Beyond Regeneration

  Beyond Regeneration

  Jenny Schwartz

  It’s complicated. Charley Rowdon knew Dr. Jack Bradshaw years ago, before the accident, before she lost her left arm. Before her husband died. Jack is an internationally respected regeneration specialist, and he’s just made the breakthrough of the century: using QNA to grow non-human bio-enhancements on people, including himself. Think superhuman senses, claws, and even, wings.

  However, when, as a journalist, Charley accepts Jack’s invitation to accompany him to his private clinic, a luxury resort on the beautiful south west coast of Australia, she finds more than medical science and altered humanity.

  Murder, espionage and a scientific development that Jack never ever predicted will challenge Charley to shed her grief and fear, and solve a mystery beyond imagining.

  But as Charley regenerates her life, how much will she risk by loving again?

  “Beyond Regeneration” is a novel of old grief and new beginnings. The science is fabulous, more fiction than fact, but the emotions are real. This is the story of a woman badly hurt by life who finds the courage to embrace the unbelievable, and love again.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Note From The Author

  Chapter One

  Regeneration Conference

  Charley Rowdon shouldered open the auditorium door and stood a moment listening to the shuffle of feet and rustle of papers, the hum of voices punctuated by laughter. The men and women before her were remarkable for the uniformity of their attractiveness, products all of affluence.

  Of course, regeneration, the re-growth of limbs and organs, was a field for the wealthy. The rarity of QNA—strands of nucleic acid smaller and more primitive even than viruses, which could enter and reprogram adult cells to grow again as if fetal and childhood development were still occurring—made regeneration a prerogative purely of the rich. Insurance companies, Charley knew, wouldn’t cover it. QNA were the “magic” element discovered in stem cells.

  The auditorium was full; no drop-outs on the first day of the conference. Charley spotted an empty seat midway down the tiers. “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

  “No,” the stranger answered absently. His attention was all directed forward, to the stage. Jaw tight, profile gaunt, his knuckles tapped arrhythmic ally on the dividing armrest.

  Charley was beyond caring if her seatmate was a fidgeter. She dropped into the empty chair. She felt sticky and irritable. Sydney had suffered its usual temperature change. According to the calendar it was winter, but the sun had come out from behind the gray clouds, and turned the city into a sauna. From the bus, she’d watched as the wet roads steamed. She’d had plenty of time to observe the climate as the bus had stalled and died ten minutes after disentangling itself from the heavy traffic jam at the motorway exit.

  Between dependence on public transport and her editor’s request for an instant rewrite of her weekly health column in the local newspaper, Charley had missed the conference’s morning session. Already, the afternoon’s speakers were on stage.

  She dug notebook and pen from her shoulder bag, uncapped the pen, then sat frowning at the one person she recognized in the room.

  Dr. John Bradshaw. Jack. Charley had flinched when she’d read his name in the conference schedule. She hadn’t thought of Jack in years. He belonged to the early times when every dream had seemed possible. He’d been a registrar, working towards his fellowship, when Eric began interning at Fremantle Hospital. Eric and four other interns became Jack’s shadow. When Jack said jump, they said, “how high?”

  “Jack’s clever.” Eric had been awed, and he hadn’t awed easily. “Smart, focused. He knows what he wants and he goes after it. He’s the sort who makes medical breakthroughs that the footsloggers like me then implement. We’ll be able to say, we knew him when.”

  Charley hunched her shoulders. That was the trouble with memories: anything could trigger them. Just the memory of her husband’s voice, his enthusiasm, had her shivering. The auditorium’s climate control was turned high. She inhaled, exhaled, controlled her breathing, and the cotton shirt that had been sticking to her spine, unstuck.

  Beside her, the stranger’s arrhythmic tapping increased in tempo. He was nervous.

  She was anxious. She fixated on the thump-thump-thump of his fingers. Once, she’d fidgeted like that, too. Now, her right hand gripped her pen too tightly.

  On stage, Jack sat studying the tops of his shoes and listening to the old man beside him. He looked as he always had: square, strong, and focused. His clothes were more expensive than they had been, but then, he was no longer the poor fellowship hopeful. Now, Dr. John Bradshaw was one of the foremost regeneration practitioners.

  I would have recognized him in the street. The changes of a few years were minimal—on him. He still wears glasses. The sight obscurely pleased her. He hadn’t jumped on the bandwagon of corrective laser surgery; hadn’t insisted on perfection. Her memory retrieved another fragment. Could his mood still be judged by how far his glasses slid down his nose?

  The moderator stepped up to the podium to introduce Dr. Platz, a pioneer in the field. Charley noted the old man’s curved spine, the slight tremor of his aged voice. Regeneration couldn’t hold old age at bay indefinitely, and Platz was touching ninety.

  “Today, I want to speak of the challenges of regeneration. We have still to successfully regenerate brain cells, and hearts remain defiantly resistant to regeneration. People continue to rely on machines for pumping blood and this isn’t satisfactory.”

  Old news. Charley leaned back in her chair. Her attention returned to Jack. For the first time she noticed that he wore gloves, well-cut, unobtrusive, beige gloves. She frowned. Such affectation didn’t fit with the man she’d known.

