The Guinea Pigs

Doctor Travers ticked all the boxes on my consent form and peering over his glasses assured me an arm transplant was standard practice. I perform ten a day, he said, handing me the paperwork. They’re a piece of cake. Really? For sure, he said, indicating where to sign. It’s just brain surgery that gives me a headache. Stella the anaesthetist rolled her eyes, sighed and asked if I’d any allergies. None, I replied, scanning the small print. That’s just perfect, she said, clearing her throat. Would you prefer gas and air, or the full works? What’s the norm? I said, catching her eye. That depends. She smiled. Are you squeamish?

* * *

When I signed up for military service five years ago, I’d selected the B.A.G.S. health insurance option. Biologically Accelerated Growth Systems, or B.A.G.S. for short, was a third-party company pioneering an experimental limb replacement scheme. The government initiated the idea and the Ministry of Defence embraced the concept to counteract the ongoing threat of I.E.D.’s. In the event of a severe injury or amputation, they promised us rapid treatment and substitute limbs. All they required from volunteers were two pints of blood and sufficient genetic material to cultivate a trauma-clone in their body farm. It made sense, and I had nothing to lose, hopefully.

   I have to admit that the lure of the extra pay motivated me when I signed the forms. Any potential injuries gained in active combat were far from my mind, and further complications seemed a remote possibility. It was during the six months of basic training I discovered no else had enrolled for the B.A.G.S. insurance policy. Perhaps everyone reckoned the scheme was just a gimmick? Maybe I’d misread the caveat on the consent form about transplanting living tissue? I mean, it never occurred to me I’d meet the limb donor face to face. 

* * *

My last tour of duty occurred in April 2015, around the time jihadist fighters released a video of the ancient city of Nimrud erupting in a cloud of dust and smoke. They attacked its priceless sculptures and frescoes with sledgehammers and power tools, then detonated the 3000-year-old Assyrian ruins. The wanton demolition came amidst a wave of attacks on allied forces in Iraq.

   I lost my left forearm in Nasiriyah, about 360 clicks south-southeast of Baghdad, near the ruins of the ancient city of Ur. Sergeant Albury snagged his boot tip on a tripwire and didn’t stand a chance. He was toast in an instant, poor sod. I was next in line and the landmine’s devastating blast threw me across the street. So much for the cradle of civilisation. 

* * *

There was little below my left shoulder when I regained consciousness in the field hospital’s I.C.U. The duty surgeon said I was under the knife for ten hours and told me I was lucky to be alive. He expected a full recovery, having extracted a bucket of the shrapnel from my vital organs, although he expected roving fragments to surface over time. If you have any further issues, he said, picking his teeth. I’m sure your regiment’s medics will sort you out. Yeah, right, I thought. But you know what? He wasn’t wrong. A serious-minded B.A.G.S. employee in an expensive suit attended my bedside the following day and explained the benefits of my policy. He presented a convincing case for urgent action and applied for a consultation on my return to base.

* * *

I waited six weeks for an appointment to discuss my suitability for a limb transplant. Doctor Travers was frank. Either he operated forthwith or I faced an interminable desk job back at H.Q. and no more active duty. Are there any risks? I asked. The odds of rejection are slim, he said, frowning. But better than your career prospects as a shorthand typist. Point taken, I said, considering my disadvantage.

   Doctor Travers glossed over the matter of sourcing and matching a spare limb. It’s not all about physical compatibility, he said. There’s the psychological aspect to consider. I recall biting my lip when he explained a typical post-op response. It’ll be disconcerting and may feel as if it doesn’t belong to you, he said. However, just remember, an unfamiliar appendage is far better than the alternative. 

* * *

I’d no time to worry about the details because my allotted day in the operating theatre happened within forty-eight hours. I didn’t sleep the night before and entered the theatre feeling lightheaded having followed the nil-by-mouth instruction beforehand. Stella performed her last checks before a nurse handed me a surgical gown and Doctor Travers scrubbed his hands while we waited for the trauma-clone. 

   The freezing cold hiatus on my back in the theatre, wearing only a starched-cotton gown, was the longest hour of my life. I was covered in goose-bumps and shivering from a cold-sweat when a masked nurse poked a gurney through the theatre’s swing doors. She appeared without a drum-roll or fanfare, as if she was shoving a burdensome shopping trolley out of a supermarket. The nurse halted parallel to my surgical table, kicked down the brakes and whipped off the thin sheet to reveal my doppelgänger’s naked body. It was wired-up to a cluster of electrical body-monitor pads and strapped-down to the metal bed with sturdy leather belts. The left arm sported thick red pre-surgery symbols that looked like a gang-member's colours and hanged loose and lifeless above the linoleum. “He” lay motionless beside me, staring past a bloated plasma bag that dangled aloft and fed blood to an intravenous cannula. Doctor Travers raised his arms and cracked his knuckles, and nodded at Stella. She wasted no time and administered a heavy dose of Propofol. I remember her asking me to count down from ten, but don’t recall getting past seven. 

* * *

When I regained consciousness, my body double was still next to me; an exact copy, except now the left arm was missing, and there was a sutured wound below the shoulder. His eyelids were closed and motionless except for an occasional R.E.M. flutter, and his chest rose and fell in even-paced undulations, as if operated by mechanised bellows.

   On closer inspection, the trauma-clone was nothing like me. There were neither scars and stretch marks nor any signs of life’s long-term damage. The left arm I’d received was similar in size and shape to my original. I mean, I thanked God for my replacement, despite needing months of gym-work to strengthen it. Yes, size-wise, it was a splendid match, and Doctor Travers had done a remarkable job. It’s just that, well, I don’t know. I guess I’ll miss that barbed-wire tattoo circling my forearm and all my ginger freckles, too. My ex-wife used to love those silly brown spots. Nobody’s perfect, she’d say. If only she knew she could see me now.

