Newport 2120: Life among the Re-living

By Michael Scully

(Illustration by Michael Oswald)

NEWPORT, RI,
Dec. 2, 2120 __ I was one of the organics and I lived
among the re-birthers in a neighborhood they began populating 30 years
ago. They came here because there was energy, which they used to
consume by the kilowatt; that, and it was near the water. Humans and
re-humans have always liked to look at the ocean and Newport certainly had
plenty of coastal views. Of course, when I bought this place 100 years
ago, during the lull in the market I bought it because I liked the
brick-facing and the view from the third floor and the fact that everything
was walking distance. Even now, I usually make the walk to the nearby
markets although, given the distance to the organics and their
neighborhoods, the walk has become a little bothersome.
Now, I suppose youve already done the math
yes
, Im 129 and
yes
,
its time to consider re-birthing but I like the old equipment and keeping
things organic as oldtimers like me like to say. Besides, you lose things in
the transition. No eating, no sleeping your sense of taste and smell.
But the re-birth process comes with the long promise! Life! Perpetual,
everlasting watch the sunrise over the next millennium! Im sure Ill make
the plunge, Im sure of it!

There is a story here and I suppose I need to tell you. It goes

something like this:
Before wed solved the energy problem, before they placed the great
generator in the center of Aquidneck Island, people used to be terminal
creatures. Yes, I know! Its hard to believe! Life had such an early expiration
date! On average, wed live to about 75 before they came up with the new
medicines and other life-affirming treatments that extended our youthful
lives. I was surfing and skiing well into my 90s and I didnt have to give up
jogging until just a few years ago. Looking back, I remember thinking: 80 is
the new 30.
And then they invented the new hardware, so to speak. They called
them and-droids and for a few thousand dollars, theyd condition the
and-droid as a receptacle. When your time came, theyd harvest you from
the organic skin and place your essence inside the tech-skin in a process
they labelled re-birthing. Looking back, it was all rather barbaric and the
early models look like they were made of leather and steel and plastics and
other prehistoric synthetics. But things improved quickly and by the time my
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wife, Marjorie, decided to make the leap, the process had been nearly
perfected.
When we first entered the showroom, the setting was rather surreal.
Its one thing to shop for clothing, its an entirely different matter to shop for
a new self. The options can be daunting and with the two of us standing
there making suggestions, the process became confusing, so I left her alone
with the decision: height, weight, eye color shape, size, texture.
As Marjorie moved through the process, she began to change too. The
giddy and marvelous nature of it all changed as she marvelled at the options
and something inside her shifted you know away from me. She got
more serious. Questions that she used to offer would begin with phrases like
what if I did this and how do you suppose this would work and then
the questions stopped coming. She began internalizing and thats when I
started getting jealous, I suppose.
Wheres the Barbie catalog? I asked wryly. I liked to review the
samples, looking at the prospective figures. There was something innocent
in their faces before the leap that made them appear sweet and
earnest.
Barbie! she shouted. You never understood how important this is for
me!
As she stood there, yelling at me, I explored my feelings for her. She
was an organic beauty, born into this world with ice-blue eyes and a
stubborn electric glow that swelled from her soft chin to her high
cheekbones. Often, she pulled her blonde hair back in a tight ponytail that
would bob as she moved around the apartment from task to task. The thing
that drew me to her were her tiny ears. She had such perfectly little ears
that swirled in circles before ending in shallow, asymmetrical teardrop lobes.
Marjorie had always fussed over the slight difference in the shape of her ears
but I told her that her beauty was revealed in her imperfections and my
feelings for her were borne from there.
Of course, it never occurred to me that all of this was changing. When
she finished, I said nothing.

After a few weeks of silent planning, she finally invited me to visit the
re-life hospital for a pre-leap inspection. The reveal as they called it.

