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Category:
Literary Fiction
Publisher: Wise Media Group
ISBN-10: 1629670154
Pages: 242
Copyright: March 5, 2014
ISBN-13: 9781629670157
Price: $1.99 (eBook)
Would you sell your body to the government so that you can relive your life?
2014 Science Fiction Finalist--National Indie Excellence Awards
http://www.indieexcellence.com/indie-results-2014-finalists.htm#20
2013 ForeWord Reviews Awards SciFi Finalist--The Last Seminarian
2014 SciFi Nominee Global eBooks Awards--The Last Seminarian
Book Readers Heaven Review:
http://gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com/2014/04/rm-damato-presents-future-i-hope-i.html
Book Viral Review:
http://www.bookviral.com/i-have-three-things-to-tell-yo/4583670037
The Golden Years Can Be a Killer!
In 2033, every senior citizen is offered a second chance and a second career. At 65, John Sinclair, a life-long teacher, faces two choices—a second career or permanent retirement and early death. The state will pay for his genetic rehabilitation, university education, and an extended life span of 160 years. It’s guaranteed! All Sinclair has to do is to mentor his young apprentice, commit to a new career, and avoid any dealings with a daft and spiteful school janitor, Fernando Smith. Like all incredible offers, Sinclair’s new career comes with a toxic price tag. The question is—is he willing to pay?
Excerpt
I Have Three Things to Tell You, My Friend.
By
RM DAmato
Edited by
Roberta Binder, RobertaEdits.com
Illustration by
Sara Galvis, Sarvisfx.com
I Have Three Things to Tell You, My Friend.
Copyright © 2014 RM DAmato
ISBN: 9781629670157
All Rights Reserved
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.
The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Sara Galvis
Interior Formatting: PrintReadyTemplates.com
the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them
– Charles Bukowski
Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and
go to the grave with the song still in them.
– Henry David Thoreau
Preface
I continue to call him, Mr. Sinclair, even though by this time I am years older than he was when we first met.
I met him during the late summer season when life is rich and the voices of decay begin their siren call. He became my mentor when I first accepted the teaching internship from the university soon after the Federal Rehabilitation Amendment had been passed. The rest of the story will unfold later but we met at my first crossroad in life. In fact, he helped to create that dynamic event in my life. The second crossroad took me away from teaching and made me an artist and historian, living off a miserly Federal stipend with no prospect of a second career. Others, like me, wait for an early and natural death.
Maybe, in some unknown fashion, Mr. Sinclair helped me to be honest. I cannot change the circumstances of his last minutes, but I can recount my version. So, after a lifetime of notes, journals, conversations, confiscated material, and gossips, I have a complied record of his last school year and my first school year. The lies will persist but so does cancer. Some will accuse me of lying but the past cannot be completely and factually true in the present. It is a honest representation, from my perspective. The historian must find the best semblances of truth. I owe it to his memory. He was my friend.
He may have been my only, true friend.
Prologue
August 1993
John Sinclair sat anxiously on a plastic chair, wedged among a line of teacher recruits in the bowels of a dilapidated post-depression building.
The Los Angeles School District headquarters housed a long entourage of teacher recruits who passed the California Basic Skills Test in 1993. It was the last week of August and school would begin in one week. None of them had ever taught nor had any teaching training. Each candidate, some in their twenties, others far into middle age who were looking for a second or third career, volunteered for an experiment.
California, especially Los Angeles, desperately needed teachers to fill swelling classrooms of immigrant and migrant students. When the universities failed to recruit and train teachers, the state enticed civilians with easy credentials and a secure paycheck, along with a pension and medical benefits. In the middle of a deep recession during the waning days of the Cold War, what more could any confused, drifting college graduate need. Besides, anyone even thought they could teach.
Really….
More than 50 percent failed a basic skill test and, out of the remaining 50 percent, 80 percent would drop out of teaching in the next five years. Why? The economy improved until the crash of ’87.
Whoops!
Neither the state, nor the district succeeded to maintain a steady contingency of teachers as the revolving-door recruits would swing through the district’s portal of complacency and contempt. Every recruit knew the secret truth no one mentioned or shared. Teachers were a disrespected lot. But in public forums, the hypocritical platitudes swelled to offensive heights. No one cared if teachers succeeded and most expected them to fail. In 193, they were the intellectual fodder for the social cannons of apathy. They just filled the plug of a growing gap of educational mediocrity.
