The Privilege Pt. 01

If I were Steinbeck, I'd probably rent out an island and live out the rest of my days in the arms of a dusky young thing in a mansion by the ocean.

Just as I was thinking this, the robot was lowered into the second tank to implant the donor with the BCI chip. Shortly, it emerged, having done its job. An hour later, after having constantly monitored both the men's vitals, Elijah turned to his lead researcher and spoke the magic words.

"Go for transfer."

***

More than two years had passed since Richard Steinbeck had left his hospital room in his brand new body, and had entirely dropped off the grid.

The donor's mind, in Steinbeck's old body, had perished less than a week after the procedure. Elijah had told me that it had been ugly. I'm sure that the team of medics monitoring the two men's convalescence would have been more specific in their report, but Elijah wouldn't tell me anything else. I could sense that he had changed after the procedure. Maybe he couldn't bear the death of another man on his conscience, even if it had been for science, and even if he had been acting under the express orders of a billionaire funding his research.

Over the weeks and months after the swapping of the two men's consciousnesses, Elijah had grown more and more discontent, conflicted, depressed -- until one day he handed his resignation, packed up his office and left. He wouldn't even answer his phone to hear out the offers -- and later, threats -- we made him.

Replacing Elijah had been, surprisingly, easy enough. His lead researcher and second-in-command, Kira Watanabe had stepped up to the plate as Nervosyn's Chief Technologist. She had continued the development of the prototype -- iterating, refining, testing. Although after Richard Steinbeck's procedure, no further trials had been performed on human subjects. The process with Steinbeck, though successful, had had a high degree of risk attached to it. To get the BCI anywhere near another live human brain, the risk score had to drop more than a dozen percentage points. The law and regulations around such implants had started off doubly stringent to begin with, and had only gotten stricter over the past decade. As the months went on, I could sense Kira's frustration on not being able to conduct human trials.

"We know what we're working with." She had insisted over a phone call with me, a year into her appointment as Chief Technologist. "We have a much better understanding of the interface mechanisms and transfer conduits. We even reconfigured the modalities of influence so that the BCI would leave the host and donor's memories intact, reducing the shock to the psych-space post-implant."

Psych-space. That was Kira's term for what most would call the consciousness. And I used to think Elijah was onerous with his jargon.

A little over seven months after our conversation, I met the beleaguered scientist at a charity ball. It was a fundraiser for the state's regional healthcare workers, thrown by Jacob Steinbeck, Richard's successor and heir to his billion-dollar empire. Kira caught me at the bar, right after my unsuccessful attempt to charm a thirty-something junior exec.

"Damian, nice to see you in person again."

"Kira, pleasure as always."

I had got up from the barstool to shake her hand. Over her shoulder, I watched the young exec's ass as she headed for the crowd gathering on the balcony.

"What are you getting?"

"Sake, double."

I gestured to the bartender to serve her.

"It's nice to see you out of the lab, for once. You look fantastic."

Kira was dressed in an understated emerald gown. Her hair floated loosely behind her shoulders, a contrast to it being up in a bun or a short ponytail at her workplace. She wore silver earrings, which were shaped like spears and appeared to pierce her earlobes.

"Save the flirting for someone else, Damian. I'm only here because I needed to talk to you."

"And I appreciate the stage prep." I said, grinning.

Kira allowed a smirk to cross her face. Her sake arrived, and she downed it in one gulp.

"You might want to take it slow..." I said

"I'm not planning to be here long." She replied, and ordered another sake.

Beneath us, on the ground floor, the people gathered burst into applause. Jacob Steinbeck's voice boomed on the speakers a few seconds later.

"Thank you, thank you all... thank you so much" Jacob said as he waited for the applause to die down. "Thank you one and all for gathering here this evening. Tonight we're here to honour the lives and work of some of the most hard-working human beings on the planet..."

Kira's re-up arrived and she motioned for me to walk with her. I rose up and followed her.

"I'm thinking of quitting, Damian."

"Kira-" I began

"-No. You've said enough, Damian. Now it's my turn to speak."