I want to know what you think, she said cautiously. So, holding her
hand, we made the walk through Newport to the re-life center to review her
future self, to do the inspection and discuss the next phase of the procedure.
When we arrived, the event was rather clinical. A team of pre-life
surgeons gathered around us and, through a conversation directed at
Marjorie, moved us through the lobby and down the hallway to an ornately
decorated door; above it was a sign: The Revelation Center. We went
inside and the room was a modern space blending hardwoods with stainless
steel. There the doctors pooled in a circle and looked at us. There was a
magnificence to the process. Everything was clean and sterile and the room
was filled with fresh oxygen and artificial lighting. The walls were covered in
light-panel cladding, which offered a visual harvest of swirling colorful
amorphic shapes. It was here where the doctors made the introduction.
Almost as if theyd choreographed it, the three doctors pivoted and
one of them a taller, youthful, athletic woman stepped forward and
began speaking: Marjorie, she said, warmly, its time for us to introduce
you to your new self.
Turning, the doctors led forward to a glass case the Revelation Case
which was shielded with a translucent white light shield. Through it, we
could make out a female form, a silhouette, standing before a strong
backlight.
Is that me? Marjorie asked nearly squealing.
Yes, the doctor replied, but before we show you the new self, we
need to prepare you with some things. Looking beyond them, Marjorie
nodded quickly. Remember, this is before the initial
juicing.
We havent
placed any electrical currency into her-you yet and the effect can be a little
daunting.
Can I see? Can I see? Marjorie repeated.
Well, you must also know that shes without clothing, which can be
embarrassing at first, the doctor said. Is this okay?
Yes. Oh, yes its okay.
With that, the doctors stepped aside leaving Marjorie standing directly
before the glass case. I was there with her too, but I was standing a little to
the side and behind her, watching, measuring her reaction to it all. Thats
when a doctor reached up and, touching a button affixed to the case, the
translucence began shifting and the backlight faded down, yielding to a
softer surface glow illuminating about the figure inside the Revelation Case.

The first thing I noticed was that her eyes were closed. And that she
was taller. The tonality of her skin was a shade darker and her hair was
raven black. When the lighting finally came to the full reveal, the woman
inside the box appeared to come to life. She was motionless, but the light
danced over the fleshtones of her body revealing her curves and her shapes.
Her fingers were long and narrow, her waist was swelt and tone, and her
breasts were slightly pitched with nipples that turned slightly upward.
Physically, the doctor began, she appears to be about 25 to 30
years old.
Oooh, shes beautiful, Marjorie said.
Shes you, the doctor said and, after a dramatic pause, added:
Youre beautiful.
Standing behind Marjorie, I found myself peering at the new form
standing before us. She was, of course, new, and young, and flawless. The
perfect beauty. At the time, I was in my late 90s and Marjorie was just a few
decades younger. Like I said, science brought us medicines and treatments
that extended our youthful lives, but still, I felt like a dirty old man, as they
say, staring at the body of this naked 25 year old woman. And then it
occurred to me, and I allowed my eyes to rove over Marjories new form,
reviewing her legs and her genitals and her torso before I arrived at her
face. I was pleased by all of it and tried to shield my excitement.
Well, this is new,
I thought to myself. And just as I began to let it seep
in, I glanced once more at her ears. As with everything, they were perfectly
shaped and formed, but they were larger, and to my surprise exactly
identical. The symmetry bothered me and I became transfixed.
What do you think? Marjorie said, turning only slightly towards me.
I, I um, I said as I blushed.
He likes her! one of the doctors yelped.
Of course you do, Marjorie said, gripping my arm and smiling. Then
she let go and turned again to gaze upon the new self once more. When do
we do the procedure? She asked finally.
As soon as youre ready, the lead doctor offered, as another raised a
finger to the button on the case, concealing again the form of Marjories new
self. Collectively, we turned away from the glass case and moved across the
stainless steel room towards the door. Just as the door was about to close,
Marjorie turned again, peering backward at the silhouette form hidden in the
strong backlight.

Now, before I tell you the rest of the story, we need to talk about the
cultural changes afoot. Immortality! What could be more life changing than
the prospect of living forever? With the first generation of re-birthing, things
began changing rapidly. First, attendance in the local churches began falling
off. Then the number of live births dropped precipitously. Over time, the
number of re-birthers swelled and little ghettos dividing organics and
re-birthers began forming.
Afterall, the organics had different needs. We had to eat, for example
and sleep. The re-birthers, given their new-synthetic selves, only need
electricity for nutrition and there was a resting component attached to that.
For a time, there was power rationing and a drive towards more technologies
that aided electronic digestion. When, around 2090, the retrofit came,
suddenly, it all fell into place. Absent the eating and sleeping, the physical
differences between the organics and the re-birthers became nominal,
invisible. These days, the blending has created an enhanced society and no
one can really tell the difference, right? Other than the obvious: the organics
were all aging, growing older, grayer, more hobbled; while the re-birthers
blossomed, glowing with lifes great youthful lyric. As we hunched over, they
arched upward alive with the vigor of youth.
The future of evolution, they called it and we all bought into it.