But to John Sinclair, it was an appropriate stop-gap stepping stone job. Nineteen thousand dollars and three months off would carry him into his next job. The career he really wanted. For most of the emergency credential teachers, which the district officially labeled the second career recruits and teaching offered them that bridge. Some wanted to be actors; some wanted to be writers; some wanted to be policemen, but all wanted to be someone – anything better than a teacher.
Teaching didn’t pay. Teaching lacked fame and glory.
John looked to the left of his seat and saw a long line of recruits stretching out to the exit where they waited to be interviewed. Most of them were men sprinkled with a few women here and there. Unlike the men, most women completed their credentials while completing their Bachelor degrees.
John was lucky….A district clerk had mistakenly taken the middle cadre and moved them forward, to the chagrin of the others. After a few quiet buzzes of complaints, everyone fell silent again and returned to their private anxiety, waiting in front of testy, bureaucratic officials. Sinclair then looked right and saw three clerks beginning to interview several scores of untested individuals.
“We got lucky,” the person on his right spoke up. “I’m Bill.”
“John,” Sinclair responded, dipping his head and smiling uneasily. Somewhere in the background, a ghetto blaster played Blondie’s Heart of Gold.
Bill was an older man, probably in his thirties. He wore a white, threadbare shirt and a thin, polyester tie. The knot of the tie, carelessly made, hung an inch below the collar button. He had brown eyes, yellow teeth, a receding hairline and a pockmarked face. Occasionally, he would look down at his blue, paper folder that he clutched on his lap. Although, seemingly expecting to elicit a response from Sinclair, none was forthcoming. He then disappointingly opened his folder, extracting his transcripts, several identification papers and test results.
“You’d think they want us for the C.I.A.,” Bill criticized the process. “After all this.” He waved his folder at the gathered room filled with people. “They want us fingerprinted. Damn.”
“It’s the kids,” Sinclair pointed out. “They don’t want perverts or deviants.”
“Check it out,” he remarked and pointed his folder at the others. “Who are they shitin’ with?”
The other recruits heard the defamatory statement but decided to ignore it. Like Sinclair, they felt the same dislike for Bill. But, like most other unpleasant comments and events, they learned it was best to ignore them. Maybe it will just go away? Maybe it was all a bad dream?
Sinclair also ignored him and unconsciously glanced at his pack, which sat at back at his feet. He could not find a folder or professional briefcase for the interview. All he had was a simple backpack he used in graduate school.
“I am applying for a job at CBS,” he quietly confided to Sinclair. His breath reeked of tobacco and a decade old plaque. “This is just a gig. You know.”
“Yeah,” Sinclair answered and moved slightly to his left.
“What you teaching?” Bill demanded to know, shoving the papers back in his folder. “I got chemistry in West Los Angeles. Not a bad place.”
“English,” Sinclair admitted, taking an aching and wanting look in the direction of a nearby clerk’s desk, where the employee was concluding her interview with a middle-age woman.
“English?” he skeptically repeated.
“ESL,” Sinclair blurted. “I got picked up in the valley.”
“Hah!” Bill burst out. “You got fucked royal. All the wetback and slope boat kids are going to be bussed there. You’ll have your hands full. ‘My name is…I live in a house…I want to be an American’ Ha!”
The clerk stopped her interview to stare at Bill who, laughing to himself returned to his folder and the pointless task of shuffling his papers.
He then remained silent for the next ten minutes when, suddenly, the long, grumpy line of recruits made an uneasy movement to the left and to the right, before breaking in two and allowing a TV reporter and camera operator to enter the small lobby.
“Oh, shit,” he cursed when they entered the crowded vestibule. “I hate these people.”
“I thought you wanted to work at CBS?” Sinclair retorted mischievously.
“Yeah, man.” Bill responded spontaneously. “Only on the other side of the camera. Anyway, they’re shit independents. Channel 9.” With that, he held up the folder to his face as the camera operator began to pan across the room.
