Out on a Limb

A scientific breakthrough comes with unexpected costs.

Original art by Brian Reindel

The two men who sat on either side of Joshua West in the rear seat of an unmarked black SUV were identical twins, olive-skinned, tall, muscular and prone to long bouts of intimidating silence. The driver, by contrast, was an older gentleman, pale-skinned, thin and gaunt, who chain smoked and wouldn’t shut his mouth. For a fleeting moment, the thought of escaping entered Joshua’s mind, but having his body folded up like a card table kept him docile.

“Don’t mind them two, Mr. West, if they meant to kill you, you’d already be dead,” the driver said.

“How reassuring,” Joshua said.

“Better sitting here than back in that Thai prison cell, waiting for God knows what to happen. My employer has big plans for you, but I probably shouldn’t say anything more than that. I recognized your name immediately when the job came across. I read a lot, everything, part of the job, even romance, not that I’ve had much of that lately. You journos sure are a hot mess outside the war room.”

Joshua still reeked of alcohol, the thick fur of cheap appetizers and skunk beer growing thicker by the minute on his tongue. His unshaven face and disheveled state of clothing reminded him of the previous evening’s embarrassments. The twins apparently took no offense to his wardrobe or his bare feet.

“Where is here, anyhow?” Joshua asked.

“This is a private airstrip, owned by a member of the royal family. The prince leases it to the highest bidder — for a pretty penny, too — or should I say Thai Baht. I’m sure the currency exchange rate is in my employer’s favor. I’ve never known the man to lose money on any investment. This is him now,” the driver said, pointing up through the windshield.

A Boeing business class jet descended gracefully and landed not too far from the SUV, then began the slow taxi over to their location. Joshua should have been thrilled to meet the gracious benefactor who paid bail to get him released, but he had nothing to offer in return, which made him suspicious and anxious.

“I read the last profile piece you wrote in the Times about the downfall of Gordon Hunt, Biosoft’s CEO. Great little article. You were a bit harsh on the man, but if I had been an investor or a family member of one of those test subjects, I would be out for blood, too. It’s been over a year since you wrote much else. What happened?” the driver asked.

“Life got in the way,” Joshua replied. 

“Ain’t that the truth. Alright boys, the ladder's down. Why don’t you escort Mr. West into the presence of greatness. I’ll wait here,” the driver said.

One of the twins opened the door and slid out, and without asking, the other hulk of meat pressed against Joshua’s side and nudged him to follow. The looming presence of them both once they exited the vehicle made Joshua glad he hadn’t tried to run. Mr. Greatness sure knew how to choose his henchman.

All three men walked up the ladder, with Joshua sandwiched between the twins, unable to see past a pair of broad shoulders. Leather chairs, mahogany tables, brass fixtures, widescreen televisions, a bar and even a single bed decorated the inside of the aircraft. The soft, plush carpet felt inviting on Joshua’s feet as they walked further inward. Without warning, the twin in front stepped aside to sit in a leather chair, revealing the mysterious employer. Gordon Hunt. He sat behind a corner nook table with two places set and a full spread of breakfast items.

“Mr. West, please, sit and eat with me,” Gordon said, an invitation punctuated with a soft shove on the shoulder by the twin still standing.

While Joshua never met the man formally to write his profile piece, the CEO’s presence lived up to expectation. His skin had the same olive tone as the twins, a glowing mix of Middle Eastern and Indian by lineage, well dressed, early 60s, salt-and-pepper gray hair, and dressed in a suit worth more than Joshua’s annual salary.

“You’ll have to excuse my sons. They can be a little rough around the edges. A trait gifted from their mother,” Gordon said.

“Your sons?” Joshua asked.

“One of many details you missed in your exposé.”

“Is that what this is? Revenge?”

“Redemption Mr. West. We’ve both lost a fair bit of ourselves this past year. You, with the breakup of your marriage and family due to the unfortunate allegations that surfaced. And me, I spend most of my days hopping from one country to the next, avoiding extradition and viscous accusations of mad science. Please, Mr. West, eat with me, and I’ll explain.”

As much as Joshua didn’t want to give Gordon the satisfaction, his stomach growled, and the food looked delectable, an infrequent sight on commercial airlines. He downed a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and then began chewing on thick cut strips of bacon and fluffy whipped eggs, enjoying a fine meal in case it was his last.

 “I can’t argue there were certain unfortunate truths to what you wrote. Your work is admirable, relatable to the common man, but your tactics are sloppy. The real purpose of my experiments has escaped prying eyes. It’s time to change the world for the better, but I need a willing and capable spokesperson,” Gordon said.

