Sins of the Father (2 page)

"That won't be necessary," Langstock said.

Naked, he stepped into the chamber. Once the door had slid noiselessly shut behind him, Langstock felt his skin start to tingle as the ultrasonic projectors hidden within the walls began to do their work. After a minute or so there was a muffled roar of engines and a sudden onrush of air as a powerful extractor fan activated beneath the wire mesh floor, sucking away the fallen dirt, bacteria and dead skin cells that had been dislodged from his body by ultrasonic vibration. Several more seconds and the fan stopped, another warm rush of air greeting him as the door on the other side of the chamber opened with a pressurised hiss. Moving into the room beyond, Langstock found a set of sterile white scrubs and a transparent plasti-cloth surgical mask laid out on a bench ready for him. He put them on, before pressing the release button on the door facing him to gain entrance to the next room along.

"Dr Langstock?" There was a man waiting in the corridor on the other side of the door. He was in his forties, with tanned features and an athletic build. Like Langstock he was dressed in white scrubs, a broad and welcoming smile visible beneath the breath-fogged inner surface of his surgical mask. "My name is Prendergast. I work for Mr Lowe. I hope you will forgive all this..." He gestured toward their collective garments. "A tiresome business, but entirely necessary, I'm afraid. Sadly, Mr Lowe's immune system has been compromised by his illness. As a doctor I'm sure you understand."

"Of course," Langstock said. "I take it you are one of Mr Lowe's doctors?"

"Me? Not at all." Beneath his mask, Prendergast's smile seemed to widen. "I could never aspire to so exalted a status. My duties on Mr Lowe's behalf are more... organisational in nature. I suppose you could call me a glorified gopher. Mr Lowe lets me know his wishes and I see to it they are enacted. In the present instance, he told me to arrange a consultation with the top man in your field. The top man, doctor." The smile grew more unctuous. "Now, please, if you'll just follow me. I assure you, Mr Lowe is eager to meet you."

With Prendergast leading the way, they emerged from the end of the corridor into the tall open space of an airy atrium room. Looking about him, Langstock saw the sloped ceiling and three of the room's four walls were made of enormous panes of reinforced Plexiglas, affording a breathtaking panoramic view of the city around them. The fourth wall separated the atrium from some kind of medical control centre: through a two-way view portal set in the middle of the wall, Langstock could see white-coated doctors and nurses seated at computer work-stations.

"Mr Lowe maintains a permanent medical staff here at the apartment," Prendergast said, gauging the direction of Langstock's gaze. "Normally, of course, they have free access to the atrium. However, given the delicacy of the subject Mr Lowe wishes to discuss with you, he thought it better to have privacy for your visit. You need not worry about whether you can speak freely here, doctor. This room is soundproofed, and the audio pickups to the control room have been switched off."

"Is that wise?" Langstock asked. "Banishing your doctors to another room like that, I mean? I understand Mr Lowe's health is fragile. If he should suffer a medical emergency-"

"Then, some of the finest medical minds in Mega-City One are only a few metres away." Prendergast nodded towards the doctors on the other side of the view portal, before turning to face him again. "Not to mention the fact we already have a doctor in here with us." Seeing Langstock about to protest, the other man raised his hands in mock surrender. "Please, doctor, before you say it: I know full well that emergency medicine is not your field. If it were, there would be no need for this meeting. Frankly, in this city, emergency medicine specialists are two a credit. Let me put your mind at rest, however. The medical staff are fully capable of monitoring Mr Lowe's condition from inside the control room." Extending a languid hand, Prendergast directed Langstock's attention towards the middle of the atrium. "But please, if you have any concerns about the state of Mr Lowe's health, you should feel free to ask him yourself."

