Rejected Sci Fi for January 2014

FRANKENSTEIN REVISITED

Jack Bragen

I brought my date to the lab--she was an adulating, twenty-seven-year-old postgraduate.  I thought it would impress her if I showed off the scientific work I was doing and pointed out that I supervised five subordinate scientists.  I wasn't supposed to be showing this stuff to anyone--I was violating corporation policy in which I was supposed to be guarding trade secrets. 

Anna looked around interestedly when I showed her a room where some of the specimens were kept. 

"These are frogs that have been repaired while deceased and brought back to the pseudo living state that I was talking about."  I pointed to a tank that had in it hyperactive frogs that showed odd signs of decay. 

"Nice."  Anna put her hand on my back.

My cellphone produced an emergency beep.  I answered it:  "Yes, this is Williams, it had better be important." 

Mr. Jarold, who had been put on the night shift, was on the line.  "We have an emergency in zone three.  I need you here right away."

Highly inconvenient.  But I couldn't ignore the emergency call. 

I looked at Anna and couldn't help admiring her prettiness. "Can you wait here?  This will only take a few minutes." 

I would be leaving someone unwatched in the middle of a lab which was conducting secret experiments that could be worth literally billions of dollars.  However, I couldn't bring her on the emergency and have her see dead human subjects. 

"I had hoped we could go to my place," she reached to touch me again. 

With much regret, I replied, "I have to go.  There are some magazines next to that chair.  Don't touch anything." 

I got to the control room, and Jarold appeared immensely stressed.  A tech manual written by Dr. Bates was next to the control panel with some of its pages torn out.  When the tech manual comes out, you know something is very wrong.  The coffee pot was shattered; pieces of glass were on the floor along with spilled coffee.  Jarold had also apparently wet his pants.  He pointed to the monitor.  

In the tank there was a human subject in fairly good condition--it had been acquired shortly after death.  It had broken free of the restraints and was now pounding on the entrance door to the tank.  The thing was fully submerged in rehab solvent but did not seem to mind being unable to breathe.  The reconstituted subjects did not have the physical requirement to breathe. 

"It looks like success," I said.  "What's the problem?  Shouldn't we contact Bates?" 

"Can't you see?  Look at his arm!"  Jarold sounded horrified but not excessively so. 

I looked and realized that the one of the subject's arms was missing.  And then I spotted the arm floating at the top of the tank.  The dismembered limb was convulsing on its own as it floated. 

"Not to worry," I reassured.  "This could be normal.  We need to contact Bates."  I took out my phone. 

"Shouldn't we let him out?"  Jarold asked. 

I replied, "I don't know.  How will it behave?  Will it be mad that we brought it back?"  I paused.  "He seems pretty ticked off." 

Bates picked up my call.  "I'm off for the weekend so I hope you have something monumental to report." 

I said, "Your human test subject is animated, it is trying to get out of the resurrection tank, and one of its arms has detached." 

"Is this some kind of joke?"  A loud breath was audible on my cellphone.  I realized he must have been asleep before picking up the line.  "You're not kidding, are you?" 

"This is for-real," I said. 

"I'll be there in twenty minutes.  Change nothing."  He hung up. 

Now I was in a position in which I had to do something with my date who was presumably reading magazines while waiting for me in the other end of the building.  If my boss found out she was present, it would be the end of my job, and I might very well get sued.  I wasn't willing to risk that. 

"Jarold," I said.  It was clear from my tone that I was going to ask for something.  He cocked his head expectantly, with a grin. 

"Say no more.  I will tell Bates that you had to leave on a family emergency.  You can return the favor later on." 

When I got back to my area, I was surprised to see that my date wasn't there obediently reading a magazine.  In fact, she was nowhere to be found.  I called her cellphone.  I heard a very faint ringtone coming from the restroom across the hallway.  I went and pounded on the door.  I continued to hear the ringtone and nothing else.  I checked the doorknob and discovered it was unlocked.  I went into the restroom, and immediately saw that my prospective girlfriend was spread-eagled on the toilet, was inanimate, was pale and was cold to the touch.  I checked her pulse but already knew that she was dead.  I would have some explaining to do. 

I looked at my watch.  In ten more minutes Dr. Bates would be on the premises.  I remembered the stockpile of deceased people in a huge freezer a couple of doors down.  And a cadaver cart was nearby in the hallway.  Was it a bad idea?  Yes, it was.  Did I do it?  Yes.  I knew it was wrong and that I would certainly be caught for it, but the impulse of guilt had taken hold.  I carted my date to the freezer room, to be a future subject for the resurrection experiment.   

