Complex

By Mary Lonze Kennedy

Mark St. Clair's life has fallen apart: he is diagnosed with incurable cancer just as his engineering career is taking off. Thinking that his life is over, he agrees to leave his wife and young daughter to undergo a radical new technology. Now, in a secret facility in Colorado, Mark is frozen alive in a controlled death, awaiting a cure for his brain cancer. He awakes to find a bioagent has wiped out most life-forms and the Complex facility is under the watchful eye of Rex, a supercomputer capable of imitating intelligent human behavior. The computer's algorithm calls for another person to be resuscitated every few days. As new people are revived, Rex tightens its grip, battling Mark for control of the operations and imposing even greater restrictions on the group. Mark and his allies feel trapped. Rex has killed before, and there's no stopping it now, since its devious developer has been resurrected. Now, in the wrong hands, Rex represents the greatest threat to human life. When Mark learns the true purpose of the Complex, he decides to escape the facility and take his chances on the outside. Each survivor must now take sides. Whom can Mark count on? Who will side with the AI? Desperation spurs the allies to leave the Complex, and they nearly succeed until events take an unexpected twist. What is really important in a world where AI has redefined life? This is a question that haunts Mark as he and his friends struggle to move forward in a barren world, as the frigid winter closes in. The stakes are nothing less than the future of humanity. If Mark can't outwit Rex, an entire civilization will vanish.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645446675

Book preview

Chapter One

Y ou have a brain tumor. It’s called a glioma.

I froze. Tasered. My world crumbling.

Doctor Dan droned on in an impersonal, clinical tone.

But my mind had begun to shut down at the word tumor. I fought through a jumble of rage. Cancer inside my head? No way! I was only thirty-four. My stomach lurched, and suddenly I needed to puke on Dan’s fancy-ass, imported silk rug. He was Dr. Daniel Haegar now—best oncologist in the Midwest. But screw that! God knows we’d both done enough hurling as college roommates, after some wild parties where we’d tossed back too much Bud Light and vodka. Instead, I swallowed hard and turned away, hating him for the cold way he served up the information.

Mark, are you with me?

Gritting my teeth, I nodded. "Now that you’ve kicked me in the nuts, what are my options?"

Dan stroked the dark mustache hanging like a fringe over his upper lip. Some tumors can be treated with stereotactic radio surgery, but this one…

Was this a glimmer of hope? Let’s do it.

Not so fast. The location and extent of the malignancy make surgery of any kind too dangerous, at least with today’s technology. Maybe one day…

My jaw tightened, and I struggled to push the words out. Fuck me. How long?

Two years. At best. Dan bit his lip.

I rose from the soft leather chair and crossed the room, pausing at the expansive glass wall. It was early fall in Chicago, and the long, cool days had begun. Outside, the October sky glowed brilliant gumball blue. As a boy, on a bright day like this, I’d lie on my back in the prickly, dry grass, face up to the sun, imagining that I could see through the thin envelope of air into the blackness of space. I waited eagerly to spot the twin tails of any silvery Flying Tiger aircraft that might come soaring overhead. Now I wished myself aboard, in the captain’s seat, at the controls of the cargo plane and out of my life.

Let’s talk, Mark. Dan’s calm voice brought me back to ugly reality.

A drift of glowing bubbles swam across the screen of his open laptop. On the far wall hung the light box he used for reviewing x-rays. Eerie white lights shone through its frosted glass. The film currently on display was a collection of pictures showing the inside of my head. Some cuts showed my brain in profile; others looked as though my head had been sliced open like a loaf of bread. The sections showed odd-looking splotches in the center of a larger blob of gray.

I tried to interpret what I was seeing but couldn’t concentrate or see the pictures clearly through my tears. My throat ached as I sank down into a nearby chair, my chin on my chest.

Hey! St. Clair. Dan’s voice was controlled, commanding. Come on, bud, look at me. You’ll have two good years. He pushed up the edges of his thin wire-frame glasses, squeezed his gray eyes shut, and rubbed his lids. Look, I can’t put myself in your place or appreciate what you’re feeling. But you can’t collapse. Think of Janet. She needs her daddy.

You’re right. I sucked in a deep breath. What are my choices? You’re claiming that in this day of microsurgery and lasers, my tumor is untreatable. What about an experimental drug? There’s got to be something we can do. I had to fight despair. Who was going to help Kay manage our little girl’s diabetes?

Dan glanced down at his desk, giving his head a quick shake. No current drugs will do the trick.

