A Ghost in a Bottle: Immortology, #2

By C.L.R. Draeco

THE MIND-BLOWING SEQUEL TO "A GHOST FOR A CLUE"

With the help of NASA, a computer glitch, and a ghost, Bram Morrison, a robotics engineer, may have given science a new means to put death on hold. But despite the new landscape he's opened up, the Great Beyond is still territory with no solid ground for science to stand on.

Still helping Torula Jackson, a biologist, realize her dream of studying what happens to consciousness after death, Bram risks his reputation, future, and ambitions by revealing his growing belief in the bizarre. Despite his modifications on the Verdabulary software that has helped ghosts reach out to the living, it will take more than apparitions in 3D glass chambers to convince scientists and doctors that the afterlife exists. When the ensuing research ends up with more questions than answers, trouble brews for all the souls still fighting for a foothold in the afterworld.

Can souls really persist indefinitely in crystal storage devices called willdiscs? What about Franco, Bram's recently deceased friend, can he help provide answers? These and more mysteries unfold in A Ghost in a Bottle, the second book in the IMMORTOLOGY series—giving readers more of this rare blend of hard science fiction exploring the afterlife.

 

"This novel is quietly moving and thought-provoking, a tale in which a hero sets out to explore the edges of mortality and what happens in the afterlife. Most suitable for fans of science fiction and readers who enjoy tales with supernatural themes." – ★★★★★ The Book Commentary
 

"Can't wait to read book three. The premise to this story is amazing, I have made myself notes to follow up on the underlying science and extrapolated science the story is based on." – ★★★★★ Goodreads Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amaranth Publishing
• Release date: Sep 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9798215324080

Book preview

1

A Pale Blue Dot

(Torula)

My mother once told me that death was like monogamy. It was a decision you had to make—if you wanted it to be for good. So I decided to schedule my own death and give science the chance to capture my soul and attempt to keep it alive. For good had seemed too lofty a goal, so for now had to suffice.

Just a moment ago, I was a twenty-eight-year-old having an excruciating, artificially induced heart attack. As I struggled through the pain, Bram’s voice turned into a distant whisper even as he shouted out to me. His face grew dim, obscured by a sudden haze, but his eyes remained crystal clear. They’d turned into deep blue pools of despair. I wanted to tell him I was all right. At least I felt all right, even though I was dying right in front of him.

A crippling chill coursed through and around me, as though I’d fallen through a thin sheet of ice. I found myself engulfed—not by frigid waters—but by a soothing, overwhelming sense of calm, warmth, and stillness. In an instant, a sense of peace replaced the pain as my vision blurred and faded to deepest black.

The biologist in me, while experiencing the throes of death, managed to think through the experience and wondered: Why would evolution select for this? Shouldn’t an organism, against all odds, continue to fight to survive? Flee from the frightening prospect of death?

Oh, right. Besides freeze, fight, or flee, there was another F. Feign death. Tonic immobility. Defensive thanatosis.

I tingled at the thought. I still had my vocabulary. Amazing.

I saw nothing. Heard nothing. Though darkness filled my surroundings, fear didn’t belong here. My claustrophobia had been checked at death’s door, allowing me to float weightless in a sea of tranquility.

Hmm…Wasn’t that where Neil Armstrong had taken his walk on the moon?

Suddenly, the odd notion struck me. I’m…an astronaut?

No, no. I just died, didn’t I? I suppose getting disoriented is inevitable soon after your heart stops beating. I forced myself to think straight and imagined myself taking deep breaths; simple enough to do since I’d been doing just that mere seconds ago.

My eye caught something glimmering in the midst of all the nothingness. A pale blue dot. Exactly what they called the Earth when seen from outer space.

Now I remember! Bram had recruited me for a mission. He’d brought me to the Ames Research Center so NASA could help me…do something. What that was exactly remained beyond my recollection.