A week after the reveal, we were back at the re-birthing hospital and I
was assigned a place in the waiting room as she underwent the leap. The
process, they said, would take a few hours; and then there was the
acclimation period where Marjorie would have to repair her understanding of
her new self.
It was as I was waiting that a woman appeared in the doorway
seeking my attention. She was wearing a mustard-yellow lab coat with a
placard on it, which read: Grief Counselor.
May we have a moment? she asked, and I stood and moved with her
through the door and down the hallway towards the Revelation Center. She
paused outside and as she spoke to me, I re-inspected the ornate door. It
was cheery and bright with blotches of teak and rosewood; but, oddly, bits
of the wood upon closer inspection appeared dry and flakey.
Window
dressing,
I thought. It was in this moment, the counselor resumed speaking:
Sir, we need to address the issue of Marjorie she paused.
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Marjorie? Is she okay?

Shes fine, sir. The procedure went flawlessly. Its just well she
said pausing again, we need to address the issue of her former self.
What do you mean? I asked.
Well, there is the issue of her remains. And with that, she pushed
the door open and we reentered the Revelation Center.
The room was as I first encountered it. The space was warm with
natural woods, which countered the coolness of the stainless steel. In the
back, the glass box was shrouded again and inside was the silhouette of
another female form. As the counselor moved me across the room, the
colors of the walls continued swirling with cooler colors mixing blues and
cyans with grays and violet hues. When we reached the case, she raised her
hand again to the button and turned to look at me as she pressed it: We
need to do something with Marjories former self, she said as the
translucent screen faded and the lights turned forward revealing my wifes
lifeless body. Marjorie was standing there with eyes closed in the same place
where we first discovered her newer self. She was dressed as she was when
we came to the hospital: she bought a new dress and shoes and had her
hair and makeup done. At the time, I didnt quite understand the importance
of it all but now, it began to make sense. We need to determine what to do
with her remains, the counselor said again.
I hadnt considered I began, before the idea froze me. After a time,
I spoke again: Is there a protocol? A procedure? But as she spoke to me,
I really heard nothing. Instead, I stood there, looking at my wife. Marjorie
was as beautiful as she had always been. Her face was smooth and fine, her
chin was soft and fluid, and her cheeks were bright and flush. Dangling from
her ears were her favorite pair of diamond earrings and on her left hand, she
still had on our wedding band. I realized in that moment that I would never
see her this way again and a sorrow overcame me. I began weeping.
A decision was made some days later.

A week later, I returned to collect my new Marjorie. Inside the

Revelation Center, the doctors gathered for something they called the
re-birthing ceremony, which included issuing a re-birth certificate. As I sat
there, I looked about the space it felt like a showroom now as the
doctors took turns making eye contact with me, smiling and nodding. Unsure
what to think, I smiled back.
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In time, the lights lowered a bit and a soft music began dancing over
us. The lead doctor came forward and, grabbing my hand, invited me to
stand; she then turned me towards a door hidden among the swirl of colored
wall-panel lighting.
Marjorie! she called out, and the door began to open. An awesome
figure filled the doorway as a heavy backlight bathed her, shading her
features. As she moved forward, I couldnt see her in the shadow; instead,
one carefully poised step moved her into the room, followed by another.
Gracefully, she flowed towards me as the light in the room revealed her
youthful form and figure. She was alive with the moment; her face was
flush; her onyx-black hair was pulled back into a ponytail revealing a bright,
lush smile; her eyes were the color of espresso beans and her lips were full
and rich like ripe plums.
Not knowing what to do, I smiled and extended my hand outward.
I missed you my love, she said, finally, as she leaned forward kissing
me gently on the cheek. Looking down, I glanced at her long fingers as they
folded lightly over mine, revealing the apparent disparity in our ages.
You are so young, I said finally, ...and beautiful.
Thank you, my love.

That was 30 years ago. Looking back now, Im still amazed at how
quickly everything changed for us. For Marjorie, the changes started
internally. Inside the apartment, she moved about me as though we were in
absent universes. In hers, the light of the space was brighter, the windows
were open and the air blew in upon her fresh and warm; for me, I shivered
in the coolness, hiding myself in heavy sweaters, sipping often from my
teacups filled with English brine. For her, the music of the day was a
pulsating, synthesis of nightclub brio and throbbing lights; while I languished
in the amber tonality of ancient jazz. For entertainment, she wiggled about
the flat, dancing methodically, drinking in the spirits of life; while I lingered,
gingerly leafing through brittle leather-bound editions from our library.
They got the pleasure centers right! she confided with me once.
Everything is new and tingly again.
Eager to try her new spirit, she sprung on me like a yearling for what
would be our one and only sexual encounter. Clearly, this meeting our
carnal picnic each of us came to the party with different ideas. Nothing,
and I mean nothing, was as it was. Her skin was soft and baby fresh; mine
8

