Aurora Wolf

The Floating Head Employment Agency

By Rory Steves

      Cold, incredible cold, was the first sensation I had upon awakening. Bone-numbing cold, it was so cold I couldn’t even feel myself breathing.

     My mind raced. Did our furnace shut down? Perhaps a sudden blizzard? But we live in Southern California; blizzards aren’t something we have to deal with here.

     I thought some more, anything to take my mind off of the incredible cold. Had we gone camping? Or had we taken a cruise to Alaska and gotten lost on a glacier? That would explain the paralyzing cold.

     Paralyzes, that thought sent a new chill through me. Had we gotten trapped in a snowstorm somewhere, and had I fallen and broken my neck?

     I found that I couldn’t move my arms or legs; I couldn’t even feel them! Where was my beloved Hanna? Was my wife trapped in the snow, too?

     My panic rose, I tried to scream for help. I had to get help for Hanna! Where was she? Was she alright? Hanna!

     “Increase endorphin drip 30 percent; let’s get his panic calmed down. Dr Velpeerson, please relax. It’s okay; everything is under control. No, please don’t try to open your eyes yet. I’ll tell you when it’s okay.”

     I’d bet the royalties to a couple of my poems she was from northern India. I’ve always enjoyed picking out accents.

     I tried to calm myself. I felt myself relaxing in spite of my terror. Her voice, rather melodic, had mentioned endorphins, so I was going to relax no matter how panicked I was. But endorphins are naturally found in the brain, so how or why were they being administered to me?

     I could hear other voices, murmurs really, and some sort of machinery noises in the background. They must have brought us to a hospital while I was unconscious, that would explain the noises. If this was a hospital, Hanna must be here somewhere.

     I tried to speak, only managing a strangled croak, hardly even audible to my undoubtedly frostbitten ears.

     “Relax Dr. Velpeerson,” the voice said in a soothing tone, “your speech will return in a few minutes.”

     I wasn’t a medical doctor, my degree was in plasma physics, but it was kind of her to use the honorary title.

     “Cerebral core temp?” she asked an assistant nearby. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why she wanted my brain’s temperature, or how they could get a thermometer in there to get it.

     These confusing statements did not improve my peace of mind.

     “Ninety-six point five, Doctor, should be at standard in a few minutes. I’m taking it real slow; this guy is ancient.” The new voice was male, and I was already crossing him off my Christmas card list with that “ancient” remark; I was only sixty-eight years young damn it!

     “Ventilation?” the nice female voice asked.

     “At standard for this model, respiration is set to auto, with voice access formatted to his speech patterns.” This male voice was cool and professional at least, but what did “this model” and “auto” mean?

     “Circulation and nutrition?”

     This time another nice female voice answered, “Cardio and nutrient pumps at standard, backup cardio set for auto.” More terms to add to my list of questions, if they ever let me talk!

     “Neurological?”

     “Interface is up and running smoothly. He shouldn’t have any trouble flying this float-pad around.” Another male voice this time, but I didn’t have a clue what the hell he was talking about.

     “Core temp?” That again?

     “He’s ready, reading steady at 98.6.”

Come on girl; ask someone if my arms and legs still work! It was beginning to sound like I would spend my remaining years as a quadriplegic. That was a very depressing idea, but I wasn’t depressed, those endorphins I guess.

     “Set endorphin drip to standard, with auto-mode increase if he starts to panic.”

Panic? Me? I was way beyond panic!

     “Yes, Doctor.” Well at least the lady in charge was a Doctor.

     Someone placed a warm damp facecloth over my face and head, gently wiping. It felt so wonderful that I didn’t even wonder where my lion’s mane of hair was. It felt like I was bald, but the endorphins made sure it didn’t bother me. They rinsed the facecloth; I could hear the water coming out of the faucet, and then they wiped my face again, with special attention to my eyes and lips. It felt so good I considered writing a little poem about it.

     “Dr. Velpeerson, I want you to keep your eyes closed for several minutes. I would like to ask you a few questions, both for information and to fine-tune the ventilation to your speech patterns, do you understand?”

     “Yes,” I managed to croak out through a throat that didn’t feel like I had used it in years.

     Some kind soul held a cup of water to my parched lips and let me take a few small sips. It was like ambrosia!

     “Make sure the drainage tank is set to auto,” the Doctor ordered.

     “Hanna, my wife,” I said, “is she okay?”

     “I don’t have that information, she might be in a different lab, your RC, Readjustment Coordinator, may be able to find out for you.”