The camera operator made several sweeps from one recruit to another finally landing on Sinclair, holding the camera directly in front of his face. Bill abruptly stood up and walked away. Next to the camera operator, a middle age male reporter, with a shoe-polish comb over, shoved his microphone up to Sinclair’s face.
“Why do you want to be a teacher?” the reporter demanded to know.
The glaring camera light annoyed Sinclair and he looked away, towards the other recruits who stood to his right. Then with a smile he responded, “I think I can help,” as he made an effort to focus on the reporter and away from the camera’s light.
“And what about the future of teaching?” the reporter quickly followed up.
Sinclair looked at the recruits and paused for a few seconds. “Well,” he began judiciously. “In my opinion, the demand will decline.”
“Can you explain what you mean?” the reporter pressed on. Then he nervously looked for another recruit to interview, still holding the microphone to Sinclair’s face.
“Yeah,” Sinclair made a prediction. “We will become an endangered species in the next century. Machines will take over. Ideas won’t matter. Performance alone will count.”
The reporter skeptically gaped at Sinclair and immediately panned his microphone towards the other side of the room. The camera operator religiously followed the microphone’s direction and the camera’s light bounced off the wall several times before landing on a pasty young face.
“Do you think your pay is fair?” the reporter asked the young recruits at the other end of the hallway.
Sinclair could not hear the response.
Brusquely, his neighbor returned and barely retrieved his seat from another approaching recruit who attempted to sit down next to Sinclair. Bill glared at him and he angrily lumbered away.
“I heard you,” he spoke in an accusatory tone. “Shit…look around here. They’ll need us forever.”
“No, The system will find a way to whittle us down. It’s the nature of the machine.”
“Nah, they will always need us. See! ESL dupes like you. ‘This is a pen. This is a chalk,’” continuing to wave mockingly his folder like it was a baton.
He continued until an authoritative voice interrupted him.
“John Sinclair?’ the female clerk called out.
Surprised, Sinclair looked up and watched a conservatively dressed woman wave him over to her desk.
“Good luck,” Bill half-heartedly said, needing to get in a final annoying comment. Sinclair walked over to the clerk and heard his neighbor’s mocking voice pursuing his steps. “I have a book,” Bill repeated with a false Spanish accent. “My name is Jose. My papa he do the garden work.”
A shrill laughed beat him to the clerk’s desk.
Chapter 1
August 2033
Smith
“I have three things to tell you, my friend”
– Fernando Smith (The Janitor)
He sat alone in the dark, counting his keys. The bastard, Rubio, once again withheld the supply closet biometric key.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Smith cursed his supervisor. “Mother fucker!”
He furiously shook his cracked dustpan at the indifferent gods.
Chapter 2
August 2033
Sinclair
Time passed and Sinclair discovered how much he enjoyed teaching. Much too quickly he was approaching his final year. He would miss it.
When he entered the National Retirement Rehabilitation building, Sinclair expected to witness an advance 21st century institute that matched the revolutionary bio-mechanical technology that initiated and maintained its existence. His arrival caused him to experience an anticlimactic catharsis.
“This is fucking progress?” he quipped out loud.
The building had been a food depository warehouse in the outskirts of downtown Los Angeles, near yards of railway transportation grids. Brown, sooty bricks covered the edifice and a modern sign barely disguised a century-old white wash company label from the 1920s. Looking at the building, after parking his car at a charge station and paying his electrical allowance, Sinclair felt as if he had been sold to the glue factory. Besides the sign and state-of-the-art charging station, only sophisticated tinted film masked the building’s interior occupants and activities from nearby or distant prying eyes. Ironically, next to the Rehabilitation building, a modern, medical facility, utilizing green energy power to heat and cool the building, sat under the shadow of the ten-story behemoth.
“Wow,’ Sinclair commented to himself out loud as he looked at the pristine medical building. “I hope this isn’t something out of The Jungle. What crap!”
