That was always Karen's problem; trying to make me into something I didn't want to be. Don't get me wrong; I loved my wife, at first. Back in Wales, when I was starting out, she was good for me. I helped my Dad in his fish and chip shop in those days, and she worked in an estate agent's opposite. I'd wait till she finished, put her on the back of the bike, and we'd head off to the Mermaid for a drink. We were right for each other back then. But she didn't seem to want to move with me, to move up in the world. I'm not a snob, or anything. But you have to fit in. And when I was trying to project a professional image, like at the Institute of Directors award ceremonies, I needed a professional wife.  Not somebody covered in bling, wearing skirts that stop at her armpits, and generally being embarrassing. 

She just got worse with the years. She started doing it on purpose. Like calling my partners 'boyo.' 'Boyo', for Christ's sake. Boyo is a South Wales thing. We're not from that end of the country, we're from the North, Bangor and Anglesey. It's a different bloody country. But she just wanted to wind me up. I can still hear her now: 'All right, boyo? All right?' I had to beat her black and blue sometimes, I really did.

Well, that's finished now. Karen will have been dead for decades, maybe centuries. I still remember the expression on her face when I told her I was enrolling in the CryoKeep programme; thwarted, that's what it was. Meirion Jones' money was allocated to keeping Meirion Jones' brain preserved, and to funding the necessary research to get Meirion Jones' brain a nice new body. No more milking of the Meirion Jones cash cow for you, Karen. But by the time I got ill she'd already done enough of that to get pretty wealthy, I know she had. Money sticks; and if you're married to a billionaire, you get very sticky. At the time, I hated her for it, but now I'm glad that she was left well off. I hope she had a good life, and if she was here, I'd tell her so. See? That's Meirion being nice.

And anyway, it's all over now. Yes, boyo's free. At last. So, once again, I put Karen out of my mind and look through the wall of the box. Short and Cuddly is there, reaching on tip-toes for a bottle on a high shelf. I try to lick my lips, but my tongue is dry, like a piece of dusty rubber. There's a dull, diffuse pain in my head; I can feel pressure at the four points in my skull where they have inserted leads into my brain. Just like the macaque. I try to catch Short and Cuddly's eye, but she leaves, and is replaced by two other nurses. One of them looks at me through the sterile chamber, and then at the read-out on a screen, as though assessing some parameter, some measure of Meirion Jones. You haven't got the measure of me, love, I think; no way. But she goes to a bank of instruments, and makes an adjustment. The pain becomes dulled, replaced by drowsiness. Like a heavy cotton-wool hand, pushing me down.

#

When I wake up, the resurrection suite is as busy as I have seen it since the thaw. Nurses and doctors, all in their pastel gowns. There is a constant stream of them. Some are adjusting pressures and flows in the various tubes leading to and from my isolation chamber. Others are murmuring to each other; at least, I think they are. Their lips move, but I can't hear much through the Perspex walls of my chamber. I can't see too much either; they've repositioned one of the ceiling lights to my left, pointing it right at me, and the glare is blinding. I blink, and try to keep looking to the right, but it's tiring. A gloved hand presses the intercom switch on the side of my isolation chamber, and sounds suddenly become clear. I can hear shuffling, the hum and whirr of precision devices, the rustle of sterile gowns, and low voices. I was right; they were murmuring.

Dr. Newton is there too. She watches me as she slowly turns a dial. I feel the change instantly. Saliva! You don't know how precious it is until it's not there. I work my tongue around, trying to wash the inside of my mouth, and moistening my lips. I can feel deposits on my teeth. Several molars feel loose; a side-effect of freezing. No matter. I don't need teeth at the moment; and soon I will have a new set. I lick my lips again; such relief. I must be drooling -- I can feel my chin is wet, and something trickles down my neck. What's left of it. Either too much saliva substitute, or none at all; why can't they just get it right? I swallow, and the pain almost overwhelms me. I won't do that again, I think. I'd rather dribble until they adjust the saliva pump.