I glanced around in search of Bram, feeling as though I were floating in a barren, starless sky. No people. No equipment. Nothing else to see but that tiny, bluish-purplish dot.

Was I supposed to head there? How?

A luminous mist drifted in from behind me and crept into the darkness, slowly growing in intensity, threatening to envelope me. Whatever its source, if I turned around to look, I had a sense it would be blinding.

Bram’s voice echoed from somewhere in the distance. Don’t go into the bloody wrong light.

Bram, where are you? I called out.

Only silence answered. An eerie, bottomless, utterly empty silence.

Then, like a blast of asteroids sweeping past me, my entire lifetime exploded around me. My joys. My loves. My illness.

My mind had flicked on its default response to onrushing death. Memories of my former reality wrapped me in a crushing embrace—and with it came a flash of understanding. The pale blue dot wasn’t Earth. It was my beacon to the willdisc: the man-made repository for my soul.

I was a science experiment. The lab rat expected to tunnel through the maze of my moribund mind and find my way out. I willed myself to move forward and the very thought seemed to draw me closer to the twinkling dot, but the source of brilliant light behind me kept urging me to turn around.

The pinprick of violet-blue teased me from so far away. What a gamble of a destination. I didn’t even know how long and how much it would take to get there. Or why I needed to anymore.

The lure of the glowing warmth behind me grew irresistible. As though all I had to do was turn around and it would welcome me and release me from this lonesome gloom.

It’s easier, so much easier, to just give in.

Spore, Bram said, though I barely heard him as I turned around and stared in awe at the tunnel of light that beckoned. I’ve done everything I could. Everything.

2

What If She Had Really Died?

(Bram)

I pressed my hand against the wall of the glass chamber and willed Torula to lay her palm against mine. I needed a sign that said she was really there—conscious and alive. But for hours now, all she’d done was hover motionless, her long black hair gleaming in imagined sunlight, her porcelain skin radiant. She seemed like flesh and blood. It even looked like she was breathing.

Can you see me? Or hear me? I called out to her in my mind. What if she wasn’t even there? What if all I was staring at was inanimate data, expressed in photons inside a 3D plasma chamber, translated by a computer program?

What if she had really died?

For probably the hundredth time that day, I stopped breathing as my gut constricted, and I fought the urge to gag.

Juniper breeze morning dry, Torula said—or rather, the Verdabulary software said on her behalf. It broadcast the words in her voice, but it was the computer producing the sound. Her lips didn’t even move.

The cliPad in my hand displayed the phrase as it was automatically added to the list of unintelligible statements Torula had made since her transition from a living breathing woman to a manifestation of her soul. There seemed to be no pattern to her words. Nothing that made any sense.

She stared out blindly as she stood there, looking passive and bored. Blinking now and then. Just as beautiful as she’d always been in her white tank top over lowrider jeans.

Damn it, Spore. What’s going on? You know this system better than anyone. She knew everything the Verdabulary had in its data banks, down to each sentence, word, and syllable. Maybe even each letter and punctuation mark too. And yet, here she was, struggling to form a single coherent sentence. Except…it didn’t seem like she was struggling at all.

I raked a hand through my hair and let out a sigh. I’d always held math, science, and tech as my holy trinity. But as I stood there, gaping, I lost control over the words that spilled out of my mouth. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I wish there was a psychic in the room.

What sounded like soft, canned laughter in a sitcom answered my little outburst; the earpiece I wore had caught every word I’d said. I feigned a smile, grateful that the roomful of experts behind me had assumed I was joking.

Roy thumped me on the back as if to dislodge a chunk of nonsense lodged in my throat. Yo, now, it’s premature to start thinkin’ like that. I’m sure all o’ NASA can help with the problem we’ve got. He flashed an encouraging grin, like a revved-up Captain America promising a worn-out Tony Stark he’d do fine without his armor.