If questioned he would have been hard-pressed to explain it, but as Langstock finally advanced to his first glimpse of Roderick Lowe the overriding image that came to his mind was of some ancient and malignant spider. The old man lay in a bed at the centre of the room, his thin hairless body connected via an array of wires and tubes to a ring of medical machines designed to prolong his life. Moving closer, Langstock saw the machines represented the current cutting edge of medical technology - including items he had attempted to have supplied to his own department at the hospital, only for his applications to be rejected on the grounds of cost. It was obvious the old man was seriously ill: his features were raddled and shrunken with age, his skin yellowed by jaundice, his muscles wasting away from lack of use. Even with an oxygen tube running under his nose to aid his breathing, his respiration was shallow and laboured. As he looked down at his potential patient, Langstock found it difficult to account for his initial impressions. A spider? Perhaps it was the web of wires and tubes surrounding him that had suggested the image, or a flight of fancy brought on by the effect of brandy on an overactive imagination. Shaking his head clear, Langstock looked more intently and saw Roderick Lowe as he really was: an ailing old man, desperately striving with every considerable resource at his command to fight off death.

"Mr Lowe?" Approaching the old man's bedside, Prendergast adopted the hushed tones of a penitent. "I have brought Dr Langstock." He turned to face Langstock again. "Step forward, doctor. Mr Lowe finds it difficult to move his head - you will have to stand in his line of vision."

The old man's right hand moved, fingers jerking as though experiencing a tremor. Noticing it, Prendergast leant closer.

"What is it, Mr Lowe?" As Prendergast watched carefully, the hand jerked again, thumb and forefinger making a circle, before closing into a fist. It seemed to be some kind of signal. "The windows? Of course, Mr Lowe." Straightening himself, Prendergast tilted his head back slightly and called out in a loud clear voice. "Opaque."

The windows of the atrium began to darken, the view of the city outside gradually replaced by an expanse of obsidian blackness as the reactive substance of the Plexiglas responded to Prendergast's command. Cut off from the neon glare of the city by night, the shadows inside the room deepened and grew longer.

"All the household systems operate by vocal command," Prendergast said to Langstock, serenely anticipating unasked questions. "It is better this way, doctor. So often the curse of great wealth comes in the form of unwanted attention. In the past we've had to contend with news organisations putting spy-cameras on adjacent rooftops, or commercial rivals hiring lip readers. You have no idea the lengths some people will go to in order to monitor Mr Lowe's private dealings. Now, before we begin our business in earnest, I'm sure you would like to familiarise yourself with Mr Lowe's medical charts." Moving to the foot of the bed, he lifted a slim clipboard-sized comp-unit from a data-cradle attached to the bedstead and handed it to Langstock. "Please, read them at your leisure."

Taking the comp-unit, Langstock activated the digital display and quickly skimmed through the records of the medical tests and scan readings performed by Lowe's doctors. The diagnosis confirmed what he suspected already. Multiple organ failure. Heart, lungs, liver, kidneys: the constituent parts of the old man's body were slowly winding down and wearing out. To the layman it might seem that modern medical science was capable of working miracles, but there were limits to what could achieved in trying to sustain an ageing body. According to the records, Roderick Lowe was over one hundred and sixty years of age - even by current standards he had lived far past the expected span of human life. The ravages of old age took their toll: despite the best care his money could buy, Roderick Lowe had reached the point of diminishing returns in his body's battle with death. The old man was dying. The constant attentions of his doctors, and the unstinting efforts of the machines around him, could make no difference to the eventual outcome.

Casting a practiced eye over the data in the comp-unit, Langstock realised the patient had perhaps a few weeks left to him at most. He checked back over the records, paying especial interest to the results of the neurological tests. Despite the progressive decline in the rest of his body, the old man's brain function and cognitive ability registered as normal. Roderick Lowe's mind was in good shape; his brain unaffected by the slow lingering failure of his other organs.

"I see you have had a number of organ transplants?" Langstock said, addressing the comment to the old man directly.

"Twelve, at last count," Prendergast replied, smoothly interposing himself in the conversation as Lowe stared at Langstock in silence. "Over the years, Mr Lowe has had a number of his organs replaced with new ones created from his own genetic material. Sadly, in his present condition the doctors say any such further organ transplants are unlikely to achieve a lasting benefit. Mr Lowe's entire body is dying. Even if he were able to survive the stress of multiple simultaneous transplants, it would only be a matter of postponing the inevitable."