“I don’t peddle propaganda,” Joshua said with a mouthful of jellied toast.

“You need proof. I can give it to you — to everyone. An exclusive and a second chance.”

“Can you give my marriage a second chance, or get my kids back? Was the setup and lies worth it, to tear a man’s family apart?”

“I can’t speak to your personal issues, but I can offer an opportunity to start fresh. You’re the man who tracked down Gordon Hunt. You’ll have your pick of publications, not to mention film rights and exclusive access. Why don’t you sleep on it?”

Joshua stopped eating, full from the spread put out before him, then leaned back into the thick, plush leather chair. He felt a throbbing behind his temples, the excitement of the last few days finally overwhelming him with a rush of dizziness. His vision blurred, the room started to spin, he stood up and passed out on the floor.

The flat screen monitor above the hospital bed in which Joshua slept showed an array of animations and graphs tracking his progress. Computers hooked up to medical machinery then hooked up to Joshua, existed in a laboratory hidden away in a remote location known only to Gordon Hunt and a few loyalists. A breathing apparatus pumped oxygen methodically into Joshua’s lungs, but it was the beeping sound from the fluid-filled contraptions encasing his arms from the elbow down that finally woke him.

Wiggling his fingers in the liquid proved pointless, since he had no forearms or hands. A gentle stir turned to panic, which set off alarms, bringing several medical personnel into the room, including Gordon. Dressed in scrubs, the surgeon leaned over Joshua’s body and inserted a syringe into a tube. After a few seconds a warmth spread through Joshua’s body and he relaxed.

“No need to fear, Mr. West. Rest. We’ll speak again tomorrow,” Gordon said.

While Joshua could scream, the full body restraints kept him from leaving the bed in a panic. He could see a mixture of tissue, muscle and bone, like an open wound, floating beneath the green ooze inside the contraptions around his arms, which looked to be amputated. The sight terrified him, but the excruciating pain needling his entire body is what raised an alarm inside his brain, primordial and instinctive, telling him that whatever was happening was not natural. Gordon strode into the room, unphased by Joshua’s state of mind.

“You’re crazy!” Joshua shouted and writhed in agony.

“You need to focus, Mr. West. Remember this moment so that you can parlay the experience into words for our gentle readers. They need to understand that advancements like these require sacrifice,” Gordon said.

“It hurts! Make it stop, please!” Joshua continued to scream.

“Your limbs are coming out of stasis and will grow back. For the next eight hours the discomfort will carry you to the edge of shock, but not beyond.”

Sweat eked out from Joshua’s pores, matting his hair and wetting the pillows and sheets. A wave of scorching heat settled over his torso and he could feel his heart beating under his ribcage. The colors in the room brightened as his eyes dilated, casting a euphoric glow off everything, an over saturated world charged with electricity. He screamed for the next hour straight and then passed out, falling into a deep, but fitful sleep full of nightmares.

Joshua woke again, ravenous, and thankful much of the pain had subsided. Looking down he expected to find himself still dismembered, but noticed his forearms and hands had entirely regrown, a feat of marvelous bioengineering that could change the lives of millions. When Gordon returned several hours later, he brought with him two assistants, and an aid who pushed a tray full of enough food for three grown men.

The assistants drained the fluid from the contraptions and unlatched them from Joshua’s arms. The journalist balled his moist hands into fists, stronger than ever before and free of blemish or scar. The twins were back, obviously for protection if Joshua decided to lash out in a fit of rage for the dreadful experience initiated by Gordon. 

“The government won’t let you keep the discovery,” Joshua said. “Or let you live long enough for it to matter, not for something this groundbreaking.”

“Your concern is heart-warming, but unnecessary. I’m building a bridge, making inroads with those in positions of power and influence. You can appreciate the military applications, just like they will,” Gordon said.

Joshua’s mind buzzed with questions about the procedure, if he had undergone gene editing, if the regenerative powers were permanent and whether there were negative side effects. But none of the answers mattered if Gordon already had plans, a grand scheme to profit off his research, both monetarily and influentially.

“So, what happens now?” Joshua asked.

“Your job is one of public relations with a different class, a group who will understand the gravity of what’s at stake, enough to provide additional leverage and understand that previous sacrifices were worth it. You must convince your fellow man that a new age with undeniable benefits is upon us,” Gordon said.

“And how do I do that?”

“You write, Mr. West. And together we make history.”