I turned around and surveyed the group of scientists, specialists, and engineers who’d been recruited in mere days to assist in the first ever scientific attempt to create a hyperwill—or soul or ghost or whatever else one chose to call the apparition in the chamber. It had been a long time coming. Belief in the afterlife could probably be traced back to when early humans first started burying the dead with any ceremony. And yet here we were in 2032 with the only computer system designed to decipher data transmitted by a hyperwill.

Even so, everyone here was using equipment intended for the living. Or for inanimate objects and digital information. Not human consciousness captured in a disc.

There were about a dozen of these experts. Far from being all of NASA, but enough to make our plans work, I hoped. Their faces were hardly visible in the dim light. Mostly dressed in white coveralls or lab coats, they almost looked radioactive as they glowed in the dark, faintly reflecting the light from their monitors. But I didn’t have to see their faces to know they were growing restless. They needed facts and figures, and all I had to offer was my faith that Torula’s neural information had really made it into the willdisc. And that the information, if we truly had it, was alive.

I moved closer to the chamber and gazed into her blue-violet eyes that sparkled as though she could see. How do I get through to you? What haven’t I tried?

Would she laugh if I cracked a joke?

I cleared my throat. A uniform beam walks into a bar. The bartender asks, ‘What would you like, mate?’ The beam answers, ‘Uhm…just give me a moment.’

Roy chuckled. Torula didn’t even blink.

What the fuck are you doin’? Roy asked.

Everything. So I could get something out of her.

And you think crackin’ jokes only engineers would get will do the trick?

Soft snorts and stifled laughter trickled into my ear.

Roy tapped his earpiece, turning it off, and took a few steps away from the nearest cluster of consultants and urged me over with a jerk of his head. I tapped my own earpiece off and followed him.

He glanced at the team of experts huddled in the shadows and clucked his tongue. These big dawgs are gettin’ restless. We need to throw ‘em a bone real soon.

I nodded and huffed out a breath. Why do you think I’m…I’m…

Graspin’ at straws?

Yeah.

You’re scrapin’ bottom.

I know.

You’ve played all your cards and—

Yeah. All right. I get it. Nothing’s working. So what’s your point?

It’s your frequency, man. He jabbed a finger towards my chest. We all thought you were gonna be the trigger. That she’d respond to you. The same way Boner responded to me. But you see, my dog was with me all ‘is life. He knew every emotion and every frequency I was ever in. But you and Jackson? You were like in honeymoon stage all your lives. This… He gestured with one hand up and down my torso—at me, barely breathing, chest tight, fists and gut clenched. This isn’t the vibe she’d recognize from where she’s at.

So what do you want me to do?

Chill. Do deep breathin’ exercises. Do yoga or somethin’.

Heck no. If we need a different frequency, then this is what we’re going to do. We’re getting someone who actually does yoga. I jabbed a thumb towards Torula. Her mother. I’ll talk to Triana and have her go to your garage so you can sample her signal to replace mine. She’ll do anything to help, but I don’t want to risk anyone finding out that she—or NASA—was involved in stopping her daughter’s heart to get her soul. We still don’t know how all this is going to end, so I don’t want her coming here.

Okay. No prob. Roy pursed his lips. But if you’re not willin’ to do yoga, are you willin’ to do somethin’ else?

That sounded like the intro to a challenge I’d regret accepting. Against my better judgment, I asked, What do you have in mind?

He inched closer and lowered his tone. We got all o’ these experts helpin’ us figure things out on this side. We need to send Jackson someone to brainstorm with ‘er—on the other side. Someone who’d recognize your frequency even when you’re—he waved a hand up and down my torso again—like this. ‘Cause he’s done it before. From beyond the grave.

I held my breath one more time as I considered his suggestion, and how irrational, questionable, and downright unacceptable it would be to everyone else here. I’d bought the idea the first time Roy had tossed it my way. And now, despite knowing it was probably the world’s worst idea, I was about to agree with him again.

