Rebuilt

a Coatnoise/John Doe story


"Eh, are you sure this is the right place?" the cab driver asked. Robert glanced at his screen and then out of the window, the coordinates matched but the expectation didn't. Instead of the pristine facility he had expected, he was surrounded by the run down blocks of a half abandoned tech park built on the steep slopes across the bay from Rio, the once ornamental trees planted along the streets now wild and spreading.

Robert turned back to answer the driver but the guy was already out of the car, clanging the wheelchair against the sides of the trunk as he hauled it out for his passenger. It was brought to the rear door, a minimal military specification, little more than wheels, tube frame and black canvas and he transferred out, movements like this still awkward after a year but the low, curved shape of the electric Beetle didn't help. He paid cash, less traceable, a thin clip of grubby Euros taken from a pocket of his folded-up combat pants.

The driver gave him a lazy salute and wasted no time in driving away, kicking up a cloud of sandy dust that made Robert cough, raising the back of a gloved hand to his mouth. He grabbed the rim of a wheel with his other hand, turning the lightweight chair on the spot, glancing at his screen again, checking mossy building numbers for the right one. He had been away so long, from the city he once called home, that whole districts had risen and crumbled in the years that had passed. This area was unfamiliar.

After a minute he located it, the ramp of sagging plywood boarded over the front steps gave it away. He gave a hefty push with both hands, tanned and muscular, heavily tattooed arms and chest flexed under a black singlet, wheeled up to the entrance, stabbed at the buzzer with a thumb.

A pause, another minute, then a static crackle, hard to comprehend but the intention was clear.

"Sergeant Robert Angel, Union Navy," he replied, quietly but proudly. "I believe you are expecting me."

                                    * * *

Inside things were different, much closer to what he had expected. The lethargic afternoon sun gave way to cool air conditioning, grey-brown decay to crisp white surfaces. Everything felt expensive, the internal geography detached from the shape of the exterior building, wide ramps curved and tunneled down.

Robert rolled himself along the first ramp, to a brightly lit reception space. A bored-looking operative greeted him, supermodel hot with breasts squeezed into a tight white tunic. She glanced up. "Mr. Angel is it?"

"Sergeant, actually," he corrected.

"Whatever, not really important anymore is it?" she sneered, peering over the desk at Robert's legs. "Here for a repair job are you?"

"I, uh, I just want to understand what's possible," he replied, shifting uncomfortably in the wheelchair, trying to keep calm. She isn't a mind reader, he reminded himself. Although she would know what he wanted soon enough.

"Anything's possible, honey," she purred, "given enough investment."

He swallowed and cleared his throat.

"Well take a.... seat," she said, smiling, "the consultant will see you in a moment."

Robert thanked her and rolled to the waiting area, suppressing the urge to rise to the bait, trying to keep his composure. Instead, he played back the journey he had taken to find this place, from the first rumours he picked up as he had come to terms with the injuries that had been inflicted so far away, to the prospect of a payoff and discharge, to the reluctant move back to what was the closest thing he had to home.

Once back on the streets of Rio it had taken weeks, based in a scruffy second floor room, conserving money, dragging himself up and down the stairs every day to go out and search, to talk, to make calls, to find the smallest gap, an opening in a closed network, that would give the number that would lead to the appointment. That would lead to here.

The whole time he wore his fatigues, his dog tags, proudly. The Navy might not want him any more, but it was the only affiliation he had, and it was proving hard to let go.

The receptionist looked up from whatever screen she was killing time with.

"You can go in now, sir," she muttered.  Despite her studied disinterest, Robert clocked her attention to his muscular upper body as he passed by her desk to the consulting room.

                                       * * *

Within it was different again, the clean clinical white giving way to rich wooden panelling, cracked open shutters with a parkland view, a cool breeze and thick, awkward carpets. Robert glanced up. It was an illusion, a stage set, above the tops of the walls there was no ceiling and the pipes and ducts of the facility ran overhead like a maze.

The consultant rose from his antique desk and walked around, offering a hand, introducing himself with a crisp northern European accent as Doctor Uhlgren.

"Sergeant, thanks for coming." Robert shook. It sounded like he was doing the guy a favour just by turning up. "Don't worry about Anastacia, she is usually more interested in our output rather than our input."

The remark puzzled Robert, but he said nothing as the consultant continued. "From what you've told us, I understand you're looking for more than just putting back what you've lost."

He nodded, his throat dry. He looked down at his own lap, where the grey-green camouflage pants were folded up and pinned at mid-thigh.

"I...I've heard," Robert said carefully, "that what you can offer here is not really the run of the mill prosthesis. Not just repair and replace, not like the Navy would have given me." He paused, knowing what he wanted to say, but even in this environment nervous to ask.

"Go on," prompted Dr. Uhlgren. Robert swallowed, his mind alive with the things he had been told, the things he so desperately wanted.

