had worked as they had when I was young. Even the ancient, worn cartilage, source of stabbing pains in my back and knees, had felt — resilient!

The bathroom was simple. The walls were also white, but not glaringly so. There was a toilet, a basin with a towel, and a shower enclosure with a larger towel on a rod. I decided to take advantage of the respite while I could. I stepped into the shower and slid the glass doors closed. As soon as I did this, warm water sprayed gently over my skin. A recessed shelf held soap and shampoo, so I washed my hair and bathed. But even this familiar process was different, strange. My hair was short and quite thick, my arms faintly hairy. The hairs were dark, as was the small patch on my upper chest. More strangeness! My hair had been sparse and gray.

Hadn’t it? Had that all been a dream? Or was I dreaming now?

I saw no controls for the shower, but when I slid the door open, the water flow stopped. I toweled myself dry, hung the towel over the shower enclosure, and returned to the room where I’d awakened.

How could I be walking? Paramedics had brought me in on a stretcher, terminal, suffering from a variety of age-related diseases. I knew I was dying, and I remembered feeling relieved that the process was almost over. I understood, without need for religion, that dead I’d be as I was before I was born, before awareness had come. No heaven, no hell, just no longer living. Living was uncomfortable, the process of dying a bit more so, but being dead didn’t bother me at all. In fact, I was ready for my uncomfortable no-future life to end. But now?

If I was dreaming, it was the best dream I’d had in years.

The bed had been made in my absence. Another marvel, one wall of the room now looked out on a tranquil forest scene. But then I froze; another change had taken place, one with more significance. A man stood by the wall, watching me.

There was now a chair by the bed, so I bent suddenly-rubbery knees and sat down.

“Your name is Matt,” the man said. His voice wasn’t particularly deep or high-pitched, and simply conversational. Not too loud, but I heard everything clearly. And no hearing aid, something I knew I needed but stubbornly refused to wear. “Do you remember?” he went on.

I did. That much hadn’t changed, and I found the small familiarity comforting. But the questions kept coming, and he might have answers. “How did I get here? The last thing I remember was paramedics wheeling me in, but this doesn’t look like any hospital I’ve ever seen!”

“It’s not,” the man said, ignoring my question... “This facility specializes in the treatment of certain conditions, mostly age-related but occasionally we take trauma victims. You’ve been in a medically-induced coma for — well, a considerable time. Now it’s time for the next phase of your treatment, rehabilitation, while we complete your transformation. Don’t expect to understand everything immediately, but you will know more the next time we wake you.”

Rehabilitation? How could a dying old man be rehabilitated? “How did I get here? Why do I feel different?” I persisted.

“I will explain as much as I can,” the man said softly. “You will fall asleep shortly, a natural part of the process, so I have only a few minutes. The short answer is that I brought you here from the timeline you were born in. Your analysis of your former condition is correct, because in that timeline you would have died. Your body had already begun the final breakdown and death would have occurred shortly. We stabilized your condition and brought you here so that more advanced medical treatments could begin. As for why you’re here, I selected you because you appear suitable for my purpose.” I didn’t understand most of what he’d said, but I wasn’t worried. Strange; had he given me some sort of tranquilizer?

He continued, “You have been given appropriate medical care. I will now complete your transformation. This will take some time — it varies by individual, but you will not recall what happens. It’s best that way, because some of the procedures are painful. During the transformation, you will alternate naturally between sleep and wakefulness. During wakefulness, you will train your body and mind to accept the changes. You will also have more questions. I can answer some of them, but despite the changes you’ve undergone you lack the capability to understand all that is happening to you.”

“How long will I be asleep this time?” For some reason, that seemed important to me.

“As long as necessary,” he replied. Frustrating! I was drowsy, I wanted to ask another question, but he disappeared even as I drifted into sleep.

Waking up went faster, and this time there was no residual drowsiness.

I now remembered a lot more about my previous life. Growing old, preparing to die, that had been no dream, but apparently I had a new lease on life. Or maybe, an entirely new life? I’d read fictional accounts of do-overs, a chance at a new life while retaining my old memories! I resolved to not repeat the mistakes I’d made the first time through!

I was eager to get started, so I got up and stretched, then bent down and touched my toes. Wonderful! Such a simple thing, so easy now, but I’d lost the ability to do that a long time ago. The bath worked as I remembered; I showered again, then returned to the bedroom. Clothing lay across the bed now — how did they do that? — so I got dressed. The underwear felt silky, yet soft and absorbent. The socks were the sort I remembered, a knitted fabric with a cushioned sole. They reminded me of my old Army boot socks! The boots were different though, made of soft leather or something resembling it. The shirt and trousers were familiar in cut, although like the underwear, the fabrics were unusual. They were lightweight and had a smooth finish, but the buttons, hook-and-loop closures, and zippers were familiar.

The man appeared as soon as I finished dressing, standing against the wall as he’d done before. How did he do that? I’d seen no door. He was just — there.