Kira rehashed her discontent with BCI development over the past eighteen months. She told me how she had put in late nights, early mornings, weekends and public holidays into refining the silicon, the biology and the surgical protocols. In all that time, she hadn't had even one trial application approved, or even got feedback on.

"I feel like my talents are being wasted, along with the best years of my career."

I sighed and stared into my drink. I watched as one ice-cube cracked under the amber surface of the whiskey. Condensation had begun to form on the outside of the glass. I sighed again, before turning back to her.

"Are you asking for a raise, Kira?"

She turned to me with venom in her expression.

"No Damian, I'm asking for resolution. I feel like I'm in purgatory. I'm done. I want to leave."

I didn't know how to respond to that. Nervosyn couldn't let someone like Kira go. As far as we knew, we were one of the five companies involved in BCI research over the past decade, and probably the only one who had successfully conducted a human trial. Even if it had been hidden from the world, and even if the donor hadn't made it. None of the other companies were even close to animal testing. This I knew. I paid a few people a lot of money to know. I also knew we were less than three years off from a major revision of BCI regulations. But Kira wasn't looking to wait that long.

We had reached the balcony railing. I leaned over it, half-sipped whiskey glass in hand. Kira stood next to me, arms folded across her chest. Beneath us, Jacob Steinbeck was still in the middle of his speech.

There were few people in the world I hated more than Jacob Steinbeck. Since Richard Steinbeck's departure, he had taken over as the face of the company. And what a face it was -- all cheekbones and no jaw.

In other words, flashy

Where Richard had ran his multi-billion-dollar conglomerate from behind a desk on a non-descript floor in an undistinguished skyscraper, Jacob had, in the immediate weeks after Richard's walking away, moved himself into a penthouse suite on the top floor of The Hilton, where he had set-up his office-cum-residence. Every Wednesday he would roll up to the JCD building in a new supercar, to meet with VPs, board members, and whoever else was asking for his money. On Friday evenings he would fly out to some European ski resort or beach in a pacific island nation. On Monday mornings, some supermodel or upcoming starlet would be gently, but firmly ejected from his penthouse, as he looked out over the financial district from his penthouse, shirtless, sipping his coffee. And he only got the position he was in because of his last name.

As he stood on the stage below us, delivering his speech to a captivated audience, all I saw was him spending money he didn't earn, on a gathering he didn't organise, amongst company he didn't cultivate, run a business he didn't build, give orders to people he didn't know and worst of all, be admired for something that was probably not even his idea to begin with.

I hated his flashiness and frivolity. I hated his good looks and sharp suits. I hated the company he kept and the attention he got. I hated his privilege.

God, the things I'd do if I had his life...

Then, on that balcony, standing next to Kira as she coldly sipped her sake, a plan began to form in my head.

Later that night, I caught the Chief Technologist just as she was about to get in a taxi.

"How far would you be willing to go to test out your latest chip?"

"A lot further than you'd think."

"Good."

Good.

***

When I took the blindfold off Kira, it took her a few seconds to orientate herself. She blinked in the harsh, sterile glare of the white halogens.

"Jesus Christ, Damian. What the fuck is this place?"

"Your new lab."

"Where are we?"

"Can't tell you that."

She took in the huge warehouse inside which the four of us stood. Her, myself, and two security specialists I had hired. The warehouse was completely empty, devoid of any markings, signs, boxes or paraphernalia which might give away where we were. White granite floor stretched away from us for hundreds of feet in all directions.

"Are we still in-"

"No, we're not."

"That was a dumb question. I figured you wouldn't put me on a three-hour flight to bring me back to the same place."

At least her dry sense of humour was still intact. And the flight had been much longer than three hours, but she didn't need to know that.

"Why did you bring me here?"

"To run the first ever human trial of your latest BCI."

"Yeah right," she folded her arms across her chest. "And where are my subjects?"

"You're staring at him."

She cocked an eyebrow. Kira didn't look amused.

"Seriously, Damian. Who am I running the trial on?" She glanced at the two hefty men behind me.

"I'm being serious, Kira. That night at the ball, I asked you how far you were willing to go to see your implant inside a human head. What I didn't tell you was the lengths I was willing to go to, alongside."

Kira mulled this for a few moments. I stayed silent. The bodyguards looked bored.