I was a scientist, yet my background check wasn't pristine.  I had been accused and had foolishly made a plea deal ten years beforehand.  I hadn't done the crime of which I had been accused, but I had been foolish enough to use a Public Defender.  Jonathan Bates' background wasn't perfect either.  Thus, to an extent, we understood each other. Also, I had developed a mistrust of police.  I feared that if I brought the police into this, I would be blamed for my date's death. 

I put my date into the body freezer, a machine that was designed to freeze bodies without causing cell damage.  The machine hummed and hissed.  Within about a minute, my date was frozen hard as rock.  I immediately put her into one of the storage bays.  Bates would be here by now.  I had to go back. 

When I got back to the control room, I saw Bates sitting, mesmerized by the monitor. He appeared pleased and excited.  He glanced at me over his shoulder.  "Were you ill?" 

"Actually, I was," I replied.  "Is the subject still animated?"

"He is, and I'm about ready to pop open a bottle of champagne."

Bates looked again at the monitor that showed the inside of the conversion tank.  He had thrown a switch to drain the tank, and the fluid level was lowering. The reanimated dead person was gyrating, apparently suffering from massive agitation, while gripping his severed arm with his other hand.  The arm was convulsing while the subject held it. 

Bates looked at me up and down.  "You must've really been sick.  Do you need to see a doctor?" 

I glanced in back of Bates at Jarold--he silently gave me the "high sign" that he wasn't going to rat on me.  I looked at the monitor.  Dead and reanimated or not, this thing was suffering.  "Can this guy be given a shot or something?" I asked. 

Bates snapped at me:  "If you're squeamish all of a sudden, maybe you shouldn't be working here." 

At that point, I was enraged, but held my tongue.  I decided I didn't owe anything to Bates.  I gave Jarold a surreptitious look. 

Nonhuman mammals had not been used before using a human subject--this was due to increasing restrictions on animal experimentation.  Legally speaking, there was a lot less red tape if a scientist used human cadavers.  Having a human subject come to pseudo life was a significant breakthrough.  Up until this moment, only frogs had been reinvigorated. 

Now, I hated myself for participating in this abomination.  Yet, I remembered that I was getting quite a good salary.  I had a twinge in my gut when I remembered that I had just disposed of my date in a very improper manner.  People would be asking questions. 

I said, "You're going to sew the arm back onto the subject, right?" 

Bates was annoyed.  "You're bothering me with trivialities.  Don't you see the success I have here?" 

"Congratulations," I replied.  "It really is a great accomplishment." 

Bates was not buying my pseudo congratulations.  "If you're not on board with what we are achieving, I can easily find someone to take your spot." 

"Sorry," I backpedaled.  "I really am not feeling well tonight." 

"It seems that way," said Bates.  "Go home and get some sleep." 

The following Monday, I returned to work to discover that the subject who had been given pseudo life had been reunited with his arm, and he was being kept in a locked room.  Bates was nowhere to be found.  Jarold was watching the monitor screen intently.  The monitor showed a man with horribly purplish skin, dressed in only a pair of briefs, who sat on a bed, and was motionless, staring straight ahead. 

Jarold turned toward me.  "Hi.  Guess what I don't have to do that you're going to do." 

A knot instantly formed in my stomach.  Did Jarold know my secret?  I feigned a joking tone of voice.  "What have you got on me?" I said. 

"I discovered your girlfriend in the freezer." 

"Damn you," I blurted. 

"I'm going to need privileges and money or I go to the police with your information."  Jarold smiled sarcastically at me. 

I stood within striking distance and for a moment contemplated hitting my subordinate.  Instead of this I swallowed my outrage.  "Fine, you bastard.  What do I need to do?"

Jarold picked up a jug of sudsy ammonia, the type sold in supermarkets.  "Our subject needs to drink this," he said.  "And you're bringing it into his room." 

How hard could that be?  Was the subject going to kill me for giving it what it presumably needed?  I grabbed the handle on the plastic bottle of ammonia, I grabbed the set of keys from a drawer, and I headed straight for the room that had the test subject.  I opened the door without hesitating and I walked in.

The first thing I noticed was the smell.  But I won't go into that right now--suffice it to say the odor was foul.  I made eye contact with the test subject.  It was as if I were dealing with a mountain lion--a wild creature that could attack and kill me if I gave it a reason, or just for amusement.  I handed the bottle of ammonia to the ghastly looking thing.  It grabbed the bottle instantly, uncapped it, and guzzled it down.  Suds were on the subject's lips, and this apparently didn’t matter to him, or it. 

"Let me know if you need anything else.  Do you see the intercom on that wall?"  I pointed to the intercom unit. 

"Just tell me--when can I get out of here?" replied the subject.  Its voice was thick with despair. 