You sure the diagnosis is correct? Maybe it’s somebody else’s test results. That could happen, right?

I was at the imaging center on the day you had the scan. The lesion was visible from the first time I saw the films, but I waited until the official report came back from the radiologist.

I leaned in. Can’t we get a second opinion?

I’ve already contacted a couple of specialists on staff. Dan jerked his chin in the direction of the teaching hospital across the street. Even talked to an old friend at Fermi Lab to see what’s new in proton therapy. Trouble is, your situation is unique because of the cancer’s stage. Truth is, there are no protocols currently available. Perhaps in a few years…

I squared my shoulders, preparing to argue, but Dan raised his hand like a traffic cop. I know what your next question is: What about clinical trials? Anything is better than sitting around, waiting to die, am I right?

There is no doubt there’s a long list of patients ahead of you who’ve been cleared to participate in a trial. Might take more than two years for your number to come up.

The flicker of hope I’d held inside puffed away into dust. How I wished my Kay were here now. She’d know what else to ask. Why couldn’t she have turned down that damned invitation to attend the executive forum in Rockford? To hell with the health conference! I needed her sitting beside me.

No alternatives whatsoever? I sounded so whiny and pleading.

The sound of a grandfather clock in the corner filled the quiet room as it slowly ticked toward four o’clock. Dan pulled a thin manila folder from the top of his desk drawer. Maybe there is something. His blunt fingers gripped the stiff fiber paper.

I leaned forward. What are you suggesting?

I’ve heard the Israelis are three years away from clinical trials of an injectable drug to cure 83 percent of all cancers.

"Three years? Hell. You just told me that I had two at the most. What the hell good is a pill going to do me in three?"

Mark, wait—

I slammed my fist on the desktop, stood quickly, and paced furiously around the office. Was he toying with me? I didn’t need false hope. Why are you fucking with me? Come on, I’m not that stupid.

He waved me over to a small chair across from him and pulled a bottle of Chivas Regal and two glasses from a drawer. Relax, Mark.

I sat tensely in the leather chair, bouncing my leg.

What I’m about to tell you is mind-boggling. He poured two generous drinks and swiveled around to pluck four ice cubes from a small bucket behind the desk, plunking two into each nearly full glass. He held out one drink.

My hand shook as I pulled the fiery amber contents down in one long swallow. I was afraid he might say something shocking and also afraid that he wouldn’t.

Dan cleared his throat. Cryogenetic internment. He paused. Ever hear of it?

Yeah. Something to do with freezing dead bodies and thawing them out years later. Walt Disney had it done, I think.

No, he was cremated. He’s buried in Forest Lawn in LA. Those rumors were pure science fiction. What I’m talking about is real.

A splinter of hope tingling in my gut churned like a wounded phoenix rising from the ashes. I pulled my shoulders back. I’m listening.

You’ve heard of people who drowned in frigid water or succumbed to hypothermia but survived because their heart rate and metabolism had been dramatically reduced, right?

What’s that got to do with me?

"There may be a way to deliberately process living individuals for indefinite periods."

I caught my breath, feeling my eyebrows rise. Frozen alive? Unthinkable. A cold shiver ran through me, and my stomach clenched again. But what if it worked? Oh, shit, what if it didn’t?

What if you were to qualify as a candidate for such a procedure?

What would I have to do? Tell me. My heart rate sped up.

Dan drew in a slow breath. Let’s take this one step at a time. Say you pass the first hurdle of being accepted into the program. Then we can wait a few years, or longer, for medical technology to catch up and begin your treatment.

My god, was that even possible? The proposal sounded risky. I was supposed to subject myself to some newfangled experiment. I could see putting a dead guy in cold storage, but a living person?

For a couple of minutes, neither of us spoke. I sat rigid as though we were in a play, waiting for the next cue.

All right, tell me more, I said. Everything you know. Every detail.

Tilting back in his chair, Dan grunted. See for yourself. He handed over the packet to me.

I opened the manila folder and picked up a stack of reading materials. Nothing fancy: clippings from the Lancet, a report from Fermi Lab, a couple of articles written by German and French scientists. There was a story from the Hong Kong Journal of Emergency Medicine and a pamphlet on Ayurvedic medicine. On the bottom lay a separate FedEx mailer that had a business card paper-clipped to its outside: Samuel Mendleson, MD, PhD, Neuroscience, Director of the Cryonic Research Institute, an NYS company, Colorado Springs, Colorado.