"Okay... okay." She stared right into my eyes. "But why? What's in it for you? You know we don't know if the procedure is reversible, right?"

I decided to tell her the truth. Rather, a part of it.

"I've lived a long life Kira. Like you, I've worked a thankless job for years, following orders of people I never even met, not knowing if it all made a difference in the end." I wiped a piece of lint off my coat. "But that changes today. I have a cause now. A chance to participate in something humanity has yet to grapple with. To contribute to a science that's going to change how people understand consciousness and individuality for the rest of time."

Kira did a fake clap.

"Nice speech. But I can't transfer your psych-space into thin air. Who's the other person?"

"Anonymous, for now. He'll be here when the time comes."

Kira was unruffled. I could tell her mind was already looking ahead.

"And the equipment? Staff?"

"On their way. It'll all be here in the next forty-eight hours."

"Make it twenty-four." Kira wasn't even looking at me anymore. She was probably drawing up plans for the server room, the operation theatre, labs, storehouses, shelves...

"Last question." She spoke after a minute. "Who else at Nervosyn knows about this?"

"No one but you."

"Good."

She was a fast learner.

***

Twelve weeks later, on a cold February night, in a tiny changing room inside the warehouse, I stripped off all my clothes, put on a paper gown and laid down on a gurney. It was twelve hours before the procedure was scheduled to begin, but as with Richard Steinbeck, I had to be prepped for surgery and be induced into a coma. In less than half an hour, I would be under. Most of the cogs were in place. The donor had been brought in last evening. Kira's new team had already run the bloodwork and completed the physicals. My reckoning was that he would be put under around the same time as I.

A lot had changed around subject preparation, the implant procedure, the transfer itself, and the recovery -- which was far shorter than the week it had taken for Steinbeck's recovery. Kira had taken me through it all step-by-step, and I was confident she'd get the job done. In some way, I had more faith in her than Elijah. As I was wheeled into the sterile prep room, she came in to check up on me one last time.

"You look relaxed." I joked.

"And you look like the statue of Hercules." She replied. Her humour put me immediately at ease. "I feel like a sculptor, only instead of carving out another pair of abs, I'm carving out your mind."

"Make sure you don't drop it. If it shatters, the clean-up will be brutal."

Kira laughed, something I had seen for the first time in as long as I'd known her. Then her expression became serious.

"Damian..." She began, hesitant. I knew what she was going to ask. "Who's the donor?"

"Kira..."

"I know you said I'd get closer access and a lot more control over monitoring during the convalescence phase, but it's still like getting data from a black box. I don't know what's in there. If it's even real. If all this," she gestured to the warehouse around us, now completely transformed. "is real."

"You know I can't tell you about the other team."

"Yes, you made me sign a contract." The Chief Technologist scoffed. "And shut me and the rest of the staff up in this warehouse for a whole winter. The only bit of sunlight I have gotten in all that time is when it shines through the glass panes on the roof every midday. All our food, clothes, supplies have been unmarked. Damian," she knelt down next to my gurney and whispered "I know we're not in our country anymore. And it's fine. I've accepted all of it, just to be able to have the opportunity I do tonight. But tell me you're not going to pull the rug from under me."

I reached for her hand and took it in mine.

"Kira, it is real. Trust me."

She stared at me, unblinking, waiting for any sign of deceit, or perhaps mockery. Finding none, her expression softened.

"I want you to know Damian, that my frustration wasn't with the company. It was with myself, with not progressing. Working tirelessly and then not seeing even one human life affected positively. I wouldn't have complained if I knew my work was going to be recognised eventually."

"They'll all know your name." I lied to her, for the first time since I had brought her to the warehouse. "You won't be in the shadows for long."

Kira exhaled and closed her eyes. She pressed her head against the back of my hand. When she eventually looked back up, I saw there were tears slowly dripping down her cheek.

"Thank you, Damian. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for everything."

"It's all in your hands now, kiddo." I told her, petting her hand.

Kira nodded, then stood up. Her hand slipped out of mine and she wiped her tears on her sleeve.