Lying to this poor creature didn't work for me.  I replied, "I don't know.  You will be given some more tests." 

The reanimated man replied, "I need to see a doctor.  Something is wrong with me.  Where am I and why am I here?" 

He looked at his shoulder where his arm had been reconnected, and with a finger, tugged at the stitches which were made of heavy, stainless steel wire. 

I started toward the door.  The test subject made a move as though he would try to block me. 

"No worries," I said.  "You're being taken care of." 

The subject backed off a bit, and I got out the doorway as quick as I could and latched the heavy steel door. 

The reanimation process changed water based life into ammonia based life.  The laboratory had invented pills to provide energy to the subjects that could be taken along with the ammonia.  Normal food was out of the question.       It was anticipated that reanimated men and women would have far greater physical strength than a living person, at least within the first few years.  An approximate guess of their lifespan was a maximum of eight years--the subjects' tissues were reinforced by the change, but could not regenerate. 

I went back to the observation room and made eye contact with Jarold.  "You'll regret it--I'll see to that," I said. 

"I'm real scared…"  Jarold was mocking.  "What was her cause of death?"  

I said nothing and mustered my meanest look.  Jarold thought I was bluffing.  He was mistaken. 

Jarold continued:  "Your girlfriend--what killed her?"  He paused for a good twenty seconds--I did not respond.  He grinned with that sadistic grin once again.  "You mean you don't know?" 

My rage took hold.  There was a shelf nearby that had on it flasks of undiluted chemicals.  I grabbed the nearest of them, uncapped it, and splashed Jarold's face with the contents. 

Unlike in the practices of numerous businesses and labs, there were no surveillance cameras in many areas of the Bates Corporation building. It was a precaution of Bates to lessen the likelihood of criminal prosecution or civil liability.  The less evidence that existed, the better off Bates believed he would be.  This worked in my favor. 

Jarold wailed horribly, and his face was essentially burned off.  He was having trouble breathing, and then was spread-eagled and motionless on his desk chair.  The smell of human flesh incinerated with acid made me nauseous. 

I was well past the point of no return.  I located a cart and put Jarold on it, careful not to get acid on myself.  I then wheeled Jarold into the body freezer, flipped a lever, and Jarold was frozen.

Not knowing what else I should do, I left a note for Bates that simply said that I was resigning.  I went home and got drunk.  After a few more months, I realized that the police weren't going to come for me.  Apparently, Bates must have had as much to hide as I did. 

It was a Saturday morning when I was woken by a loud knock on my door.  My gut sank.  I looked through the peephole, and saw a woman in a t-shirt and a baseball cap.  I was relieved it wasn't a cop, and thought it was probably a new neighbor.  I opened the door. 

I recognized Anna, my date of a few months earlier--although she now had a horrible, pale, purplish complexion. 

"Are you still interested in dating?" she asked.  She pulled a gun from her back pocket and readied it to shoot…

OPINION PIECE FOR WINTER 2014

PERSONAL ESSAY:  MINDFULNESS AND THE HARDSHIPS OF MENTAL ILLNESS

BY JACK BRAGEN

Adults with psychiatric illnesses sometimes seek spiritual teachings in the hope of understanding the cause of our problems and possibly solving those problems.  Those whose illnesses are less severe are more likely to seek solutions through Buddhist-style mindfulness because they are not too impaired to try that.  Those whose illness is more severe or whose intellect is compromised by the illness may never think that they could try meditation, much less study techniques. 
    
