The moment of truth, p.1
The Moment of Truth, page 1
Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
The Moment of Truth
Copyright © 2009, 2013 by Brian Stableford.
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
www.wildsidepress.com
CHAPTER ONE
THE FIRST DAY: EARLY AFTERNOON
Hugo Victory watched his potential client, Mrs. Allison, as she studied the image on the computer screen with the utmost care. The face on the screen looked twenty years younger than the one she was wearing and had slightly better bone structure, but the real challenge Victory had met in constructing it was to restore the original distinctiveness of the face.
On the occasion of their first meeting, three days before, Victory had easily deduced that Mrs. Allison had first had cosmetic surgery some twelve or fourteen years earlier. Although the work had been expertly done, it had been carried out with the crude tools available at the time, and in tightening up the features it had caused a quasi-generic rigidity whose consequence was noticeable lack of expressiveness. Although the face he was proposing to build could not demonstrate the range of its expressiveness in a still picture, it did display its individuality.
Mrs. Allison was impressed, but not overly so. “That’s very clever software,” she observed, “and you’re quite an artist—but I suspect that it’s rather flattering.”
“Not at all,” Victory assured her. “My machinery can restore all the flexibility of authentic youth to the skin and the underlying tissues. It can restore beauty, in every sense of the word, not by approximating some kind of average, but in the true sense of perfecting the particularity—the paradoxical uniqueness—of a beautiful face.”
“Paradoxical uniqueness?” Mrs. Allison queried, arching an eyebrow with a slight effort that Victory’s exceedingly sensitive eye had no difficulty in detecting.
“The great mystery of human beauty,” Victory told her, “is that it’s not a matter of closeness of conformity to some kind of archetype. Human faces can be perfect in countless different ways. I believe that it results from the way a newborn baby’s brain is programmed to recognize the face of its mother; it has to be able to recognize a face as a face, but it also has to be able to recognize a particular face as the face: the face that will mean more than any other, the face that it will love. Our adult sentiments are still based in those kinds of instincts, so we still retain the same ambiguity. We need to be able to recognize the face we love both as a category specimen and as something uniquely special. Because of that dual necessity, there is a generic idea of beauty, but also an individual ideal.
“Until now, plastic surgery has only been able to aim, more-or-less vaguely, at the generic idea of beauty. Now, and in the new era to come, we shall be able to aim, with consummate precision, at the individual ideal. What you see on the screen only has the same quality as a photograph; the living, expressive face will be more beautiful still. I can not only take twenty years off your apparent age—I can give you the flawless beauty that authentic youth was never able to deliver, thanks to the vicissitudes of nature.”
A lesser woman might have said something along the lines of “Can you really do that?” but Mrs. Allison was old school. She had booked her appointment as “Mrs. Gregory K. Allison,” as if she had no forenames of her own, and she had confided none to Victory—not, he assumed, because she wanted to boast that she was married to a self-made billionaire, but simply because that was the proper way to represent herself. Her own family’s means might well have been exceedingly mediocre—she still had faint traces of an Eastern European accent, and was old enough to have spent her childhood under Communism—but she had evidently adapted to being the second wife of a seriously rich man with the greatest of ease. She knew perfectly well what modern technology had made available to her—albeit, for the moment, at a phenomenally high price. She knew, too, that the price might not fall as steeply as the prices of newly developed technologies had fallen in the past, or even at all. The economic effects of the ecocatastrophe were sending the prices of everyday necessities relentlessly higher, and if the Global Environmental Model could be trusted, there would soon be many luxuries that were not attainable at any price at all, even by the likes of Gregory K. Allison.
If Mrs. Allison could hang on to good health for another forty years, Victory thought—and there was no earthly reason why she shouldn’t, unless the methane trapped beneath the seabed suffered such a catastrophic release that all the oxygen in the atmosphere were to be consumed by apocalyptic fire—it might become possible to secure her rejuvenation indefinitely, or at least for another hundred years. She had been born at a propitious moment in history, provided that civilization did not collapse entirely. The likelihood was, though, that for people as rich as Gregory K. Allison and his wife—or even as modestly wealthy as Hugo Victory hoped to be—the burgeoning ecocatastrophe was something that would happen to other people. Such as they were no longer dependent on nature’s bounty.
“How do you change the shape of the bones?” Mrs. Allison wanted to know. “I can understand how the itsy-bitsy robot-controlled scalpels do their work, more or less, but I don’t see how you can alter the underlying skeleton.”
“Bone is living tissue,” Victory said. “Broken bones knit quite rapidly, and routine growth continues discreetly after we have grown to our full stature. Changes in the dimensions of functioning bones are rarely desirable, but they aren’t difficult to induce now that we understand the fundamental mechanisms. The changes I’m proposing to make in your facial bones are delicate, so the computer will have to be very cleverly programmed, but the upside is that the transfiguration will be accomplished in a couple of days rather than the weeks required for the modification of limb-bones.”