"What you do here is not mechanical, not artificial." He felt his lips rubbing together as he spoke, the words clumsy. "It's, it's new parts, new bodies. Grown, not made. Its about redesigning yourself, starting again."

The consultant sat back against his heavy mahogany desk, stroked his stubble.

"I need to tell you, Sergeant, that while the art of the possible here is almost limitless, it is still not trivial. Everything you have heard about us is true, I can assure you of that because we are very careful about who hears about us and what they are told."

"What we haven't told you yet is that the commitment from you is considerable. You see yourself as a customer, or least a potential one, but you are also a candidate. We profile and we select," his flow hesitating for a second as he saw Robert open his mouth to form a question, "it doesn't matter how, because it takes a certain mindset to truly want, to need, what we can give."

"You already know what I want?" asked Robert. "No one outside of my head knows what I want, so how can you?"

Dr. Uhlgren dismissed the question with a wave of his hand.  "Not the specifics, they don't really matter at this stage, just the kernel of the thought that there is something about you that isn't right...that you would change if you could, a choice you would make in an instant were it given to you. That, Sergeant, that change is what we offer here. No more, no less." He smiled and walked back around the desk, seated himself.

Robert nodded, starting to understand. This wasn't an offer made lightly, nor was it one to waste with a dishonest response. This was a way out, an exit from where he was and an entrance to where he wanted to be. This was a choice to be made in an instant, and he made it.

"How do we start?"

"Tell me," Dr. Uhlgren said, leaning forwards, "what would you be if you could be anything."

Robert's throat tickled, adrenaline coursed through his body, his damaged, war scarred, incorrect body. There was only answer. He'd thought it so many times, but now he had to say it and it was surprisingly hard.

"Young," he said eventually. "Female. Hot."

The consultant stared at him curiously for a moment and Robert thought he'd blown it. Dr. Uhlgren casually scratched the side of his nose.

"Okay."

                                          * * *

There were formalities of course, endless forms and waivers to complete and a thoroughly penetrative credit check. as Dr. Uhlgren furrowed his brow at the results on the desk's display screen, but after the Navy's payoff he knew he was good for it.

After several tense minutes, a smile spread across the doctor's face at the digits stretching across the screen. The disinterested receptionist brought coffee, and Robert watched her stunning figure as she moved about the office. He stared at her heavy breasts, imagining not what they'd feel like in his hands but, as he'd done for years (and even more frequently since losing his legs), what they would feel like sprouting from his chest.

He signed form after form, most of which were non-disclosure agreements with cryptic, ominous language.  He paused when he noticed one which permitted the clinic to perform short-term memory erasure, a procedure that he was pretty sure had been internationally banned years ago.

"I'm afraid it's necessary, Sergeant," Dr. Uhlgren explained, noticing Robert's hesitation. "If you change your mind after you see what we do in this facility, we need to ensure that you're never able to tell a soul about it."

"It's okay," he said, signing the form with a shaking hand. "I need to do this." The doctor looked over the forms, scribbled on them a few times himself, and stacked them neatly on his desk.  "Follow me," he said as he stood up.

Robert turned his chair and followed the doctor out through the brightly-lit white reception area, such a stark contrast from the ornate wood and furnishings of the office they had just left.

Uhlgren took him to a wide set of elevator doors, which required both a swipe card and a retina scan to open. Robert thought about his intentions and wondered if he should end his journey here, but having come so far he realized he needed to keep up the brave soldier act for a little while longer. He rolled through the doors and heard them close behind him.

"What you'll see down here is fairly representative of your choices, but it's by no means everything," Dr. Uhlgren explained as the elevator began a swift descent, causing Robert's already uneasy stomach to jump and his leg stumps to twitch involuntarily. "Take a good look around and let me know what appeals to you."

"Forgive me for sounding dumb, but... what exactly will I be looking around at?"  Robert asked, as the elevator finally stopped and the doors on the opposite side flew open.  "Is it the actual...um..."

"You'll see in a second," the doctor interrupted with a wry smile, alighting into a small anteroom that contained two further doors. Whoever had designed the space hadn't been without a sense of humor, as stenciled on each one were familiar male and female ideograms, and if not for the fact that each door was locked with another security keypad they would pass for a pair of restrooms. Dr. Uhlgren poked at the buttons on the female door for what seemed like an eternity, and turned to Robert as the door clicked and swung open.

"After you."

                                          * * *

Robert cautiously wheeled himself through the door. The space inside was lit dimly, with banks of fluorescent tubes hanging from the roof of what his adjusting eyes realized was a huge warehouse or storeroom. As far as he could see, row upon row of large metal cylinders were propped up on stands, thick cables plugged into the back of each one. Each one was fronted with clear glass, but with the glare of the lighting from above, it was hard to see what was inside.