     Many people who suffer from a mental illness at those times when in treatment or remission do not have a cognitive impairment.  Out of these people, it is not uncommon for many to at some point seek meditation as a possible solution to one's problems.  I am one of those people. 
     Many "normal" people (also known as "the worried well") whom you might see in a place of meditation, have sought meditation initially because they had problems. Those who may have difficulty surviving in our environment (which greatly reinforces greed, fear, and clinging) are often inclined toward an existence of more peace.  Meanwhile others (people who don't see the purpose of meditation) may be less sensitive, do not have a problem with our fast-paced, dualistic society, and are not interested in things that to them don't seem to give them anything. 
     The predicament of living with a psychiatric disorder furnishes multiple opportunities for using hardship as a catalyst for me to better myself.  People with mental illness are forced to live under multiple hardships. 
     For one thing, being medicated, sometimes voluntarily or sometimes by force, is not enviable--the side effects can create a great deal of suffering.   
     Living as a second class citizen is something with which many persons with mental illness are familiar.  We often get bumped to a lower social status because people often perceive us as dumb.  When someone with mental illness does show intelligence, it gets marginalized.  When we get treated this way, it can be a source of anguish.  We are discriminated against in employment situations.  People to whom we might be attracted often wouldn't consider a relationship, because we are perceived as not good enough.  We are often forced, by circumstances we can't control, to live on a low income.  Some physicians assign less importance to our physical health, because we are perceived as less valuable.  There are numerous other hardships that come in the package of mental illness--I don't have the space here to list all of them. 
     The power to meditate and to have some control over emotional pain is tremendously helpful for someone living with the specter of mental illness. 
     I first became acutely mentally ill in 1982, and it was a situation of much despair, fear, and trauma--not only for me but also for those who had to deal with me.  When I was finally stabilized and released, the idea of meditation to make my mind better was a great source of hope--and this, along with a caring family, sustained me through a very difficult period of my life. 
     I read books by Thich Nhat Hanh, D.T. Suzuki, Ram Dass, and other teachers.  I absorbed the basic gist of Buddhist concepts, such as eliminating attachments, creating a peaceful, compassionate and ethical existence, and focusing on what is happening in the moment.   However, I have never been an ideal student. 
     I ultimately decided I am better off practicing meditation independently rather than in a group setting.  The social aspects of being involved in a meditation group seemed to detract from my practices.  I would rather meditate on my own and not at the same time deal with personality dynamics and social awkwardness. 
     I have been able to use mindfulness to greatly improve the quality of my life. The mindfulness practices that I do are not directed by a master, and in fact, I am not practicing Zen. 
     The late Ken Keyes Jr. was a meditation practitioner who also pioneered his own set of techniques.  I have studied several of his books.  However, the methods he taught were not very usable for me. Still, the basic ideas, which are essentially Buddhist, have been an inspiration of the methods that I have put together for myself. 
     What I do does not involve sitting cross-legged.  I do not chant, I do not usually follow the breath, and in fact, I do not sit with my spine straight.  However, I do sit and focus.  I deliberately focus on internal stimuli, and I make changes to internal "events." 
     As a man with a psychotic disorder who also takes psychiatric medication, physical and emotional suffering is a daily, even hourly condition.  Medication side effects induce physical suffering.  And the illness, imperfectly treated by medication, generates negative and sometimes paranoid and delusional thoughts.  These thoughts can lead to emotional distress.  I also suffer from an anxiety disorder that requires me to sometimes take anti-anxiety medication. 
     Meditation of the type that I do can help lessen some of my symptoms of mental illness which include psychotic and delusional thoughts and a combination of anxiety and depression.  Questioning the output of the mind is useful, whether I am looking at spurious thinking, or runaway painful emotions.
     Meditation, mindfulness, and being a determined meditation practitioner, are not necessarily enough to cure or resolve mental illness.  Meditation and mindfulness mostly deal with the mind's "software" while mental illnesses are often a "hardware" issue. I am sure there is some overlap between the content of the mind and the structure of the brain.  Thus some people other than me could hypothetically fix some psychiatric conditions through meditation, such as a not exceedingly severe case of depression. 
     However, in my situation, I am using meditation to cope with the suffering directly induced by my illness, the suffering caused by medication side-effects, and the suffering of being in a poor position in society due to being in an unrecognized minority. 
     In the mindfulness I practice, the first step that I normally take is to remember to create a distinction between external facts versus internal emotions and perceptions.  If I make a separation between realities that need be dealt with and suffering that exists at the same time, then I can use mindfulness to deal with the suffering, and I can still take action as needed to deal with a life situation.  Mindfulness should not be used to ignore life realities that must be dealt with. 
     The second step I take is to make an internal map of the emotional and physical pain and discomfort.  Part of this discomfort is physical pain that the body uses to reinforce a negative emotion.  Part of the suffering is a thought or a perception that says something is "wrong" or "bad" or says that "I am being hurt."  The physical pain and the accompanying thought are the first two things that I map. 
     The third step I use is to locate where in my consciousness I believe the pain is bad.  And finally, I change this perception and I decide the pain I feel isn't good or bad.  When this is done, I experience a release of pain, and I may experience immunity to suffering that lasts anywhere from a half hour to several hours. 
     It is nice to have a bag of tricks that can alleviate my suffering on a fairly consistent basis--usually without the need to take a bunch of drugs to avoid legitimate pain.  Sometimes what I'm up to isn't about avoiding suffering at all.  Sometimes it is about being brave enough to feel emotions in the moment. 
     Meditation helps me live a much better existence under the predicament of having a mental illness.  Psychiatric illness can dominate and in some cases ruin a person's life.  Persons with mental illness like me must deal with a lot of adversity.  For one thing, persons with psychiatric disabilities are an unrecognized minority.  We are ostracized in society and are the object of people's jokes.    
     For me, meditation and also writing have been two "great equalizers" which have furnished hope, helped my path and improved my conditions.