Pax vobiscum

The year is 2044. Simon has just turned 30 and is not at all happy about it. Thirty, to most 30-year-olds, is ancient, game over.

“Ridiculous,” his Uncle Pax said to him, as Simon sat by his bedside, bemoaning his own advanced age. “I’d give anything to be 30 again. I’d prefer 10, but who am I to complain?” Pax stopped for a moment when the coughing began. Simon hated that cough, hated the cancer that had tunneled into his uncle’s lungs.

“Remember,” Pax finally said, “Nobody gets out of this hell hole alive.” His uncle’s frailty had taken away his once inimitable joie de vivre.

Simon turned on the news when he got home, catching the last report. What he heard seemed nearly unbelievable. Production of a new subdural implant that could reverse the aging process at least 10 years was underway. It had been thoroughly tested, and was ready to market.

Immediately, Simon thought of his uncle. Going back even a year could perhaps spare Pax the cancer diagnosis. A 10-year reversal might outsmart the disease entirely.

Simon called the research lab identified in the news coverage. It was answered after only two rings, which Simon found surprising. Even more surprising, however, the person who answered was the Project Team Leader who, as it happened, had gone to school with Simon.

“Jeremy,” the researcher said, when the two met in the lab. “Jeremy Asgard…we were in Astrophysics together. Twelfth grade. Hudson School Complex.”

“Oh yeah,” Simon responded, suddenly feeling the dreaded heat of embarrassment creeping up to his throat. He vaguely remembered his old classmate, but only because he and the other self-styled class clowns had been merciless in taunting, and making fun of, Jeremy that entire year.

“I do remember you,” Simon finally continued. “Not very well, though,” he added, hoping Jeremy would take comfort in Simon’s poor memory. “We were weird kids, weren’t we? Kids can be so stupid.”

“I suppose so,” agreed Jeremy (now Dr. Asgard), leaving the topic to move on to his implantation research study.

Grateful that Jeremy had finished with his remembering, Simon introduced the subject of Pax and his condition. To his delight and relief, Jeremy assured him his uncle was exactly the sort of recipient the specialists were seeking.

“Gee, thanks, man. This means a lot to me, and it will be a miracle for my uncle,” Simon said, smiling broadly. After getting directions to the dispensing cell administering the implantations, Simon booked an appointment for Pax to undergo the procedure in seven days.

“Actually,” Jeremy said, looking sincere, “the both of you will be doing me a favor. Not just anyone is willing to be a test subject.” When Simon raised an eyebrow in concern, Jeremy was quick to assure him. “Our success rate has been 100%, so no worries. Plus,”he added, “it will be a pleasure to do something for an old school mate.”

The two shook hands, and Simon headed directly to his uncle’s house to tell Pax the good news.

A week later, Simon picked up his uncle and drove him to the dispensing cell where, as he said, “the magic would begin.”’

"I’ll settle for a minor miracle,” Pax joked. “Even that would be an improvement.”

The implant insertion went smoothly. Simon drove Pax home, promising to visit the next day. And he did. He stopped by Pax’s house after work most days but, at three weeks, Pax still had the pallor of age and illness. He looked no younger but, Simon had been told, full reverse transition could take about a month.

Three weeks in, the word ‘alert’’ jumped from the newspaper headline:

Early results show an average 78% of healthy implantees have reverse-aged 10 years.” Simon read on. “In cases where a terminal disease is present, results are as yet unknown, as attained age is halted at time of implant.”

Pax would be stuck! In a Stage 4 cancer body!

Simon was nearly afraid now to visit his uncle. He let himself into Pax’s house and saw him in the living room, TV on, only his head – now bald from chemo and radiation – visible. As he walked towards his uncle, he was hit by a wall of stench and saw that Pax was covered in what looked like purple vomit.

“Jesus, Pax, what happened?”

Pax pointed to the television. “You didn’t hear?”

“No. Why?”

Pax used his sleeve to wipe his mouth. “With terminal illness, reverse aging timeframe is unknown. There’s been more than a few gone horribly wrong.”

“Christ, I’m sorry, Pax.”

Simon’s voice disappeared into a silent fog. He put his hand on his uncle’s shoulder, but there was no response.

Startled, Simon shook Pax’s shoulder, searching the blank face. Still no response.

And his uncle’s face, now lifeless, was that of a 10-year-old’s.