  She gave herself a mental slap. Stop re-writing history. The truth is, you mostly knew Jack through Eric’s stories, and the few times you bumped into him at med school parties or in the hospital car park you discussed the weather or other non-Earth shattering matters. Face it, to Jack, you were no more than Eric’s appendage.

  But when Charley had seen Jack’s name on the schedule, she hadn’t been able to resist a little research. Curiosity as to how his life had changed.

  After finishing his fellowship—the last two years in America—he’d made money as a regenerationist. First, with patients needing healthy organs or limb replacements, and then, in servicing people wanting cosmetic changes and athletes wanting bigger lungs or stronger muscles. A new-style cosmetic surgeon.

  She despised those people: the vain and insecure, the selfish and arrogantly ambitious. There was one satisfaction, though. Those wanting regeneration paid for their vanities, and not just in money.

  She’d done the research. Regeneration wasn’t an agony, but the growing cells itched and tingled in an ebb and flow to the verge of intolerability, and the process itself took anywhere up to a year out of a person’s life. It wasn’t something Charley would willingly endure.

  However, regeneration was a good topic for a freelance writer. It was the latest cosmetic surgery fad for the gossip page darlings, and as such, a sure-fire winner for magazine sales. The public always wanted to know what the beautiful people were doing, particularly when they could laugh at and envy their actions. The con
ference, Charley hoped, would more than repay its fees in the articles she would write and sell.

  And maybe there would be a side benefit in facing her fears.

  The moderator’s sharp voice recalled her wandering thoughts.

  “Our second speaker is well known to you all. Dr. John Bradshaw works at the cutting edge of regeneration and his laboratory has the highest successful cultivation rate for QNA in the world. Today, Dr. Bradshaw has promised to outline some new research. Research which he has refused to share prior to this point.”

  Charley caught a tinge of bitterness in that last sentence. Had Jack refused to follow conference protocols and submit a paper?

  Jack stood. In appearance, he’d have made a great spy. He was nondescript. Light brown hair and eyes, a lean figure just under six feet. It was the intelligence and purpose he radiated that made him stand out.

  The audience quietened to new attention. The preliminaries of the conference were over, and here was one of its stars.

  Moving to the podium, Jack gripped the top of it. He didn’t fuss with his notes because he had none. This was a speech he’d give off the cuff—or else he was well-rehearsed. He thanked the moderator and began immediately, his opening sentence a challenge. “The title of my talk is ‘Generation’.” He paused, scanning the audience. “I call it generation because the work I am doing is not to regrow damaged body parts or indulge in cosmetic regrowth. My work is to help humans to grow body parts previously reserved for other animals.”

  The audience rustled. Was this a joke? Had Bradshaw cracked?

  Charley leaned forward.

  Jack released his grip on the podium and peeled off the glove on his left hand. “There are no cameras here to zoom in and display my hand in magnified detail, but if three people in the audience could come forward and view it?”

  A tall, swaggering man stood instantly, and just behind him was Jack’s friend and rival, Dr. Fields, recognizable from television talk show fame. Charley squared her shoulders and started down.

  The microphone amplified the swaggering man’s curse and everyone saw his involuntary back step. Dr. Fields studied Jack’s hand with interest, and shook his head in awe and doubt at his friend. Charley just stared.

  In a protective gesture, she cupped the stump of her left arm.

  Jack glanced at her, recognition widening his eyes. Then his brilliant gaze dimmed as he observed her gesture. “Charley?” he stopped. Whatever he wanted to say to her couldn’t be said over the microphone.

  She shook her head, retreating fast to her seat in the middle of the audience. It was real. His fingertips had claws, but it was his concern for her that shook her composure. In the midst of his triumph, he was concerned for her.

  His voice followed her, strong and confident. “Our three colleagues have seen my hand. After my talk, I am willing to let you all view it. What they have seen is a hand in which the fingernails have been replaced with the retractable claws of a cat.”

  He waited out the burst of speculation before holding up his altered left hand. “The process of growing a foreign body part and training the human brain to operate it has not been easy. I speculate that it would be easier in childhood, but the risk would be the diversion of energies from necessary, natural growth; something that I take very seriously.

  “The potential application of this generative technology is immense, and not just cosmetically. Imagine having a hawk’s eyesight or a dog’s hearing. Perhaps, one day, we’ll even have wings.” He leaned forward. “What I am offering is the chance to choose our mutations.”

  The room exploded into furor.

  Charley shuddered. Had Jack considered the consequences of his work, or had the wealthy exclusiveness of regeneration blinded him? A new elite would emerge, a super-race, one defined by possession of the wealth to purchase these enhancements. Her mouth twisted. Yes, that was what they would be called, enhancements.

  At the podium, Jack stood firm against the battering enthusiasm, a hint of pride in the tilt of his chin.

  Charley fancied she could hear the zing of claws flashing and retracting. Her amputated hand cramped with phantom pain. She picked up her pen, focusing desperately on her work as the one constant in her life.