I tapped the card with my finger. Who is this guy, Mendleson?

A doctor who has figured out how to combine genetic research with cryotherapy.

"I’m not looking for a clone. I want to cure this body."

Don’t jump to conclusions. Read the materials. When you’re finished and get Kay’s buy-in, call me.

I closed the folder, clasping it tightly as though its contents might otherwise leak out and disappear. So my choices are wait around while the cancer eats my brain or buy into this new technology?

If you choose this alternative, I’ll set up an appointment with Sam.

How soon do you need my decision?

Dan glanced down and closed the desk drawer firmly. The clock is ticking. There’s a lot at stake and much to consider. When you’re ready, let me know.

Outside a chilly wind blew through the parking garage. I shoved a hand in my pants pocket and patted the keys to my Tesla. Inside the car, I sat behind the wheel, momentarily blinded by a shaft of sunlight coming in at a sharp angle, reflecting off nearby Lake Michigan. Winding my way out of the lot, I turned the car north onto Sheridan Road and hit the accelerator. Along the shoreline, I drove noiselessly through the sharp turns that cut into the Glencoe ravine on the way home. I gripped the steering wheel tightly. Pull yourself together and stop daydreaming, I chided, before you run off the damn road and kill yourself—or worse. What the hell could be worse? I could hardly wrap my mind around Dan’s proposal. Cryoentombment. Suspended in a glass jar. All of me, or just parts hanging somewhere between eternal life and eternal death? And how could I unload this awful burden on Kay? We’d worked hard to build a decent life. Was it fair to leave her to manage her job, the house, and raise Janet without a daddy, for who knows how long?

When I got home, I sat down and told my wife the grim news, along with the possibility of the cryogenic experiment. She sat facing me, face glistening with runnels of tears, white fingers raking her blond curls. Mark, what are we going to do? she whispered, twisting her handkerchief.

We’re going to tackle this head-on. Together. I rested my hands on her shoulders, feigning bravery.

Oh god, I’m scared. How much time do you have, do we have?

Two years at the most.

You said… She stopped to blow her nose. You said something about cybernetic in-something. Tell me again, what is that?

Cryogenetic interment. It’s similar to freeze-dried coffee, except I’d be the coffee.

A faint smile darted across her quivering lips, then quickly disappeared. Mark, what is it, really?

There’s no easy explanation. Dan feels this process is the only hope. I would become interred in deep sleep for three to five years. After that, he thinks medical science will have progressed far enough along to treat the lesion inside my head. That was when I gave her more details on Sam Mendleson’s program at the top secret facility a few miles outside Colorado Springs. I ached to jump at the chance to get signed up and put what was left of my life in the director’s hands. It was the only way I could think of to provide for my family: become frozen, then thawed out in a couple of years, when someone had figured out a cure. But only if Kay agreed. I stood and pulled her from the chair and held her close. Our bodies met, straining to become one. I thought of nothing else but Kay. It was as though we penetrated each other’s thoughts.

How soon does Sam need an answer?

We can sleep on it, make our decision tomorrow.

How do you feel right now? I mean symptoms. That sort of thing.

Scared.

* * *

Eight days later, inside the complex, I remember lying naked on a large fiberglass tray in the cryogenic induction room, my backside pressed against the cold slab, gloved hands easing a needle into a vein on the back of my hand, hearing, You’ll feel a stick, Mark. Then a rusty, metallic taste coated my tongue. Clear fluid, like hot lead, flowed into my arm from IV tubing. Me counting backward, One hundred…ninety-seven…ninety…

* * *

Technically, I’m dead. My body is frozen, confined in a cylindrical steel prison. How long have I been inside? How would I know? Why is my mind still functioning? Not just dreaming. I’d recognize that. I’m getting real thoughts, ideas, things that I can control, put in some kind of order. Will there be a point where my mind disperses into nothingness from a temporary interruption of power? Death? Could the reverse occur? Such thoughts ricochet from one random idea to the next. I wish I could see with my eyes. But there are no sensations. Is this how a sensory-deprivation tank feels? No feeling. I wonder how long it will take before medical science catches up to where it will do me any good. Will I be thawed out in five years? Ten? One hundred? If I wake up decades later, everyone I’ve known will be gone. What if I were trapped somewhere in between? Sam, I haven’t fallen into a deep sleep, as you promised. No. I am pinned, like a butterfly in a jar, to an endless present.