   The adoption process takes time, Doctor Travers said, during our meeting a week later. You ought to be home soon and you’ll adjust in a few weeks. Will it ever feel like mine? I said, flexing my stiff new fingers. Of course, he said, cleaning his spectacles. Besides, I’m only a phone call away if you need reassurance.

* * *

Doctor Travers couldn’t guarantee the pairing process would work, and I had to be prepared for rejection. He outlined likely symptoms in case the donor’s hand didn’t marry-up with my nervous system. It was a long month in the B.A.G.S. institute while I acclimated to my new limb. I followed the physio’s guidelines for recovery and adhered to her plan, exercising as much as possible. 

   The institute’s layout was straight-forward; the building supported eight levels and most floors contained glass-partitioned offices. As far as I knew, the first floor contained the surgical theatre and recovery wards, and the windowless ground floor housed the gym, storage units, and a boiler room. 

   My first-floor ward was empty and I was alone most days, apart from Nurse Winter’s morning welfare visits and meal deliveries, and Doctor Traver’s weekly progress checks. I seldom encountered any other members of staff on any of the eight floors and met nobody in the gym, pool or sauna facilities. Apart from intermittent security patrols, there were only a couple of employees engaged in gardening and exterior maintenance work.

   It was on my last day that we had a power-cut and the building lost its heat and lighting. I was exiting the gym at the time, cast into darkness by the occurrence and strayed down an unfamiliar corridor. It was about ten minutes before the green overhead emergency lights kicked in, by which time I found myself in one of the storage units. Somehow, I’d bypassed the security system in the outage and found myself lost in a maze of boxes, sealed containers and cargo bays. 

   I admit being disorientated by the experience, however, a sudden thought occurred. Until that moment, I’d never considered my trauma-clone’s whereabouts. Where was he and what condition was he in? Was there accommodation here? Doctor Travers had led me to believe the institute looked after and supported my trauma-clone. So, why had he forbidden me to talk to him or make contact?

   I was pondering these questions as I meandered down a gentle-sloped vehicle-access ramp into the basement. As soon as I entered the lower corridors, I heard a low stuttering hum of clicks and splutters. I thought it was a chattering mechanical turbine spluttering to life. I was wrong. The noise had an organic quality and enveloped me in slow pulses like surf dissolving between fractured seashells on a distant shore. 

   I stumbled onwards in the pale amber glow until I could advance no further. The light was emanating from translucent ceiling panels within a glass walled room. Below it stood motionless figures connected to an upper gantry by a complicated loom of feeding tubes and electrical sensor cables; life support systems, I imagined. The figures all shared similar characteristics, but differed somewhat in musculature, as if they were cuttings taken from a parent and propagated at staggered intervals. They were all naked and standing in equally spaced rows and columns, like life-sized chess pieces, awaiting a call to arms. There were at least twenty of them, all staring ahead with uncomprehending, glazed eyes, and indifferent expressions. The wretched creatures were like a herd of cattle grazing in a pasture, oblivious to time and tide and at the mercy of unknown assailants. 

   I advanced towards the glass wall and the closest figure's head turned to face me. It was obvious from his missing limb and sutured shoulder that we’d met before. There was a spark of recognition in those dilated pupils; like a dim flickering light from a dying star. He edged forward, as far as his tethers would allow and, raised his right arm in painful increments. All the while, those black pools of artificial existence held their intense, unflinching gaze. His finger-tips reached to their full extent like an unfurling leaf and stroked the surface of the glass between us.

   I placed my left hand on the transparent surface and spread my fingers. Without so much as a blink, he mimicked my gesture. Our raised palms mirrored each other, either side of the shatterproof glazing. My hand flinched as if gripped by its rightful owner, or some vestigial impulse dictated its movement. I hesitated for more than a minute as it twitched and writhed of its own accord. I lowered my eyes, tearing myself from his pitiable stare. Fifteen millimetres separated us and yet we were worlds apart, as if we were distant relatives meeting in some parallel universe. I imagined some warmth in his palm and supposed his instinctive gesture was meant to keep me there. He turned away and returned to his designated position amongst all my other clones. They were all looking at me now. My back spasmed with an intense muscular shiver, as if I’d felt an icy blast. It was impossible to remain there with all those pairs of eyes judging me.

* * *

I rubbed my hands together for warmth as I walked away and I realised my clone wasn’t born, he was created. He hadn’t emerged from nature. The institute reared and propagated him from cells which they’d nurtured to a mature specimen. That notion should have consoled me, but it didn’t. Doctor Travers was adamant. The trauma-clone didn’t have a life as such, no family, no memories, and no real concept of a world outside. That was how he told me to frame the situation. You’re lucky, he said. Not everyone has a chance to replace all their vital organs.

   I felt sick looking down at my left arm afterwards and recalled that awful stump on my doppelgänger. Now I’d encountered him in person, it felt as if I’d been caught red-handed, receiving stolen goods and, by chance, met the lawful owner. Don’t worry about it, Doctor Travers said, placating my concerns. I couldn’t be at peace with the notion, but I accepted he was right. How else could I live with myself, knowing that the trauma-clone’s only function was to donate spare parts? 

* * *

There was no guard of honour as I departed that evening and I wondered what would happen if my trauma-clone escaped. Would he survive in the outside world or just succumb to nature's mercy like a domesticated pet that’s lost its natural instincts? As I walked across the deserted compound to my vehicle, I couldn’t imagine returning here unless the worst happened. I supposed I’d only meet my trauma-clone again if I was unlucky during my next tour in the Middle East. But who knows? They hadn’t patched me up to stare at a P.C. all day.

The End