I kneaded my forehead even though it was my chest that had begun to hurt. Yesterday… My mouth stayed partly open, but the words couldn’t get past my throat.

What about yesterday?

I forced the rest of the sentence out. On our way here, when we were rushing down the stairwell, I heard something. I leaned closer and whispered. Or someone.

Roy’s brows shot up. Git outta here. Your dead friend? he whispered back.

I nodded. I'm sure I heard Franco’s voice telling me to stop.

Stop what?

Running. So I wouldn’t slip. I leaned away. What else do you think he could’ve meant?

Hell, I dunno. Maybe he thinks we’re doin’ somethin’ wrong. You say this happened in the stairwell?

A deep, commanding voice resonated towards us from the doorway. What progress have we made here? Dr. Rubin Grant, limping but brisk despite his on-again-off-again knee pain, made his way into The Vault—the nickname everyone had given this Faraday shield of a room, its walls infused with conducting material that blocked the entry and exit of electromagnetic radiation.

Grant’s entrance triggered a surge of anxiety as people shuffled, stood up, or sat down, all in all trying to give the director of the Lyndon B. Johnson Space Center the impression they were working hard to figure out why Torula’s mind remained out of reach.

What do you know now that I didn’t know when I left this room three hours ago? Grant asked anyone who would volunteer a response. No one gave an answer. Despite all the brilliant minds around us, when it came to the topic of life after death, they were all equally and undeniably ignorant. Can’t anyone present a new line of inquiry? I’m open to any idea.

I stepped forward into the glow of light cast by the 3D chamber. I’d like to send Roy out and capture a different signal we can use to trigger Torula’s. Maybe we can try her mother. It’s obvious the signal we have now isn’t connecting.

Why didn’t you mention this before? Grant asked. Whose signal is it that you’re using now?

Mine. Just my being here was supposed to be ‘the signal.’ I sighed and glanced at Torula who remained oblivious to me standing right in front of her. I don’t know if it was my ego talking or… I shook my head, embarrassed to admit I’d thought our relationship would be a magic key. I don’t know. But some part of me blindly believed she’d connect with me in a heartbeat.

Grant fell silent. Roy gave me a thump on the shoulder, as if to console a friend after hearing he’d been rejected.

I see, Grant said, giving his salt-and-pepper beard a quick rub. Very well. Let’s have Roy get that new signal. Any other ideas?

Maybe, she could be thirsty? I said. She said mist. And cactus. And just a moment ago, dry. It’s not what I’d call a pattern but—

Her body is in deep hypothermic circulatory arrest in the transition room a few stories above us, Grant said. Every bodily system is being closely monitored by medical experts. Rest assured, thirst cannot be the issue here.

Grant approached Torula’s luminous hyperwill, separated from us by a barely visible sheet of glass, and planted his cane down with both hands, center-front, with a thump. I’ve just been told that Dr. Jackson’s body temperature has risen close to 70 degrees. Within the hour, we can bring her back to life.

I flinched because, as far as I knew, she’d never died. You’re taking her off the heart-lung machine. Is that what you mean?

Yes, indeed. He glanced my way. So where would you want to be when we restart her heart?

I cocked my head, baffled he had to ask. With her, of course.

I'm asking—he turned to me with the patient eyes of a mentor—"which her."

I froze, mouth agape, coming to grips only then with having two Torulas to look after.

Grant bobbed his head towards her image in the chamber. Do you want to stay here, with her hyperwill? Or would you rather join me upstairs so you can be there when her heart starts beating again?

I swabbed a hand over my mouth and gazed at the Torula in front of me. It’s you in there, right? It’s you I need to be with. I glanced towards the willdisc to one side of the room, secure inside the iCube and its finite supply of energy—constantly replenished by a system that kept her consciousness safe and, hopefully, alive.

I should stay here, I said. Once her hyperwill was in the clear, that was when I could go visit the physical her.