Chapter Two

Revival: Day 1

What’s happening? Am I coming back? Yes. Finally—fine-a-ly. By God, we did it, Sam! You, me, and the team sure as hell did. Waking up means they must have found a cure; otherwise, I’d still be frozen, wouldn’t I? Of course. And since I’m not, there’s been a scientific breakthrough. A dad-blasted miracle, and I’m the luckiest bastard. Hot-effin’-damn—I didn’t think this would work, but it did. Kay, hang in there, honey. I’m almost out of this contraption. Can’t wait to see your smiling face and kiss those lovely…

Ungh, more pinching jolts, and now there’s a buzz ringing in my ears. I can’t wait to see my family—Janet, Daddy missed you so much. But I’m here now, sweetie, and I won’t ever leave you again. Hope I haven’t missed too much of your growing-up. Maybe it hasn’t been that long, just a couple of years. Don’t worry, baby girl, you’ll always be my little angel. All this time, I’ve been waiting. Thinking. Dreaming. But this feeling now, this is real.

A sweet scent wafted through the air that smelled like maple syrup, then the Life Recovery Unit’s air lock snapped open.

Mark, can you hear me? Wake up. You’re in what we call Phase-Out. Sam’s voice sounded distant and muffled.

I’m coming, Sam. Don’t give up. Wait for me. Ouch, the shocks are beginning to hurt.

Turn the unit off, Mark.

All right, already. I’m trying. Must open my eyes. Here we go.

There was the overhead panel set in clear plastic a few inches above my face. My vision was still a bit fuzzy, but I could see. Yes, clearer now. A bright light. The red switch. If I could nudge its lever, the shocks would stop. C’mon fingers, move. Now the hand. Bend elbow. Raise forearm.

It’s working! By God, I’m going to make it! My hand moved—slowly—slowly toward the breaker. Got it. Close fingers. Downward pressure.

Another sound as the door opened in the Life Recovery Unit. I felt the slab beneath me move a few more inches, and with a final push, I rolled out of confinement. Couldn’t move easily, but I was free. Turning my head from side to side, I could see most of the room now with its white walls, overhead lights, the black crash cart. Wait. Where was everybody? How could they possibly miss this recovery? There should have been observers in the gallery on the other side of that glass window. Where the heck was Sam? Then again, maybe I was not the first one to undergo Phase-Out, after all. Maybe the reawakening process was routine and by now everyone was out to lunch or having a beer.

Slow down, Mark. Think. Take command. Move slowly. Wiggle fingers. Keep moving hands. Bend elbows. Raising my arms, I inspected my limbs as though checking whether they were mine or the property of an alien life-form. Was the infinity tattoo commemorating Kay’s and my loyalty still on my left inside wrist? Yep. Time to attempt coordinated moves. Right index finger to nose. Ouch—right in my eye!

Mark, by now you should be regaining basic motor control. Sam’s voice came over a speaker.

Why couldn’t I see him? Sam?

Don’t move too fast. Relax. Follow my instructions. Don’t rush the recovery process and risk injury. You’ve been in suspension for some time. A few more hours won’t make any difference.

I drew in a ragged breath.

Now, curl into the fetal position. Raise your legs slowly, pull the knees toward your chest. Work slowly, Mark.

This was harder than I’d expected. My legs didn’t want to move. Ungh. Now my knees were visible. Stiff was an understatement. Single movements were exhausting.

Why was I thinking? I should be talking.

As you perform these maneuvers, I want you to speak out loud. Exercise your voice by following my instructions.

Eh-kaaa, I squeaked. My mouth felt so dry.

Ash…eh…ee…

Ahh…erh… Damn, why was it so hard to utter a sound?

Patience. Remember, recovery will take time. You may notice your voice sounds strange. This phenomenon is the result of the pure oxygen and helium mix in the Life Recovery Unit. Vocalization will return to normal shortly. In the meantime, lower your legs and raise your arms over your head.

Last time I tried that procedure, I took a poke in the eye. I struggled to shift my shaky limbs. Done.

Now, lower your arms, then carefully roll over to the right. Your equilibrium may be off. Don’t go too far, or you might fall.

Okay. Hey, Sam, what year is it? How long have I been in suspension? My voice sounded tinny.

No answer.

Sam?

Roll the other way. When that’s been accomplished, return to your original position and stop for a bit. The repositioning will allow your inner ear fluids to balance out.

A modified head maneuver to clear vertigo.

By the way. Welcome back. You have survived the most unique experience in documented medical science. You’ll have lots of questions, but let’s focus on regaining mobility.