Staring at the building, he thought about the life changing events taking place inside. His wife, Rachel, will undertake the same enhancements as he will and will begin a new career in the medical field. Unlike his wife, he didn’t know which profession he would choose since he felt so much at home with being a teacher. But he always had an affinity for building machines. Secretly, Sinclair knew his relationship with Rachel teetered on their ability to re-energize that missing spark. Economic circumstances, and the corruption of a much to comfortable life, prevented them from seeking a divorce. The children had grown up and were no longer a factor in any of their decisions. They had basically become bored with one another after decades of marriage. Rachel encouraged Sinclair to accept the enhancement with a faint promise that they may be able to later mend their relationship. Sinclair still loved her, but could not decide if he would wish to live another half century or perhaps even a full century with an unfaithful woman.
Also, he thought about his next and final, school district assignment – mentoring a student-teacher at Ulysses High School. Sinclair would be given a light load as he prepared for his next career. Later in the day, he would meet with the new teacher. A Mr. Sanchez, he thought. He vaguely remembered the name. He was never good with names.
Sinclair then walked up to the building’s blackened glass door, which automatically opened. A young woman, dressed as a nurse, greeted him at the doorway. She looked perfect, her body displayed every nano-technical and genetic enhancement that science could provide. Unlike Sinclair’s generation, the nurse looked like a 40 year old at the age of 120. Too bad for her! A few feet behind her, Sinclair noticed two testosterone augmented security guards with high–voltage stunners on their belts.
“Mr. Sinclair?” the young woman cordially greeted him. She was following protocol with her cynical, polite greeting. Since he arrived at the facility, the face-recognition software identified Sinclair one hundred feet before reaching the entrance.
“Yeah,” Sinclair grunted and walked past the grinning mannequin of a woman.
“We have been waiting,” she continued to speak. “You are most fortunate. Dr. Ishido will join your team today. How wonderful.”
“Thrilling,” Sinclair answered in a barely audible voice. “Isn’t it?”
The nurse deeply disturbed him and he secretly believed that she was not human. Maybe a DNA freak or automaton would lead him to his doom. Inside, a narrow, abandoned lobby, no more than seven feet wide, ran perpendicular with the entrance. The sterile, light-blue walls created an atmosphere of claustrophobia despite the hidden presence of a large bureaucracy behind the walls. Sinclair followed the nurse and, at the same time, could sense that the guards kept a close watch. He turned to notice one guard had shifted his position to observe him and the nurse as they walked towards their appointment room.
“Hey,” Sinclair nervously tried to calm his nerves. “Where’s the rest of the facility?”
“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair,” the nurse ignored the question and she suddenly stopped and pointed to an unmarked door. “We are here.”
“We are?” regarding the door’s peculiarity.
A hair-thin line between the door and the wall frame gave a faint hint of the presence of a door. No knob, hinge, or label revealed its existence.
“Have a prosperous day,’’ the nurse wished him as the door slid effortlessly to the right. “Your social contributions will be rewarded.”
Without waiting for him to respond, her measured steps, like the ticking of a metronome, carried her down the hallway in the direction of the guards. Only their distant backsides could be seen as they eyed the nurse. They had lost interest in Sinclair.
“Wow,” he surmised. “If I were them, I’d stare at her too.” Nevertheless, he was not fooled to believe that no one was observing him.
“Come in,” a paternalistic voice welcomed Sinclair into the seeming vacant room.
Sinclair could not see anyone as he dreadfully walked into a yellow room that was furnished with a large, black granite table, sitting below a wide monitor screen. Two young doctors and one young female attorney sat behind the august table, leaning back in soft, blue-leather chairs. One man was Caucasian and the other was Asian. The woman appeared to be of mix race showing more Asian traits. Except for their gender differences, they appeared indistinct and Sinclair would have difficulty identifying them in a classic, police lineup. With current technology, the effort would be unnecessary and counter-productive.
“Sit, please,” the Asian doctored kindly offered a seat to Sinclair.
Another blue leather lounge chair appeared from an opening in the floor and swiveled in Sinclair’s direction.
“Let me introduce myself,” the Asian doctor began. “I am Dr…”
“Ishido,” Sinclair interrupted him as he sat in the chair.
Once Sinclair sat down, the chair swerved again slowly to face the three-person committee.
Dr. Ishido amicably smiled at Sinclair and looked down at the granite table where Sinclair noticed a thin-layer, integrated table screen. “Your wife Rachel was here a few days ago,” commenting as he looked on his table-top screen. “She is a teacher, too. Charming woman, it was a pleasure to meet her.”