Grant gave the faintest smile, which was enough of a sign for me that he agreed with my decision.

What are ‘er chances? Roy asked. And don’t ask me which ‘her,’ ‘cause I wanna hear good news about both of ‘em.

Grant adjusted his stance as he leaned on his cane, the pressure of overseeing this pioneering journey into the afterworld no doubt adding to the pain in his joints. Her chances are better than slim but far from certain. If her heartbeat doesn’t spontaneously restart, we’ll need to deliver electrical shocks to her heart. There’s no predicting what the effect will be on either of them—separated as they are. And even if we succeed in reviving her body, we don’t know what happens next. But we’ve studied some likely scenarios and have taken certain factors into consideration.

I nodded in response to what was probably the most eloquent non-answer I’d ever heard. I didn’t bother prodding; if there was anything worthwhile, he would’ve said it.

Roy scratched his stubbled head. Guess what that means is—his gaze slowly made its way up to meet mine—you’d better go up there. If things don’t work out, this could be your last chance to have some time alone with ‘er.

No, that won’t be necessary, I said.

Roy’s eyes bugged out at me while Grant shook his head as though I’d just blasphemed some doctrine of devotion. But why? Surely they understood that Torula’s consciousness was right here, protected by the Vault. Neither my presence nor anything I had to say to the other her would matter right now.

"You need to go and reconnect, Roy said. Y’know. Like, hook up?"

Yeah. I squinted at him, like he was fine print I couldn’t read. And that’s exactly what I’m trying to do right here.

No, he said. You gotta get outta ‘ere. Like—he spread his arms out towards the door—"expand your reach."

I pointed towards the chamber. She’s the one I need to reach. And there’s no point talking to the part of her that lost her.

My wife was in a coma for days before she passed away, Grant said.

I turned to him, caught off guard by the revelation. I’m sorry to hear that.

He gave a dismissive shake of his head and a smile that betrayed a certain sadness. It was years ago. I stayed by her side, long after she’d gone. They tried to usher me away, but I insisted on staying—to extend our time together a little longer. Even for just another hour. Because none of us know, do we? He looked me squarely in the eye. Nobody knows what the nature of consciousness is. We just don’t know how it works. Or where it truly lies.

My gaze flew towards Torula. Was Grant suggesting there was still a part of her trapped in her body? That it was the reason her hyperwill couldn’t communicate with us?

Roy elbowed my arm. "Go see ‘er, man. And on your way back, get in touch with your vibe. Take your sweet time and adjust your frequency. You get want I'm sayin’?"

I grimaced at the code I couldn’t decipher. No, I don’t.

Whatdafu. He rolled his eyes. Just go up there and see ‘er! Then on your way back, take the goddamned stairwell.

3

Waiting to Be Revived

(Bram)

To protect Torula’s body and soul, the Ames Research Center had come up with two completely different sets of security measures. Double walls, inner and outer doors with refrigerator-like seals, layers of slanted deflection barriers that formed an obstacle course, and other design modifications ensured that the Vault kept the entry and exit of electromagnetic signals under control. If the willdisc leaked, broke, or malfunctioned, Torula’s neural data would stay protected within its walls.

Five stories up, the safety protocols were of a totally different yet all too familiar kind. Disinfectant sprays, hand washing, and head-to-foot surgical wear. These were to protect Torula’s body from any possible infection as she lay with no pulse, no blood pressure, and no brain activity—waiting to be revived and, eventually, reinspirited. She was in deep hypothermia, her life on hold, with everything she needed to come back exactly the way she was, except a soul.

The trip up five floors had been quick and quiet. Now covered in sterile garb of drab gray, Grant and I walked into a brightly lit space—a blast of stark white and chrome that seemed like a hi-tech heaven. With its gleaming assembly of state-of-the-art medical equipment, it was hard to believe we were just in a makeshift ICU inside a research center.