was like aged parchment paper, stained with blots of liver spots and
freckles. It didnt take much convincing to excite me to the prospect of her
25-year-old shape. She was gorgeous in the classic sense of youth and
beauty. But when it came time to share ourselves, I retreated downward
lying on my back and she took the initiative. It didnt take her but a moment
to determine that she was dancing around me and not with me. Afterward,
she allowed my fingers to glide over her but it was clear that this was not
my old friend and, in touching her, I felt unwelcome. She gazed at me,
lingering briefly, before retreating to the bathroom for a shower.
Things were much different after that.
In the evenings, as I slept, she reclined in a lounge chair to plug
herself in. It took her several hours to replenish her spirit. Once, I hid in the
shadow to watch her; as she took the juice, her body arched, writhing
slightly. At first, I thought she was in pain, but when she began cooing, I
realized the process was another pleasure, a nourishment.
Within weeks, we had a routine which included long bits of separation.
I stayed mostly inside the apartment, moving through the rituals of the life
we used to share together while she increasingly sought attention
elsewhere. In time, she was an absent roommate and, seeking to know a
little about her, I began exploring her things looking for clues. Her closet had
become a treasure of information. Inside, all the matronly dresses and
frocks were gone; instead, the hangers were filled with party dresses and
bikini bathing suits and shoes, all sorts of shoes.
It was about that time that our schedules shifted entirely. Often, as I
was waking, she was returning from a night out and shed rapidly retire to
her own space, a bedroom across from mine, where she would close and
lock the door. It went on that way for the next five years. She was passing
through the apartment at times when it became impossible to see her and
when she was there, she was absent.

Once, in the early morning hours, I awoke to a banging in the hallway.

Startled, I emerged from my bedroom and went out into the apartment just
as the front door lurched open. Marjorie pushed it forward with her hip and
then clumsily moved over the threshold and into the foyer; the door
slammed behind her. I could see that something was wrong and I called to
her:
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Marjorie, I said. She barely raised her head, collapsing instead

against the wall. Are you okay? I thought she was drunk but alcohol
doesnt have any affect on their bodies. I moved towards her and as I got
closer, her body sluiced down the wall to the floor; she lay there with her
legs splayed out before her; her head tilted to one side. As near as I could
tell, she was passed out. Marjorie! I shouted but she didnt react.
Impulsively, I searched her arm for a pulse; instead, I found a small light
panel an LED display and a red light with the word danger throbbed
off and on. As quickly as I could, I moved her limp body through the
apartment and into her bedroom area. Unable to fully lift her, I placed her
head at the base of the recharging station, and slowly pulled her up into the
lounging position and plugged her in. With that, the red light stopped
blinking, replaced by a yellow caution light and a green charging icon.
Apparently, things were better.
Behind me, a phone began ringing and I returned to the hallway to
find it hidden inside Marjories carry-all: on the screen, the name and image
of her re-birthing doctor appeared and I answered it.
Is Marjorie okay? the doctor asked.
I dont know, I said. I just placed her in the charging station.
What do the readings on her forearm say? she asked and I told her.
Thats good, she offered, and after my length explanation, she said: She
will be fine. Just dont let her drain her system like that any more. She got
down to less than 1-percent! she said, and before she hung up, added:
She could have expired.
Expired? I muttered as I returned to look in on her. As I stood there,
I could see that her face was flush and her respiration was smooth and
regular. Not knowing what to do, I retrieved a wool blanket from the closet
and laid it over her limp body.
Eighteen hours later, Marjorie emerged from the bedroom wrapped in
the blanket and she sheepishly walked towards me. Without saying
anything, she reached down and kissed my lips.
I love you, Marjorie, I said as she pulled away from me.
I know, she said as she walked away.

It was on the fifth anniversary of her re-birth her 5th re-birthday

when a message arrived from the re-birthing hospital telling her that her
body was ready for its retrofitting. When she came to me with the idea, I
10

obliged her, offering to walk with her to the hospital. She said very little
about the procedure to me, but as I sat waiting again, one of the doctors
came inside to explain the changes underway.
This upgrade, he began, will take her off the power system. Shell
be self-sustaining after this.
A week later, I awoke to find all of her things missing from the
apartment. After a desperate search, I moved through the kitchen and
discovered under my teapot a note which read: You are my great joy! I will
love you always! Goodbye my love!
She was gone.