“If you say so,” Sinclair dismissed the compliment, knowing how most men reacted towards her.
“And,” Ishido continued without losing his stride. “You have two children. One boy is an accountant and the girl is a graphic artist.”
“Lucky me,” Sinclair hoped to avoid commenting on his children.
Ishido maintained a pleasant grin on his face and looked down on his screen again. “Identify,” he commanded.
“John Sinclair,” the computer spoke in a gender-neutral voice. “Born in the class of 1958. Caucasian. Optimal health for his genetic state. No enhancement present. Only medical stabilizers. Advancing signs of genetic degradation. Physical and mental acumen at 90 percent. Profession: teacher….”
“Enough,” Sinclair shouted, startling the Rehabilitation stewards. “We all know this…don’t we?”
Ishido stared at him for a moment and then gave him an indulging wide smile.
“Shall I continue?” the computer demanded to know.
“No,” Ishido dismissed the request with the same controlling, paternalistic voice. “Mr. Sinclair knows his status very well, as do we.”
He nodded to Sinclair who only blinked back. Shocked, the other administrators showed a sudden crease in their medically enhanced face.
“We understand,” Ishido tried to comfort Sinclair. “We have been in your place. It’s good when all this passes through its process. We were in our nineties and now function like we’re in our twenties. It’s a marvelous journey of regeneration.”
“Yes,” Sinclair answered, wondering if Ishido’s ability to hold an erection improved, too. He wanted to ask but bit his tongue instead. “I hear this all the time.”
“Fine,” Ishido concluded. “Let me introduce my colleagues.”
At once, Sinclair noticed the glaring synthetic beauty of the woman and, although he rationally accepted her age as 90 plus, his subconscious dismissed it as a forgery of nature. She could not be that old. He knew the news stories were true, but he still could not accept the complete reality of the science. His generation, the baby boomers, was the first to benefit from the medical and social revolution of Rehabilitation.
“This is Dr. Schopenhauer,” Ishido introduced the man next to him.
The doctor stiffly smiled.
“And to your right is the Center’s legal counsel,” continuing uninterrupted. “Ms. Joan Fischer. She will explain the obvious legal issues.”
“I see,” Sinclair muttered apprehensively. Inwardly he felt like screaming and stampeding out the door, towards the guards, where he would grab their stunners and commit hara kari.
“First,” Ishido spoke softly. “Do you have any questions?”
“Only,” Sinclair spoke tersely. “Tell me the facts. That’s all I want. Take out the art and drama.”
“Well,” Ishido appeared to be miffed since he often prefaced his litany with a history of the science of rehabilitation.
Schopenhauer noticed the tension between the two men and he intervened. “Let me proceed,” he suggested. Ishido who silently bequeathed his position. “You are very lucky to have Dr. Ishido here. With your outstanding record, his presence is an honor.
“I’m sure,” Sinclair responded. “You see...I just want to know what I need to know. That’s all.”
“Ok,” Schopenhauer acquiesced. With a silent nod, Ishido and Fischer gave him their expressive approval to proceed.
“Let’s begin,” he announced. As Sinclair’s impatience mounted, Schopenhauer explained. “First our counselor will present the legal stipulations.”
Fischer smiled and began to tap the table. A screen activated in front of Sinclair. “Today, Mr. Sinclair” she explained in a factual tone. “You will sign a preliminary agreement of understanding. The final agreement will be completed at the end of your school year.”
Looking at the documents on his screen, he already knew the contents having spoken to his attorney and the district’s union representatives. All this formality annoyed him, but the process was a legal necessity
“As you can see,” she spelled out the agreement. “You will begin the enhancement process so your body is in optimal health. The medical procedure will not reverse the aging process. Only slow it down. You will agree to the stabilizing of your condition.”
“Yes,” Dr. Ishido added, deciding to speak again. He displayed his paternalistic expression again. “We must make sure all of your vitals are optimal. You may eat normally but must not take any medicine or drug without the institute’s approval. No alcohol or cigarettes. If you do, the process is void.”
The attorney pointed to the signature line on the table. Sinclair slowly picked up a stylus and digitally signed the document.