Somebody tweaks another control somewhere, and now I feel air forced past my vocal cords. A cold, dry stream of air; it's uncomfortable. I find that I am making a thin whining sound, but I practise a little, and discover that I can regulate the airflow reasonably well. So they got the neural leads hooked up to the artificial lung at last. That's good, very good; I won't be singing hymns any time soon, but I can talk again.  Fantastic! I want to laugh triumphantly, the way I used to, when I used my shouted, artificial hilarity as a boardroom weapon. But now, all that comes out is a low, rattling gargle as thick mucus resists the passage of slowly pumped, sterile air. One of the nurses looks uncomfortable; at least, above the face-mask, her fresh, young skin is creased into a frown. She shows her palms to me: Take it easy. Too much too soon, I think. It will come. Just focus on speech, for the moment. I grin at her.

"OK," I croak. "Let's go. Who's in charge here?"

My old tactics, you see: the three steps to success, which I know will work as well today as they did when I had my body. Step 1, seize the initiative. Step 2, identify the decision-maker. And Step 3 is to twist Mr. Decision-maker's bloody arm until he is happy for you to make his decisions for him.

Of course, I'm only behaving like this, being like the old Meirion, to make sure I get the right body, as per the contract. Otherwise they'll walk all over me, I know they will. Mr. Nice Meirion comes later.

"Who's in charge?" I repeat. "There'd better be a frigging good reason why I'm still in this frigging fish tank."

I want to say more, but even these few words have made me uncomfortably aware of an immense reservoir of pain, held back by a fragile dam of drugs. Instead, I scan the faces of those I can see, looking for eye contact, for somebody to stare down, to intimidate. But they are conferring, and don't look at me. I notice somebody hanging back; gowned and masked like the others, but somehow different. A lawyer, I think. I can just tell. One of the medical staff says something to him, and he nods, and comes closer to my box. He bends down, observing me through the Perspex. As though I were an object, rather than a person; it niggles me. Nobody looked at me like that in the old days. But there'll be plenty of time to teach this joker his place in the pecking order later, when I am out of this plastic box. Or maybe I'll just speak to him, nicely, just to let him know what I could do if I wanted. The new Meirion, see. Step by step, boyo.

The man leans forward. I can see dark eyes above his surgical mask.

"Can you hear me, Mr. Jones?"

The mask puffs in and out as he speaks. I want to nod calmly, without speaking. But a head can't nod without shoulders to nod from. So I say, 'Perfectly'; saliva-substitute sprays out. A droplet runs down the inside of my box, in front of the man's face. His eyes are expressionless as he speaks. He introduces himself: John Whittaker, from Medi-Closures. Never heard of them. Looks like the law firm I always used has disappeared over time. But I was right; he's a lawyer. I just knew it from the way his eyes wouldn't directly meet mine. Evasive; looking for somewhere to hide. He tells me all the usual legal crap, verbal boilerplate.

"Get to the numbers," I manage to say, at last.

So he does. Well, it turns out that my fortune has compounded beyond even my greatest hopes. The figure he showed me was astronomical. I try to laugh, again. More spray, but more of a recognisable laugh, I think. Rich beyond any accepted meaning of the word, and I don't have to share it with Karen, not this time. I see Short and Cuddly looking at me, and I wink at her. Whittaker continues droning on, but I've heard all I need to. And my attention is taken by activity I can see out of the corner of my eye. They are wheeling something else into the room, from the left. I can't turn my head -- you need shoulders for that, too -- but from the corner of my eye I can see that it is another isolation box, like mine. If I had a heart, it would have leapt at this point. My new body! I think. They have brought me a new body to assess. But I am dazzled by that damn light, which they still haven't repositioned, and I can't see any more than that. Whittaker notices I am trying to speak, and stops his drivel about termination clauses and fulfilled obligations.

"New body?" I ask.

It's all I can manage to think about, let alone say. It can't come soon enough. I want to be able to speak freely again, drive cars, chase girls. I want to be free of pain, free to move and swallow and eat and drink. And, yes, free to change, to be one of the good guys.

"New body?" I ask again, louder this time.