Now, like I said. That was 30 years ago. Clearly, a lot has happened:
the neighborhood is now entirely re-birthers, who look upon me with some
distain. Its odd, really, moving through this neighborhood surrounded by
young people. Of course, none of the re-birthers age. They just move along,
living this lifeless existence absent any sense of the beginning and
absolutely no sense of the ending. I mean, Ive heard that a good retrofitting
re-birthing can last several hundred years, which of course has me
curious: What must that be like?
With Marjorie, I determined that love must be time sensitive. One
must fear losing something, or someone, to truly feel love for them; but,
when the timeline of life shifted especially for the re-birthers the timely
importance of love faded.
But Im 129 and, apparently, the cut-off date for these procedures is
130. So, my organic days are fading. At some point, Im going to have to
make the step forward or embrace the inevitable.

Theres one more thing to consider. A few months ago, Marjorie came
to me. Id seen glimpses of her, but I hadnt heard from her in years. And
then at my door there she was! I pulled the door open wide and she
glided inside. Looking after her, I watched as she moved through the room,
which was glowing in bright sunlight; she moved passed the kitchen and into
the living room and without saying anything, she opened a window and
suddenly the room filled with a salt-sweet ocean breeze.
I miss you, my love, she said as she turned to look at me.
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You miss me?

I do! she said with a heavy pause. Her face was flush, her hair was
pulled back in a tight ponytail and she was dressed in a willowy black party
dress.
How can that be? Your life is so new! My life is old jazz and English
tea! I said as she moved about, finally sitting on our old tartan couch. She
hadnt changed at all. After 30 years, her face was as it was in the
Revelation Center when we first looked upon it. Look at you! You are the
picture of health and beauty!
My life is a lie, she said. She was crying now. There are so many
things they dont tell you. So many things. I am alone. I am lonely. I miss
you. I miss the things we had together.
We can have them again if you wish, I offered, not really know what
to say.
No she said and without really explaining, she added: I couldnt
wish any of this upon you.
Whats this? I said. Its all good. It is. My time is coming and Ive
been considering the process of re-birth. Im ready, I said finally and I
offered a smile to comfort her but she continued crying.
No, my love. No! she said. You dont understand. Its all a lie. Its all
a bitter trap. And then she rose carefully and came to where I was sitting.
At first she reached for my hands, and then she kneeled down on the floor
before me, resting her head in my lap.
I am so old, I said finally. But, after my re-birthing, we can be
together again. We will be young again, together.
Maybe, she said in a whisper. After a time, she rose again and kissed
me sweetly and then left the apartment.

Three days later, I was called down to the re-birthing hospital and the
doctors met me in the foyer. As before, they shook my hand and moved me
down the hallway to the Revelation Center.
We have something to discuss, the lead doctor said as she pushed
the door open and moved me inside. In 30 years, the room had changed
very little. The walls were bathed in flowing waves of colors blue and
violet and gray and in the back of the room was the glass case; inside
was the shadow of a womans form.
What is this about? I asked.
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We need to discuss your wife.

Marjorie? Is she okay?
Well no, she said as we moved towards the Revelation Case, and
before I could say anything, she pressed the button on the case, which
revealed the figure inside: It was Marjorie. She was standing there as she
had that first time with her eyes shut, her raven-black hair draping over her
shoulders, and she was completely naked.
What happened? I asked.
Marjorie is no longer with us, the doctor said.
What do you mean? What happened?
These things happen, she said. Occasionally, the spirit departs the
body. It departs and the spirit is gone.
Gone? I gasped. You mean dead! My Marjorie is dead!
To the best of our knowledge, yes, the doctor finally said. For a
moment, I could say nothing. I recoiled, stepping backward and I raised my
eyes up to see the body of my departed wife.
This this wasnt supposed to happen. They didnt say anything for a
moment and then one gestured towards a doorway, and a woman appeared.
This is our grief counselor. She will answer your questions. And
before they left, one of them reached forward and handed me a note. Your
wife left you this, she said.
I took the note, and moved across the room to be alone with the
message. When I did, the grief counselor followed and she watched as I
opened the note. Glaring downward, I read the words:

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And, as I stood there my sorrow consumed me and the grief counselor

raised her hands and held my shoulders.
There, there, she repeated slightly; and after a while, she spoke
more directly. Sir, I really only have one question to ask you if I may, and
as she paused, I looked up at Marjories body locked inside the glass case.
Its about the issue of your wifes remains, she said. Wed like to reissue
the model if we could. She is, after all, a very fine unit.

end

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