“I am aware of all this,” Sinclair wearily informed them. “But what will I feel this year.”
Dr. Ishido looked at his colleagues and raised his hand. “You,” he proclaimed with a biblical tone. “Will be in perfect health! You will still be sixty-five but feel like forty. It will last you until eighty as you continue to age. But this will be easy as you have no major illnesses and your DNA tests show no aberrations.”
“Of course,” Schopenhauer gravely reminded Sinclair. “If you don’t proceed with enhancement, you can’t pass eighty.” Sinclair knew the benefits came with a price.
“You will live a very healthy and comfortable life,” Ishido added.
“But voluntary retirement is eighty,” Fischer emphasized.
Sinclair understood the euphemism for death. Euthanasia! All retirees who did not volunteer for enhancement and a second career, faced legal, government death. The economic system could not support the medical expenditures of a lifespan beyond 80 when the health stabilizers began to collapse and the human body succumbed to entropy and expensive treatments.
“So,” Sinclair asked the obvious. “When do I begin?”
“Now,” Ishido confirmed gleefully. “I suppose you don’t wish to see the video?”
“No,” Sinclair declined and lied. “I saw it at school.”
“Right,” Ishido condescendingly added. “You’re a teacher.”
“One more item,” Fischer gently interrupted Ishido. “You must choose a second career. After the enhancements, you will have to enter the university and be re-educated for a new career. I hope you didn’t plan to continue to teach?”
“No,” Sinclair answered knowing that he was obligated to choose a different career. “I’ve been told teaching would no longer be an option.”
“So,” Schopenhauer probed. “What is you second career? You indicated mechanical engineering. We have no more information yet. It must be interesting? With your background, you can choose to do anything you wish. Even become a doctor.”
“Not really,” Sinclair rejected the subtle offer. “That’s for my stuck-up wife.”
Schopenhauer appeared to be taken back by the rejection.
Ishido again took command of the situation. “You have time to decide,” Ishido insincerely comforted Sinclair. “A psychologist will assist you and meet with you throughout the year.”
At that moment, a slender robot with various appendages appeared through another seamless door and rolled up to Sinclair’s chair. One of the appendages moved towards Sinclair and halted next to his right arm.
“You will receive a battery of shots and may feel ill for a couple of days. Nothing that will incapacitate you,” Ishido explained. “But by the end of the week, you begin to feel younger. This will be your most productive year as a teacher. You will work at an optimal state.” He stopped to read his screen. “Congratulations. You are slated to receive the state’s teacher career award and will be given mentoring assignments for the next generation of teachers.”
“Yes. It’s all about production and working at an optimal state,” Sinclair sardonically commented.
Ishido’s friendly composure evaporated and he looked down on his screen. “I’ll make your appointment with the psychologist next week,” he decided without looking up at Sinclair. “And your career counselor. Have you done anything related to engineering lately?”
“I plan to,” Sinclair offered with any details. “A package is coming by way of UPS.”
Ishido leaned back and thoughtfully studied him. He did not hazard an explanation. “Smart man,” he thought to himself.
“Any questions?” Schopenhauer asked as the robot maneuvered Sinclair’s arm in a position for his battery of injections.
“I have an appointment later,” Sinclair reminded them of his meeting with a student teacher. “At the school this afternoon.”
“You will be unconscious for a couple hours,” Ishido assured him. “And will recover in time for the meeting. If not…you can meet later? They should understand and you have your legal rights.”
“Anything else?” Schopenhauer asked once more, expressing his impatience with Sinclair.
“How does it feel to be young again?” Sinclair demanded to know. “Really young! Not just healthy and dandy.”
They all looked at one another and Ishido’s smile returned.
“Marvelous,” Ishido proclaimed.
The robot then began to deliver its shots.
“Does it still feel real?” Sinclair pressed his questions. “I’d like to know what it feels to be in a rebuilt body with an old mind and soul.”
“The soul is not a factor in the enhancement,” Sinclair heard Ishido’s last response as his consciousness faded under the effects of the medicine, coursing through his veins.
“I always knew I had no soul,” Sinclair managed to mumble as his vision tunneled out. “Damn have had a drink.” He passed out without hearing an answer to his question.
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