     Readjustment Coordinator? Drainage tank?

     “Dr. Velpeerson,” the nice lady doctor began.

     “Niles, please, just Niles,” I said. That Dr. Velpeerson stuff was getting old.

     “Alright, Niles, you can call me Sasha,” I could tell by her voice she was smiling. I bet she had a nice smile, if they’d ever let me open my eyes.

     “Can you raise your right arm and hand for me?” Sasha asked.

     It took some doing, not physical effort, but I had to really concentrate.

     “Good, now I want you to hold this glass in your hand, please.”

     It sounded silly, but it wasn’t quite as hard as the original movement had been.

     “Now I want you to raise and lower the glass five times.” How could any man say no to such a sweet voice? If this lady ever went into sales she’d be lethal.

     While I did this I wondered just how badly we had been hurt. The murmuring of voices in the background continued, it sounded like a bunch of mechanics fine-tuning a car. Curious. Their speech was filled with techno-babble, while those around me sounded normal.

     I switched from right to left arms and repeated the drill, followed by other exercises. Finally they seemed satisfied.

     “Niles, I want you to stand up slowly,” Sasha instructed.

     “With my eyes closed?” I asked.

     “Yes, please. Don’t worry; we won’t let you fall,” she promised.

     “Yeah, they’d take it out of our pay,” joked Mr. Ancient.

     I slowly stood up, a bit wobbly, but then lost my balance completely and started falling to the floor.

     “Catch him!” Sasha ordered. “Okay, let’s lower him to the table. Gently, gently. Frederickson, replace the gyro in his float-pad, and we’ll try again.”

     Gyro? Float-pad? My curiosity grew.

     “You got it. I’m going to replace the backup gyro as well. It should have kicked in but didn’t.”

     “Run a diagnostic on the gyro’s CPU as well. How long?”

     “Couple minutes.”

     “Gyro’s?” I asked.

     “Just relax, Niles. We’ll get to that shortly.”

     “All fixed.” Frederickson said minutes later.

     I had him pegged as a technician of sorts.

     “Okay Niles, let’s try it again,” Sasha said.

     This time I didn’t fall. In fact I felt quite steady on my feet.

     “Niles, I want you to take one step backwards and then sit down.”

     I did so with ease.

     Someone wiped my eyes gain, and Sasha told me I could open them.

About time!

Dr. Sasha turned out to be a quite lovely Hindu lady, which explained the melodic way she spoke, and yes she had a very warm smile. I never miss an accent.

     “Hello, Niles,” Sasha said. “I want you to please look just at me for the moment.”

     “Sure.”

     “Thank you,” she responded. “There are a few things for us to discuss before you start looking around.”

     “Okay,” I answered, and then my nose itched so I scratched it. But my old hand didn’t appear, instead a shiny steel mechanical one appeared and, apparently under my control, scratched my nose.

     “Want to begin by explaining that?” I asked, as calmly as my drug saturated brain would allow. My eyes were riveted to my “hand”.

     “What’s the last thing you remember before waking up here?”

     “We, my wife Hanna and I, were in a hospital?” I answered quizzically, as my memory started working again. “Let’s see.  Yes. We were in a hospital because we both had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Both cases were inoperable. Other treatments wouldn’t work for our kind of tumors; they were resistant or something.”

     “Very good,” Sasha commented. “Now please look at me instead of your hand.”

     That took an effort of will, but I lowered my hand, “Okay.” Behind her I could see glimpses of a laboratory that seemed to belong in science fiction.

     How odd.

     “Do you remember the other option they presented to both of you?” Sasha asked, her eyes holding mine, locked in place. A formidable women; I bet her husband adored her.

     I pondered that for a minute. Options, options.

     “Let’s see, most of their options involved growing sick and weak and spending our last days in pain.” Neither of us thought much of such ideas. Bad enough to die, but why prolong the grief our children would endure?

     “It was the last option they offered?” Sasha prodded.

     “The last one, last option… Could you please turn off the endorphins? They are keeping me so peaceful I can’t remember anything.”

     “Reduce drip to minimum,” she told one of her assistants.

     “Why are you administering endorphins? Doesn’t the brain make its own?” These questions had been bothering me.

     “Would you prefer narcos?” Sasha asked.

     “Narcotics? No, I don’t want narcotics.”

     “That’s why we use measured amounts of endorphins,” she said, “to prevent panic.”

     I scratched my nose again, but managed not to stare at my hand this time.