  She even had a catchy opening sentence. “Today, we have seen the beginning of a new epoch in human development.” It would make a good lead article. The expense of attending the conference—no small consideration for a freelance writer—would be more than covered by a firsthand report of Jack’s bombshell.

  Maybe she could even take advantage of an old friendship for an interview.

  She stared at Jack who stood easily at the podium, fielding questions.

  He held up his left hand again, requesting silence. “For those who are interested.” A small, deprecatory smile. “I have copies of a paper outlining my research. However.” He glanced at the moderator who was clearly torn between irritation that she had known nothing of Jack’s announcement, and delight that the conference would benefit from the reflected glory. “I have already taken more than my allotted thirty minutes and I don’t want to disrupt the conference schedule. I will be happy to answer questions during the afternoon break.”

  The agitated stranger seated beside Charley stood. “Excuse me.” He brushed past and exited unobtrusively, a slight Vietnamese man in his early forties.

  Charley barely noticed his departure. She wanted a copy of Jack’s paper and if she couldn’t get close enough in the scrum to question him, then she would gather comments from his colleagues. There was a newspaper scoop as well as magazine articles in this for her.

  Let the bank account rejoice, she thought wryly.

  The conference center overlooked one of Sydney’s smaller bays. The restaurant area took advantage of the setting, opening into a low-growing garden with views across the bay. At the afternoon break, everyone collected their cups of coffee and tiny pastries, and clustered either around Jack or in small groups to discuss his announcement.

  Charley observed with interest how organized Jack had been. A red-haired woman, a few years older than Charley, handed out copies of Jack’s paper as well as a two-page media statement. Her face was angular, her body rigidly disciplined into the toned skinniness of a model. A few meters away, Jack stood answering questions. He stood with his arms crossed. The claws of his left hand showed starkly against the dark charcoal-gray of his suit. His glasses were firmly secured on the bridge of his nose.

  Charley accepted copies of both papers, and moved away to observe the scene and scan the media release. The new technology already had a name, Bio-Enhancement. She smiled wryly at how close her guess had been and glanced up from the media release. The nervous man who’d sat beside her in the auditorium was fidgeting with a stack of Jack’s papers. The red-haired woman snapped at him, and he dropped the papers and retreated.

  Someone, probably the conference’s publicity officer, had contacted the media. Television and radio crews arrived, newspaper reporters and the hangers-on, freelancers like Charley. She stepped aside, letting herself be pushed out into the sunny garden. She found herself in the company of other exiles. An older man grumped and Charley smiled ruefully. “At least you snaffled your coffee first.”

  The man’s frown cleared as he looked down at her. For the first time in too long, she had taken pains with her appearance. The new navy suit and knee-length skirt made the most of her slight figure and fine legs. Her make-up was understated and impeccable, drawing attention to her eyes which Eric had likened to faded denim. Grief had thinned her face, but her fugitive dimple was still in place, charming everyone.

  “I’ll get you a cup,” the man said decisively. He looked to be in his early sixties, vigorously upright, his hair gray but his thick eyebrows black above a prominent nose. “Being denied coffee is cruel and unusual punishment. How do you have it?”

  Charley smiled. “Thank you.” She’d spotted a waiter circling with a tray of iced water. Someone in the kitchen had shown commo
n sense above and beyond the call of duty. “But water will be fine.” She placed the papers she held on the low wall encircling the garden and weighted them down with her shoulder bag before taking a glass of water. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” the man was looking at the stump of her left arm, hidden by her navy suit, with professional curiosity. He looked back at her face. “I’m Dr. Archie Solomon from Chicago. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Charlotte Rowdon. I’m very pleased to meet you, Dr. Solomon.” Charley smiled again in lieu of a handshake. “Quite apart from your kind understanding about coffee, you’re the sort of expert I was hoping to meet.”

  “I am?” There was a touch of skepticism in his raised eyebrow.

  “Yes. I’m a freelance journalist, so as you can imagine, Jack’s announcement is a bonanza for me, but I really need some commentary from people familiar with the field. I recognize your name, Dr. Solomon. My guardian angel must have directed you here.”

  “Charm, young lady, is a dangerous commodity.” Dr. Solomon smiled. “I am afraid I have a dinner engagement tonight, but we could meet for drinks at six thirty? It would have to be down at the Rocks, since the dinner is at Oscar’s.”

  “That suits me.” She’d have gone anywhere. “Thank you, Dr. Solomon.”

  “Archie, please. And, if you’ll excuse the curiosity, do I take it from your easy use of ‘Jack’, that you know John Bradshaw?”

  “A little, a few years ago.” She finished her water and set aside the empty glass.

  “Yet you’re not inside with the media feeding frenzy?”

  She glanced in at the polite but pushing crowd of her colleagues. “No, I seem to have lost my taste for being part of a frenzy.”

  “Ah.” Dr. Solomon looked quickly at her left arm.

  She gathered up her bag and papers. Pity, real or imagined, was a sharp lash. She writhed under it. “There’s a bar called The Green Dragon next door to Oscar’s. I’ll meet you there at six thirty.” She waited for his nod of agreement before smiling with stilted politeness and retreating. “Bye.”