In the middle of it all lay Torula in what looked like a translucent inflatable life raft—a cooling gel-bed that curved snugly around her body. She was clothed in a white hospital gown, her hair in a surgical cap, her face ashen, eyes sunken. My mind wrestled with itself, one side blaming me and crying, You did this! while another part of me rose in my own defense, holding up a willdisc, declaring, You saved her.

I swallowed as I approached the unconscious Torula, just a shell of the woman that she truly was. The last time I’d seen her was after we’d secured her hyperwill and she’d just been taken out of the Motown; Roy had given the glass enclosure that name because he said it was where one could get some soul.

A nurse adjusted sheets of cooling pads and checked the tubes and cables that snaked over and around Torula’s body. Intermittent blips punctuated her silent ceremony with audio cues to alert her of anything her eyes might miss.

How is she? I asked.

The nurse barely glanced my way and kept on with her duties. I imagined her thinking, Don’t waste my time asking how this dead person is doing.

She’s, eh, doing well, a woman’s voice with a familiar Spanish accent answered from behind her.

I craned my neck and spotted the senior perfusionist seated on the far side of the heart-lung machine.

Elena, Grant said with a subtle shake of his head. Why are you still here? I told you to get some shuteye.

I did. I slept right here, in my chair. She got up and walked towards us, bringing a punch of color to the antiseptic white room with her surgical garb of aqua blue. She is comfortably within targeted parameters. Her perfusion pressure and, eh, venous oxyhemoglobin saturation levels are good. And the optimal temperature difference between the body core and the brain have been, eh, well maintained.

Excellent, Grant said.

She looked up at me. "Hijo, how are you doing?" Despite being completely covered in surgical wear, Elena exuded such a motherly aura with her plump physique, soft brown eyes, and calming tone that I half-expected her to offer me some paella to ease my anxiety. She had been pivotal to this project with her suggestions on how to best extend Torula’s hypothermic state, which I couldn’t be more thankful for.

I'm okay, I said. And you? You’ve stayed here, watching her all this time?

Of course. She turned towards Torula. What Dr. Jackson is attempting is very brave and incredibly dangerous. There’s much more depending on this, eh, experiment than you know.

Yeah. I nodded. It’s the future of space travel.

No. Not just. She tapped her gloved hand against her chest. I expect her to share secrets of the heart. She looked at me with smiling eyes as if to say she really had special paella waiting. I’m sure you’ve never given it a thought—that your heart started beating before your brain was formed. Which is why, after being taken off the pump—she pointed at my chest—the heart can, eh, initiate its own beating without instructions from the brain. And even when your brain is dead, your heart can keep on working for as long as it has oxygen.

You’re right, I said, fascinated by what she’d just said. I’ve never really given it much thought.

I believe the heart has a very special role. It’s, eh, underappreciated. And this project might uncover that.

And what special role is that? Grant asked.

I could tell from Elena’s eyes that she was smiling wide beneath her mask as she flourished one hand towards me and the other towards the cold and pale Torula. I can only tell you after this fairy tale gets its, eh, happy ending.

I chuckled. Can we get a clue?

She nodded and clasped her hands together. If after she is reinspirited your señorita wakes up and is everything you remember her to be, then I will tell you. Because your project could very well help, eh, all future patients who have to go on the heart-lung machine.

I took a deep breath, comforted by the notion that she shared in Torula’s altruistic vision. That this venture into the afterlife and back could give all of humankind answers to so many questions it has long wanted to know. I, on the other hand, stood on very selfish ground. I simply wanted Torula back. Here with me. To share the rest of my life with me. And I didn’t care where. On Earth. On Pangaea. On some cold and barren planet. It didn’t matter anymore.

She was the opposite of gravity. She made everything feel light.

Elena’s voice cut into my thoughts. I hear Dr. Jackson’s hyperwill is a glorious sight. I hope you won’t, eh, be offended if I go see her later?