Whatever you say, boss. But I’m curious—why is no one available to assist me? I moved my arms and legs in a series of prescribed exercises.

No response.

What about these tubes in my arms—how long are they going to stay?

For the present, the intravenous tubes are supplying the last dose of fluids and nourishment. You’ll need them in for the next several hours. Try sitting up. Place your hands flat on the table beside your hips. Slowly elevate your head. You’ll feel dizzy at first. Take a few deep breaths. Raise your head and shoulders.

Weakly, I followed instructions and completed the steps.

Stop. Lock your elbows behind you and hold yourself up. Feeling all right?

I’m okay.

Now, proceed to a sitting position. Still with me?

Fine. A little dizzy. That’s all. I’m going to swing my legs over the side of the table.

Lie back down for a moment.

With a sigh of frustration, I returned to a supine position.

Bicycle your legs and flex your arm muscles at the same time.

Sure, but I feel ready to walk.

Hmmm. Not so fast. Remain still for the next few minutes. If your heart rate increases too dramatically, the cardiac monitor will trigger an alarm.

Impatiently, I gripped the side rails. But I want to push my recovery. I’m going to try a few more exercises. A series of loud beeps sounded, and a sour-smelling spray drifted up my nose and I heard a soft mechanical whirring. Sam, what the hell?

You didn’t comply with my directive to rest. I anticipated that, Mark. Now you’re going to be out for a while. There’s a penalty for not following directions to the letter. You may not deviate from the recovery protocol.

Chapter Three

Day 2

Later, I awoke. How long have I been out? Sam?

Twelve hours. Try the basic movements again. Then swing your legs over the side.

Done. Where is everybody? And you, Sam? I hear your voice, but you’re not here.

I felt cheated. Wasn’t I the first human to undergo this new cryoprocess? Where were the banners, the brass bands, a reception committee? I should be given a fuckin’ medal of honor, or the keys to some half-assed city. But there was no one around. Why? Maybe this was part of the reanimation process. Was my immune system impaired and he was afraid of contagion? Shit, that would be a disaster. I’d have come all this way for…what?

Hey, I’m getting irritated with this mystery. How long have I been in recovery?

Mark, rise off the table and stand on the floor, but don’t walk too far. You’re still connected to the Life Recovery Unit.

All right. I grunted as I hauled myself into sitting upright, then slid onto the cold tiles. My legs are holding up.

Now, walk slowly around the end of the table to the racks against the wall.

Whew, this floor is damn cold. I could catch a chill standing here in my birthday suit. I spotted the neat pile of clothing on a metal shelf a few feet away. A moment later, when I picked up a tan one-piece jumpsuit, the fabric came apart in my hands.

Discard the clothing, Sam said. The seams appear defective. There is an airtight door directly in front of you. Push the access button.

As it opened, I walked into a closet-size room and found an array of a dozen more jumpsuits of varying sizes and colors. I pulled one from a stack, 46 long. Might fit. I stepped into the garment and pulled it up to my waist. The lower section was roomy, but I couldn’t slide my arms into the sleeves because of the intact IVs.

Secure the lower half with the belt, for now. You can slip into the top once the tubing is disconnected.

I snapped the lower portion of the suit’s front panel closed. Now what?

Find the diagnostic chamber.

What am I looking for?

An MRI with a few more digital display panels on the side.

Okay. I found it, I said and shuffled back to the other end of the recovery area.

Lie down on the table. The machine will do the rest.

It must have been weight-sensitive, because the moment I lay flat on the slab sticking out the front of the doughnut-shaped chamber, and as the table retracted, I was fed inside. I lay there for what seemed like an hour, waiting for the scanner to finish.

Now what? I asked, after emerging from the machine. I was itching to do something productive, something physical, like throwing a chair through the thick glass window just to get someone’s attention.

There’s a computer-guided survey to fill out. Won’t take long. Use the laptop on the utility desk. You can either use the keyboard or audio input for your responses. Sam’s voice receded.

I rolled a stool over to the desk and clicked on the space bar. The screen lit up, and the text, Welcome Back, Mark. An atonal, accented voice—reminiscent of an old British character actor—emanated from the speakers. Bold, luminescent blue letters appeared on the monitor like closed caption on a TV screen.

Question 1. Do you have any stiffness or pain? The letters flashed across a darkened screen.

No, I said, and my words rolled across the monitor in tangerine orange letters.

Question 2. Do y—

Wait, I