The last I saw of Kira Watanabe -- and the last, I hoped, I would ever see -- was a view of her standing outside the prep room right before the doors closed and I was hooked up to a dozen different machines: her hands stuffed in the pockets of her lab coat, staring at me. There was a slight smile on her face. I saw for the first time, right before they injected the sedative cocktail in the IV bag, that Kira Watanabe was extraordinarily beautiful.

***

Less than forty-eight hours later, I stepped out of the warehouse, on my two new feet. I was flanked by two burly men who were watching me like hawks for any misstep, any sign that I was going to fumble, but I miraculously didn't. I felt uncoordinated all over, yet I managed to put one foot in front of the other, and walk all of the ten feet between the warehouse door and the backseat of the SUV that was waiting outside. I enjoyed the thirty seconds of sunlight before I was inside another steel and tinted-glass box, but this one had wheels. It was a forty-minute drive to the airport, some of it through the city. Along the way I saw signs that said "carnicería", "droguería", "comisaría"... but I found it tiring to read anything more than a few words at a time. By the time we reached the airport, I had a throbbing headache.

The small turbo-prop flew for two hours before touching down at another airport. I napped for the duration of the flight. My two-man security detail led me to another SUV and strapped me in, before bidding adieu to me. I was driven into a private hangar on the other end of the airport, where a Gulfstream G-9 stood. Game time. I descended from the SUV, sunglasses on, walking a little unsteadily to the jet's boarding stairs. Again, I managed not to stumble. With arms that felt rubbery, I hoisted myself up the stairs and inside the plane. I found the closest seat and sat down, not that there were going to be other passengers on this flight. I gave up trying to do my belt and slumped into the plush cushions of the seat. A stewardess approached from the aisle behind me. She said something to me but I couldn't understand her, like her voice was coming from underwater.

"Sorry, say that again?" I rasped out.

The stewardess smiled and repeated herself.

"I said, welcome back on board, Mister Steinbeck. I hope you enjoyed your weekend in Milan. My name is Diana, and I will be your flight attendant for this trip."

I nodded. I tried to process just how white and perfect her teeth were. I turned to the window as she walked away. I grimaced and in the reflection I saw that somehow, my teeth were even brighter and perfectly-set than Diana's. The cockpit door opened and the pilot stepped out.

"Mister Steinbeck! Back in one piece huh?" he walked over and knelt down next to my seat. He leaned in conspiratorially.

"So did you check out the discoteca I told you about?"

"Sorry..." I read the nametag on the pilot's uniform, "...Don, I came down with a cold as soon as we touched down on Friday. Was confined to the hotel room most of the weekend. Maybe next time."

"That's too bad. Next time it is!" Don stood up. "Now, get strapped in 'cause we're scheduled to take-off in twenty-five minutes." He glanced discreetly over at Diana, who at that moment was bent over, pulling a seat back upright on the other row across the aisle. Her private flight attendant's uniform was a lot more liberal than of attendants on commercial airlines, and hugged her round ass rather snugly. "And I hope your flight back will be more entertaining than your weekend." He winked before heading back into the cockpit.

The flight back wasn't very entertaining, but it sure was enervating. I settled in, both in my seat, and in my new body.

Jacob Steinbeck's body.

Twelve hours later, the flight touched down. I was rested, my headache was gone, I had some food and drink in me. My limbs no longer felt like jelly and, despite the altitude, my hearing was much better. I ordered an espresso from Diana, and downed it while we taxied down to our hangar. When the Gulfstream's doors finally opened, I almost sprang out of my seat.

Stepping off the plane, I was greeted by Jacob's -- now mine­ -- head of security. I struggled to remember his name, searching Jacob's memories.

Cramer? Carter?

"Carver." I walked past him without stopping. He quickly fell in stride behind me and addressed my back.

"Mr. Steinbeck. Hope you had a great trip to Italy?"

"Could've gone better."

"Did something go wrong?"

"Yeah. Very wrong."

I bent and entered the Bentley as the chauffeur held the door open for me. I looked at Carver, standing outside with a steely expression on his face. I flashed him a grin.

"All the nightclubs were closed."

Carver visibly relaxed and slid in next to me. As soon as the chauffeur got in, I turned to Carver and said,