"You have considered the artificial alternatives?" Langstock asked. "In the last few years, there have been some interesting advances in the field of total cybernetic replacement."

"You mean would he be willing to have his brain transplanted into a robotic body?" Prendergast's face made a sour expression beneath his mask. "Mr Lowe has made it clear he will not consider it. 'A fate worse than death' - those were his exact words, doctor. Before you ask, he has also weighed and likewise rejected the possibility of cryogenic storage. No, at this stage, Mr Lowe has only one viable option left to him. Which brings us neatly to the reason for this meeting."

"You realise the procedure you're asking me to perform is not without its risks?" Turning from Prendergast, Langstock looked down at the old man once more. The eyes that stared back at him were clear and sharp. He hadn't specifically noted it in the medical records, but Langstock suspected they were transplants. "Even if we assume a best-case scenario, there's the danger of rejection and other complications. The chances of success are perhaps sixty per cent at most. Never mind the problem of finding a donor."

"You may leave that problem to us, doctor," Prendergast said from beside him. "As for the other issues - Mr Lowe is well aware of the risks. The more pertinent question at this stage is whether you are willing to perform the procedure? That, and the matter of your fee."

"Two million credits." The old man spoke at last, the words wheezing out of him in a dry and withered whisper.

"Two million credits." Prendergast echoed his master. "It has always been Mr Lowe's habit to speak plainly when it comes to business. Naturally, that does not include the separate fees we will pay to the hospital and your surgical team. Two million credits, doctor: paid directly into your bank account in two instalments. The first to be paid immediately once we have reached agreement, and the second when you have performed the procedure. Two million credits. You have heard our offer, doctor. Do you wish to accept it?"

Long seconds passed. The room was quiet except for the laboured sounds of the old man's breathing and the rhythmic electronic noises of the medical machines around them. To Langstock, it seemed Prendergast's words still hung in the air. Two million credits. Looking from one to the other of the expectant faces of Lowe and his aide, it was all he could do not to hurriedly agree to their offer at once. As it was, he resisted the temptation. Tonight, the old man's plight and Langstock's own talents had combined to provide him with the opportunity of a lifetime. Now, whatever else might happen, he refused to sell himself too cheaply.

"It's a generous offer." Langstock was acutely aware of the nervous timbre of his own voice. "That is to say, I..."

For a moment he almost faltered, but he thought of the sitting room with its antique furnishings and paintings. He thought of the old man's wealth, so openly and conspicuously on display throughout the apartment. Most of all, he thought of the brandy: a king's ransom in ancient spirits, left out to be consumed freely by the old man's guests despite its value. The thought gave him strength, banishing his misgivings. He began again, more firmly this time.

"You understand there is more to this than simply my personal fee?" he said. "If Mr Lowe is to receive the best possible care, I will need to recruit additional specialists to my staff. Then, there are other questions. A doctor's reputation rests on the quality of his research. Unfortunately, recently my own research efforts have been hampered by a lack of funds..."

His body was dying. It was betraying him with every heartbeat: the clock of his remaining moments counting down with an unstoppable and remorseless precision. How long now? A few days, perhaps? A week? A month?

He was bed-ridden. His arms were weak. He could no longer feel his legs. Inside his body, all the familiar processes of life were slowly ending. He relied on machines to filter his blood and purge his waste. He relied on them for sustenance, for every pulse of his heart, for every hoarse and ragged breath. All the things he had once taken for granted were denied to him. His mobility, his freedom, his appetite: already, he had lost so much. His future was uncertain; each new morning felt like the unclimbed peak of some strange and distant mountain. At times, it seemed to the old man that his memories were all he had left to him.

His memories. They came to him unbidden. His recollections of long-gone days had become more vivid; his past growing brighter as the lights of his future dimmed and faded.

His memories.

Lying in his bed as the conversation continued around him, the old man remembered the world as it had once been. He remembered how it was before the Atom War, before the coming of the Judges, before the mega-cities had even been built.