Offended? Why would I be?

Because she’s not, eh—she glanced at the unconscious Torula—a specimen on display. She’s the soul of the woman you love. And all I’ve been watching over is her home.

I gave her a subtle bow. I’ll be honored if you’d come visit the woman whose life you helped save.

A faint bleep issued from a monitor and her eyes darted towards it. Still not done saving her, she said and abruptly headed back to her post. Her body temperature has risen another notch. It won't be long now. I’ll call in the team after you answer some, eh, very important questions.

About what? I asked.

About what happens next, Grant said, turning to face me and blocking my view of Elena.

I stifled the impulse to hold up my hand, to fend off his questions that I wouldn’t know how to answer.

His eyes commanded me to listen. Before this procedure began, Torula signed a DNR. We were not to resuscitate her had her hyperwill failed to show any sign of transitioning into the willdisc. But now we are at the boundary of another milestone. What if, despite all our efforts, her heartbeat refuses to return?

Then you’ll do what any other doctor would do, I said, frowning at his need to have me state the obvious.

That document she signed tells us she doesn’t want her life to be artificially sustained past her body’s viability.

Blood rushed to my head. That doesn't apply here. The DNR was applicable only if her hyperwill failed to transition. But she did. You’re obligated to resuscitate her.

Yes, but what if we can’t, Grant said in a matter-of-fact tone that contrasted with my aggravation. I am considering her reasons for having asked for that DNR in the first place. She was thinking of a future where blood will be flowing through her veins only because of a machine. She doesn’t want that.

I narrowed my eyes at him as I shook my head. You have no choice but to keep her alive. Her soul will be waiting downstairs until she has a body to come back to.

And therein lies our problem. Her soul is locked inside the Vault, isolated from our patient over here. Grant turned to look at Torula’s ashen face. A person’s belief in the treatment. Their reasons to live that they hold dear. The resolve to keep on fighting. These are all major contributors for healing to take place. There’s no telling if it’s even possible for the human body to function after being stripped of its…spirit. What if that metaphysical spark is essential for the heart to go on beating?

I swallowed. What are you saying?

What if her body needs to have her hyperwill inside her in order to heal? Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the very origin of that word rooted in a person’s will to survive? One’s hyper will to survive.

A burning knot of anger, denial, and frustration tightened in my chest. Why didn’t you bring this up before?

Because we hadn’t thought of it before. This is all uncharted territory.

I couldn’t help but step away—not backwards but to the side so I could look past him and at the blue-clad person seated behind the life-giving machine. Then Elena will make sure Torula’s body stays strong enough to go through a surgical procedure. Even without the inner strength of a soul.

Her motherly eyes did their best to soothe me from across the room. She's been on the pump far too long, Bram. The human body was designed to run with its heart beating, not for, eh, prolonged cardiopulmonary bypass.

But we’re here to establish firsts, aren’t we? Then she can be the one who survives the longest on this machine.

Elena looked at Grant and raised her brow. I told you this señor will fight for his señorita. We’ll need legal clearance.

What we need is a timeframe, Grant said. A cutoff point. Our agreement was that right after we take her off the heart-lung machine, we transfer her to a hospital for surgery as soon as possible. We can’t sustain her like this indefinitely. We’re not equipped.

Then I’ll find you the goddamned equipment you need! I said, raising my voice.

Grant and Elena stared at me, like a mother and father waiting for a toddler to get over a tantrum.

Christ. What am I doing? I owed these people—this institution—far too much, and here I was lashing out at them for preparing for the worst.

I’m sorry. I sucked in my breath and reined in my temper. Should her heart fail to start, I’ll find her a hospital with the equipment she needs.

Elena stared at Grant who rubbed a hand across his salt-and-pepper beard. There’s one more thing, he said, brow scrunched. One other consideration you might not have thought of earlier. It might be something…good. Depending.