“Clever computer programs go wrong more often than simple ones,” Mrs. Allison observed. “I’m not sure I like the idea of being entirely at the mercy of computer-driven robot scalpels.”
“You won’t be. The purpose of the machine and its programming is to facilitate my work, not to replace me. I remain in full control, but the machine’s sensors allow me to see what I’m doing in much greater detail, and the robotic components allow my fingers to manipulate instruments much smaller in dimension and finer in effect than any I could actually hold. In the first phase of the operation there’ll be hardly any cutting—access to the bones is very discreet, involving the controlled movement of tiny devices through blood and lymph vessels, and in the margins between cell membranes; the intervention is mostly a matter of stimulating stem cells and activating lysosomes. The second phase is slightly more dramatic—the second operation will take five hours rather than two, and the healing process will take a full week—but cell-destruction will be highly selective and executed with the utmost care.”
“Unless something goes wrong,” the woman persisted.
“It’s delicate and difficult work,” Victory admitted, “but my tools are adequate to the task. It’s true that the technology is new; there are only seven machines like the one to which I have access in the world at present. Three are in Europe, three in the USA and one in China. Everything has gone smoothly so far, but I can’t give you an absolute guarantee that unexpected problems won’t materialise at some stage. I understand that some people would prefer to wait, and let others take the risks of innovation. If we can avoid the worst effects of the ecocatastrophe there might be sixty machines in operation in twenty years time, and the treatment might be much more widely accessible as well as having a proven track record.”
Mrs. Allison was smart enough to understand the psychology behind that ploy. “What woman fearful of losing her looks would want to wait for years, Dr. Victory? And what rich woman would want to wait until a new treatment became more widely accessible? Don’t play games with me. All I want is to cut through the sales talk to a reliable picture of what you can do for me, and an accurate risk assessment.”
Victory smiled and nodded his head. “There are always slight risks in this kind of treatment,” he conceded. “We don’t yet know exactly what the machine can do, and what its limitations are. At some stage, one or other of its users will overreach its capabilities, or make a mistake—that’s inevitable. On the other hand, the plan mapped out here is a moderate one, well within the machine’s compass, and well within mine. My assistant could do it with ease—almost all of the artistry is in the software, and I can assure you that its translation into a surgical operation will be even better than its translation into the image you see on the screen. I’ve already w
orked a hundred metamorphoses far more complicated than this one, and the other surgeons and trainees using machines of this type must have done a thousand. If and when something does go wrong, it’s far more likely to happen to one of the less practiced operators, or in the course of a more adventurous operation.”
Mrs. Allison met his eyes squarely. “In the course of your charity work, perhaps? That would qualify as adventurous, I suppose.” The sarcasm inherent in the statement was softened by the delicacy of her tone.
Victory had explained to Mrs. Allison when he first saw her that he would have great difficulty fitting her into his schedule, at present, because he was reaching the critical phase of the series of operations he was carrying out on Amahl Sahman. She must have known, in any case, before she booked her first appointment, that the final phase of the boy’s treatment was about to begin; even in the absence of the sterling work done by the hospital’s press officer during the last few months, the papers and the TV news would have kept careful track of it.
“The pro bono work I do is considered by some to be more of a luxury than the work I do at full price,” Victory said, lightly. “To the children themselves, of course, it’s a matter of life and death—but when they come from North Africa, or South America, or Azerbaijan, some onlookers are likely to think that saving their lives is a pointless exercise, given the likely effects of the ecocatastrophe on regions like those. As you imply, though, it’s as much experimentation as charity, allowing me to test the full potential of the techniques that I use on paying clients. I don’t mind admitting that it’s also a matter of personal conscience. I have so many clients eager to pay me a fortune for youth and beauty—even people with far less potential for perfection than you retain—that it seems only fair to use a portion of their money to deliver helpless children from the hell of malformation.”
“The hell of malformation,” Mrs. Allison echoed. “A neat turn of phrase. As opposed to the heaven of perfect form, I suppose?”
“The heaven of perfect forms,” Victory corrected her, politely. “There are, as I said, many kinds of beauty. It would be a dull world if we were forced by our inherited prejudices to aspire to exactly the same face, so we ought to be very glad that our ideals support and encourage such variety. You want to be perfectly beautiful, of course, but you also want to be yourself, to possess the beauty that is uniquely yours. In your case, Mrs. Allison, it would be a privilege to bring that beauty out. Although we all have our potential, we are by no means equal, and your potential is, I think, quite marvelous.