“This is your second waking period and much of the physical work on your body is complete,” he said. “There will continue to be mental changes, but physical changes will be so small now as to be undetectable. Starting today, you will begin to integrate your body’s muscles and nervous system through exercise. The transformations you’ve already experienced will add strength and coordination as your body and brain adjust to each other.”

“You mentioned that my body was breaking down in my previous life, that I would die. But I’m not about to die now, am I?”

“No. That body was unacceptable for our purposes, so we created a new one for you. We extracted your genetic code and recorded your memories before beginning the transformation. We retained most of those, because they hold the key to your personality. Some that I considered unimportant were excised and others were added. I then regrew your body, using your genetic code but modifying it to delete harmful mutations and genetic defects, before instilling your own memories. That starter set has been augmented by the other memories I implanted. This was necessary to prepare you for your new life.”

“You did all this yourself?” One patient, one doctor? No indeed, this facility was like no other hospital I’d ever heard of!

“I controlled the process,” he clarified. “I am one of several who are engaged in this activity, but most of what we do is carried out by machines. I emphasize, your memories are important for our purposes. Major changes in brain structure and growth of additional neurons would have left you without coherent memories. To prevent this, I provided what the machines recorded, along with the additional information I mentioned, to your new body as soon as the physical restructuring permitted.

“You’re physically equivalent now to what you were at age twenty. Mentally, I estimate that you will be approximately equal in cognitive ability to someone in his late thirties when the integration is complete. Your memories, however, will remain those of a man who lived a long time as your culture measured such things. The transformation is nearly finished now, needing only the final integration I mentioned. From this point on, the process depends on how much effort you put into it. The best advice I can give you is to work at it as if your life depended on how complete that integration is, because it does. When the process is complete you will be transplanted to a different timeline.

“You may die after being transplanted, but we cannot estimate when that will happen. It may be that you will live much longer than you expected, or you may die during the first day after transplanting. We cannot predict who will live, only that those who do will have the curiosity, determination, and will to survive that we seek. For our purposes, it does not matter who survives. Remember that you were terminal when we harvested you, so every day that you survive now is a day of life you would not have had.”

So much for this being a do-over! And talk about motivation! I would not skimp on whatever physical training they offered! “You said about age twenty as far as my physical development is concerned?” I asked.

“Just so,” he responded. “The concept has little meaning in your new life. It’s simply where I stopped development during your rehabilitation, at an age nearing the end of physical adolescence. In your time, such changes began at birth and continued until death. Early development made you larger and stronger as your body morphed from baby through toddler, child, and adolescent, before becoming adult. You are physically adult now, but barely so. Your age is optimal for further physical development. In your previous existence, you added experience and learning, but most physical changes were harmful. Your cells accumulated damage and some of the changes altered your genetic code. Your muscles weakened, joints became stiff, cartilage ripped, atrophied, and was resorbed. Over time the changes became so overwhelming that life was no longer sustainable. As a part of preparing your body to make you suitable for transplanting, I also removed the tendency of your cells for programmed death, but you should know that the changes cannot prevent future mutations. Radiation and chemical influences will be encountered after you leave here. I cannot predict those might be, or what will happen to you, except to repeat that your current DNA sequence contains no known weaknesses. Another way to state this is to tell you that you are less susceptible to genetic change, but less susceptible does not mean you are immune.

“It is no longer certain when you will die. Disease is unlikely to kill you in the near term, but we cannot be certain that a disease may not evolve in future which will end your life. The only assurance I can give you is that your own body will no longer kill you before an accumulation of damage cancels the work we’ve done. You can die from a multitude of other causes. Trauma, blood loss, drowning, a broken neck, those things can kill you. A knife or spear that pierces your heart, lungs, or brain will cause death. Given time, your body will heal from lesser injuries, but there’s no certainty that you will have the necessary time.

“Back to what happened to your previous body; physical changes within your brain caused later memories to fade, although your earlier memories remained nearly intact. I supplemented those memories with some that are generic, while others are highly specialized. It would not have been possible for you to acquire all the memories you now possess in a single lifetime.”

“Why me?” Not that I was ungrateful, but still!

“My analysis of your personality, gained initially from records but later by direct examination, persuaded me that you would be a suitable candidate. We have had to become more selective recently because so many early transplant efforts failed.”

I thought that over. “You say that you intend to ‘transplant’ me? Can you explain why you’re doing this?”

“Certainly,” he sighed. “I am from your future, a descendant of yours although the term is meaningless since so many generations have passed. You are one of hundreds among my direct ancestors. Do you understand the mathematics of this concept? You had two parents, four grandparents, eight great-grandparents. Generations became longer as people waited to produce children, but even so, more than eighty thousand persons who lived during your time are ancestors of mine. Should I go back a few generations more, I am related to everyone in your world. I gained a suite of genes from the genetic pool, just as all humans do, so in that sense we are all related. Some are more closely related than others, meaning that recent mutations are more likely to be shared, but since harmful mutations have been excised from the human genetic suite differences between individuals are less pronounced.

Chapter 1 »