Whittaker turns to the other staff, questioning. They wheel the second isolation box closer to mine. I still can't see it properly, but it seems smaller than it should be. A child's body? That really would be a second life.  Not what I expected, but still: why not do a new life properly, right from the start.

"New body?"

I am getting tired of the lack of response, and I pull out my hard-bastard stare, and give it to Whittaker, full on. Strangely, this is the only time he looks me in the eyes.

"Sir," he says, "there have been changes to the law since you had the procedure. Under current ethical guidelines, it is illegal to insert cryoretrieved brains into a non-cognate anatomy. We can't do it, sir. By law."

Everyone is silent; from behind the gowned figures, I hear the chirr of the machinery that preserves my fragile existence. Whittaker is looking at me, warily; I try, but cannot make his words deliver any type of meaning that I can accept. I want to scream, but ripples of pain from my throat warn against exertion. My phantom arms try to seize the lawyer; but cannot grip. One of the doctors comes forward. She has blue eyes; they match the colour of her surgical mask.

"Mr. Jones," she says. "I'm Dr. Alice Taylor, Medical Director of CryoKeep. I think it would be helpful if I were to summarise the situation. Mr. Whittaker is correct to say that it is against the law to re-allocate a cryoretrieved brain. I know that's not what you want to hear. However, there have also been some very positive developments, and one in particular which will be of the greatest interest to you. So please don't be alarmed, and do bear with me."

I recognise the appeasement in her voice. That's more like it, I think. There's no way they would give me that kind of news without having something up in reserve, something to keep me sweet. Nobody messes with Meirion Jones, not with my assets. They're clever enough to know that. What's she got for me, I wonder? Of course --  a fully synthetic anatomy! One that never ages and never dies-I could live with that. Forever.

"In line with the terms of our contract, CryoKeep has sourced the best medical technology that money can buy, and applied it to your continued cryopreservation over the years. In addition, we have continued and extended our basic research into the long-term maintenance of cryoretrieved patients. Our advances in this field, together with the legal developments alluded to by Mr. Whittaker, resulted in an obligation to bring you back to consciousness. I am pleased to say that you are now in a position to benefit from over two centuries of cutting-edge research made possible by your generous endowment."

Here it comes, I think. Here comes the good news. But I prepare to look disappointed, purely as a negotiating tactic, so I can squeeze more concessions out of them. If I learnt one thing in my old life, it was to always ask for more.

"As a result of this research, Mr. Jones, we can guarantee you consciousness, oh, for at least one hundred years, perhaps two hundred. Who knows, with the recent advances in regenerative drugs, perhaps we can keep you conscious forever. But beyond that, we have some excellent news for you."

I interrupt her. I have to know, right now.

"A synthetic body--right?" I wheeze. "Just bloody show it to me, will you?" I momentarily lose control of the air-flow, and my voice whistles and squeaks absurdly. There is something wet on my chin. Dr. Taylor hesitates, as though puzzled, but it's hard to tell what she's thinking behind that damn mask.

" Synthetic--? Oh! No, Mr. Jones, I am afraid we don't have that sort of capability. There have been great advances, of course, but we haven't the technology to produce synthetic bodies, and frankly that kind of advance is very unlikely. No, we can't give you a new body in any form. But I have far better news for you than that!" Dr. Taylor gestures to the nurses, and smiling broadly, they wheel the other chamber towards me. 

And then they all start clapping. Clapping and smiling, the idiots, as the second isolation chamber is pushed in front of me and slowly turned around. And there it is: staring at me from its pedestal, a stump on bloody bandages, festooned with leads and tubes and slowly pumped fluids; a decapitated woman-monkey, a sick distortion of humanity, a shaved head with wrinkled, blotched, sagging skin and bagged, wet eyes. The chin wet from drool, the mucus running uncontrolled from flared nostrils seeking air for ancient, long-rotted lungs. The mouth working itself into a smile, not of warm welcome, but of vindictive triumph, as her thin, witch's lips form words.

"Alright, boyo? Fresh start, is it? Just you and me now, boyo. You and me. Forever, boyo. Forever."

END