“Now, that is mere flattery,” she told him, feigning modesty, “And if I were as marvelous as you imply, I wouldn’t need better bone structure. I’m willing to indulge you in that, though, provided that you don’t attempt anything drastic. Drastic changes always leave too large a margin for error—although I’m delighted that your work with Amahl has been error-free. The radiation damage must have made your work even harder than usual.”
“It wasn’t a problem,” Victory said. “Fortunately, his refugee camp was outside the immediate contamination footprint of the nuke. He was checked over very thoroughly by the Red Crescent, to make sure that he was in good enough health to withstand the rigours of the treatment and to obtain the full benefit of the repairs.”
“And it’s been a triumph, for you and for the machine.”
“There’s a little way to go yet. The reformulation of the bones of his face is complete, but I’ll be doing the final moulding on the day after tomorrow—an operation of the same sort as the first phase of your treatment, though somewhat more complicated. After that, it will be necessary to move very rapidly; the final phase will also be roughly parallel to the second phase of your own treatment, but far more complicated. That sequence of operations will be the most arduous one I’ve ever attempted. It will be challenging in the extreme, but I hope and expect to complete it successfully, with the aid of my team.”
“Of course. When do you expect to carry out the final operation?”
“If everything goes well on Wednesday, I ought to be able to complete the final phase on the following Monday. The timetable has to be fluid, though, in case of complications. There’s a lot of supplementary work to be done in between; the program for the final operation can’t be finalised until the results of the bone-reformulation come in. As you can imagine, the dimensions of the metamorphosis are far greater than the modifications I’m proposing to make to your skull—perhaps a hundred times greater.”
“But you can fit me in, can’t you, Dr. Victory?” she said. It was not so much a request as a command.
“If all goes well on Wednesday,” he said, “I can add you to Thursday’s list; at present I’ve left the afternoon free in case Amahl needs a supplementary intervention. That would mean that the optimum time to do your second operation would be Sunday. Fortunately, my assistant is scheduled to use the machine that afternoon, and the work she’s doing can easily be postponed. The only potential difficulty would be the aftercare; if the worst did happen, and you and Amahl both needed supplementary interventions…well, time isn’t elastic.”
“I have every confidence in your ability to do everything you need to do, Dr. Victory,” Mrs. Allison said, “Within the limitations imposed by the clock. I have every confidence in your discretion, too. I think you’ll have enough publicity over the next two weeks, without the press taking an interest in any arrangement that you and I might make, don’t you?”
“No one will hear about it from anyone on my team, Mrs. Allison,” Victory promised, “and the hospital press office is very efficient in controlling the flow of information. As you say, the fact that so much media attention will be focused on Amahl should make it easy for us to direct attention away from our other patients. In that respect, your timing is perfect.”
“I do hope that’s way it plays out, Dr. Victory,” she said, meaning that it had better be, if he hoped to keep his own public profile in perfect condition.
“Does that mean that you want to go ahead with the treatment, Mrs. Allison?” Victory asked, formally.
“I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t, Dr. Victory,” she retorted. Victory saw her face change slightly then, as she switched back into polite mode. “You have the reputation of being the best there is in Europe or the States, and that’s why I came to you.”
“Thank you,” Victory said. “I’m glad you did.” He was perfectly sincere—as, he assumed, was she.
“One thing that still puzzles me is why the machine is located at the university hospital. Wouldn’t it be more conveniently housed in a private clinic? You are in private practice, after all.”
“It’s not my machine,” Victory said, wondering why she was making that particular point now that everything was settled. “I’m just one of the favoured few who are privileged to use it. The machine’s lodged at King’s because it’s a research tool as well as an operating instrument. My role is partly that of teacher—my trainee, Majeke Hemlet, is contracted to the NHS—and we surgeons aren’t by any means the only ones involved in the technology’s continuing development. I’ve had to become an expert software engineer myself, but only within the narrow confines of my own programs—the engineers working on the fundamental software are making refinements week by week, and so are the people who actually manufacture the nanoscalpels and the lasers. It makes good sense to use a teaching hospital as a focal point of the collective endeavour.”
“I see,” Mrs. Allison said. She pointed at the screen. “Can you print a copy for that for me? I’d like my husband to take a look at it.”
“Certainly.” Victory only had to press a key; the laser printer was already set up. The machine sucked in a sheet of treated paper, and began to whirr softly.
“It’s very grey outside,” Mrs. Allison observed, casting an anxious eye at the sky above Harley Street. Victory’s wasn’t the topmost office in the suite—Rachel Rosenfeld’s psychiatric practice was directly overhead—but it was far enough from street level to have a view of the sky.
“Yes it is,” he agreed, “but there’s a tangible south-westerly breeze. The air quality index is reasonable.”