He held his breath as he wheeled himself towards the end of the nearest aisle. As the first cylinders got closer, he could see that each one sported a kind of control panel with dancing status lights, just below the glass window. When he drew close enough to finally see the container's contents, Robert's heart nearly stopped.

The first thing he noticed, for some reason, was the belly button, indented in the middle of a soft, flat midsection of smooth, pale feminine skin. He felt his cheeks flush as his eyes wandered over the rest of the specimen, the pert, full breasts, the smooth hairless crease of its vagina. Based on the quality of her breasts and skin, Robert estimated her age to be no more than twenty-five.

The exact age was much more difficult to estimate because, well, there was no more to her. There were no arms or legs extending from her torso, the joints where they would attach covered by shiny grooved steel plates, each with a small hole in the center. He began to fog the glass as he peered closely at the shoulder joint, where a narrow lip of skin extended just around the edge of the plate. Above the anonymous girl's shoulders, an inch or so of neck extended to nothingness. From his vantage point he couldn't see what was attached to it, but he could only assume it was similarly sealed up. Glancing down the row of tubes, he saw that each one contained a similarly-abbreviated woman, each a unique shape, size, and color.

Dr. Uhlgren stood back and let Robert take in the sight for a while before he spoke. "Try not to drool on the merchandise, at least not until you've selected one for yourself," he said, putting a friendly hand on Robert's powerful shoulder. "There are hundreds more in this facility alone, take your time browsing. Trivial decisions don't make for the best results."

Robert shook his head and muttered, half to himself. "I...I just can't believe this is real.  Where did they come from? Why are they separated from the other parts?"

"Well, our donors come from many sources. People die all the time from accidents and diseases that leave entire portions of their body healthy and unscathed. We pay handsomely to hospitals all over the world to supply us with young specimens that fit our needs. In many cases we'll store and reuse the original bodies of our patients that fit current requirements." Dr. Uhlgren took a step back and took stock of Robert's well-formed upper body.  "If you're interested, I could tell you right now that you're a fine candidate." A little flattered, he nodded affirmatively, smiling a little at the thought of some other unhappy soul finding completeness in his discarded form.

"The heads are usually separated for two reasons.  Firstly some donations include the head and others don't, for obvious reasons, depending on how they came to be here. Secondly to give our clients the most flexibility in choosing the form they want. We can adjust pigmentation, within reason of course, if you choose a head and torso of dissimilar races."

Rolling down the line, Robert nodded and took it all in as best he could, still in a state of shock. "And the arms and legs?" he asked, distracted as he stopped to examine a petite torso with small breasts that seemed to be of east Asian descent.

"Early on in the project we preserved those too, independently. But we soon realized they're harder to match up once separated from their 'owner,' and just too fragile in general. Since their functions are rather easy to imitate with the technologies we have developed, we create all our limbs synthetically in different shapes and sizes. That has other advantages, which you'll see later."

"It's like a whole world I never knew about," Robert said, gliding down the next row of cylinders.

"It's a whole word that no one knows about," Uhlgren corrected. "We hope someday that body transfer will be acceptable to society, and then this kind of life changing opportunity doesn't have to be secretive and underground. It's been my life's dream to make it a reality, I've personally been researching and developing our methods for over seventy years."

Taking in his last statement, Robert spun around in his chair to take a better look at Dr. Uhlgren, who while distinguished and slightly graying at the temples, didn't appear to be a day over forty five. The doctor smiled at him as if reading his mind. "And how better to stand behind my products than by taking part in them myself."

"I guess that makes sense..." Robert replied, trailing off as he took a closer look at the torso that lay in its container in front of him. Unmistakably young, with flawless mahogany skin, small, perky breasts adorned with dark nipples, a flat, toned belly and a delicate pubic mound with soft, pouty vaginal lips. He was in love.

"This... this is the one," he stammered. He leaned forward to conceal the erection growing in his pants, the irony not lost on him that his genitals were responding to the thought of not having them anymore.

"A wonderful choice," the doctor said, scanning a barcode etched on the glass of the cylinder with a handheld device. "Only nineteen years old, Caribbean descent. Apparently she died of some kind of aneurism. A shame, but her loss is your gain. Would you like a closer look?"

"Can you do that? Will it do any damage..."

"No it's fine," the doctor reassured, already fiddling with the controls on the unit. "It's a special compound we inject into the bloodstream that stops the metabolic processes, that's why you don't see her attached to any life support.  She'll need to come out anyway, and we can easily reseal the container if you change your mind."

With a loud hiss, the glass cover opened and some cool mist escaped into the air. Dr. Uhlgren carefully lifted the torso from its padded mountings and presented it to Robert like a baby.

Her skin was cool to the touch, but otherwise felt completely alive and natural. Robert ran his hands all over the strange headless, limbless form, wishing he could know what that touch felt like from within. Wishing he was little more than this torso. He was fully aroused now, and didn't care.

"It's perfect," he said simply.

TO BE CONTINUED...