My insides twisted at the contradiction between his words and his expression. It didn’t seem like it was good news he was about to share. What is it?

If this new technology proves to be something we can apply on Mission Pangaea—then her hyperwill is guaranteed a slot.

The knot of despair loosened inside my chest. That was exactly what I’d been hoping for.

But she—Grant nodded towards Torula’s cold and pulseless body—most likely, won’t be coming along on the journey.

What? But she’s the pioneer. I caught myself before I raised my voice yet again. The doctors said her heart was strong enough to take this.

Strong enough to resume the life she used to lead, that of a botanist in a research facility, Grant said. But her body will be too frail to handle the interstellar rigor of Pangaea.

I grew deaf to all the sounds in the room and stared blindly at nothing, sensing only the coldness in the room. My definition of the rest of my life—whether in outer space or here on Earth—included her. Body and soul. I’d never thought of it as an either-or.

It’s something for you to consider, Grant said, or for you to ask her once you get to connect. Would she prefer to go back into her weakened body—or stay on in the willdisc and truly become a pioneering astralnaut?

4

In the Stairwell

(Bram)

I walked out of the makeshift ICU, dumped the sterile wear in the anteroom, and headed straight for the stairwell. As I neared its doorway, I slowed down and thought of how I could adjust my frequency.

With my hand poised over the doorknob, I breathed deep. Cleared my mind. And relaxed.

All right then. Here goes. I entered the stairwell and paused for a few seconds, absorbing the generic blandness. Nothing but cream-colored walls with plain gray handrails. Even the silence was generic, with no creepy sensation to at least make me shudder.

Franco, I said into the cavern. I need to talk with you, mate. If you can hear me, let me know.

I waited without really expecting an answer. Maybe that was why I didn’t get one.

Have you bloody lost it? asked a voice inside my head. I’d have been thrilled if it were Franco speaking to me from beyond the grave, but no. It was just me, in complete disbelief over the stranger I’d become to myself.

Only a week ago, I’d been mocking Eldritch about all his psychic claptrap, convinced his so-called abilities were exactly what I thought they were. But now I stood rooted to my spot, scouring my memory for everything Eldritch had done each time he tuned in to the other side.

I controlled my breathing and imagined myself on a tightrope at the alpha-theta border. Squinting at some random spot, I tilted my head and willed some apparition of Franco to fade into view.

After a while of nothingness, I slowly went down the steps, concentrating—or meditating—with eyes wide open. But I knew it wouldn’t work.

Bugger. I cracked my neck. First right. Then left. But I couldn’t shake it—this notion that what I was doing was bloody ridiculous. Crap.

A couple of landings down, I closed my eyes and breathed deep. Come on, Bram. Try to believe. Try to believe. For Torula’s sake. Try to believe.

I raised both my arms and held them out like divining rods, the way I’d seen Eldritch do it—probably a medium’s way of adapting the human body to serve the function of an antenna. Talk to me, I whispered. You’ve done it before. Many times before.

All those occasions must have happened for real. When Franco had called me up on my iHub right after he’d died. Then in the restaurant, when I thought the waiter had asked if I wanted carpe diem instead of coffee. And at the Green Manor, where he had appeared and talked to me. But only to me.

Had I just imagined all that? Please, mate. Prove to me it was all for real.

Only silence answered me. Oh, Jesus. I lowered my arms and sighed.

Bram, is that you? came a voice from out of nowhere.

My heart thudded. Where are you?

Up here.

I glanced up and looked straight into the eureka-blue eyes of Enrik, the project director, peering over the handrail, his bright copper flattop giving the place a non-generic touch.

Roy told me I might find you here. He hustled down the stairway, lithe, lean, and limber like an athlete. I need to get you to the Vault now. We have to seal the entryway before they restart Dr. Jackson’s heart.

Right. Sorry, mate. I had to take this detour.

"That’s okay. I knew it’s something you had to do. Did it