     “They offered you one last option,” she urged.

     “Cry, cryo, right, right, they told us about cryogenics!” I was elated to be able to remember, then terror followed and quickly turned to suspicion, then to frank curiosity. I was a scientist after all.

     “So how long have I been frozen solid?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could.

     “A long time, Niles, but don’t ask me how long, that’s something your RC will go over with you later today.”

     My RC, yes, my readjustment coordinator, I wondered how many psychology degrees my RC had, rather a lot I imagined.

     “Do you remember the kind of cryogenic storage they discussed with you?” Sasha asked, pulling me back into our conversation.

     “I remember them telling us that freezing our bodies was a bad idea because of the cancer,” I answered, remembering. “In fact, I think they recommended just…” I paused and gulped, “freezing our heads.” I paused again, then asked “Do I have a body?”

     “No”

     “Well, I guess that explains my hand,” I brought it up again, and then brought up my left hand. It was shiny steel, too. “If I don’t have a body, how do you administer the endorphins?”

     “Through your life support connections.”

     “So, do I just sit on a shelf somewhere?” I asked glibly. “Wait a minute; you asked me to stand up and sit down, could you explain that, and can I look down yet?”

     “Dr. Velpeerson, you are what we today call a “floating head”. Your head is mounted on a float-pad that has hover control as well as complete life support built in. Others from your century have adapted to their new existence and are part of our society. Your RC will go over many options and job opportunities with you and will help you with your adjustment.”

     “Is my wife a floating head, too?” I asked.

     “I don’t have that information, but your RC can find out for you,” she responded, “and yes, you can look down now.”

     I did, and shrieked; I was floating about four feet above the floor.

     I spent the next couple of hours leaning how to float forwards, backwards, how to turn without spinning like a top, how to sit down, which was actually a built-in mode that set my hover pad to the same level as people seated around me.

     I even learned how to shake hands.

     Hanna would laugh herself silly. Hanna, my lovely Hanna, I had to find out about her!

#

     That afternoon Sasha walked me over to meet my RC. The office had a sign on the door; The Floating Head Employment Agency. However far in the future I was, it seemed that smart-aleks had still survived.

     “Dr. Niles Velpeerson, this is your Readjustment Coordinator, Dr. Wanda Stromberg, Wanda your new client likes to be called Niles.”

As Sasha departed, Dr. Stromberg came around her desk and offered her hand. Reflexively I shook it; it seemed so natural.

“Welcome, Niles, to the twenty-eighth century, and do please call me Wanda.”

Her rich southern accent caused goose bumps to run up and down my arms and spine, except that I didn’t have such things anymore; the biofeedback seemed quite advanced.

     Opposite her desk, instead of a normal chair, was a raised chair a bit akin to a bar stool, the kind with a small raised back. Thoughtful.

     “Are we on Earth?” The question had been nagging at me.

     “Yes,” she said, smiling, “this is the Mission Beach Center for Cryogenic Revival in San Diego.”

     As I settled into my bar stool I asked; “So I’ve been a block of ice for eight hundred years?”

     “Actually, a few years longer, the year is 2819. We’ve kept the same calendar, except February is twenty-nine days long, and leap year is every three years now,” she said.

     “I’m no expert on cosmology, but it seems a short time for February to change like that.” It was nice to talk about normal, mundane things for a change; I was certain it was intentional.

     “Oh, about three hundred years ago, Hailey’s comet smacked right into the Arabian Peninsula. It changed Earth’s rotation just enough for the change in the calendar. The Saudis have a beautiful lake there now.”

     “How’s my wife? Is she still frozen, or is she a floater, too?”

     “Sorry, Niles, but I’m not allowed to go into that until your readjustment is finished and you’ve made your own decisions about your new life. These are things you have to do on your own.”

     “Why?”

     “On many occasions,” she answered, “couples did not stay together. We had one case where the couple tried to kill each other with their float-pads. Since then, each cryo-rev, I’m sorry, each cryogenic revival is done independently.”

     “Will you tell me then, when we are finished?”

     “I promise, but it’s going to be a couple of weeks at least.”

     A couple of weeks without Hanna? Lord above, how I missed her.

     “How is it,” I asked, “that we can talk to each other? Seven centuries later, I would expect your version of English to be incomprehensible to me as Shakespeare would find mine.”

     Wanda laughed, “Language training is required for everyone working in cryogenic revival. Once you decide on your future, you’ll end up in a language class.”

Next we discussed living quarters. I teased her about just renting a broom closet, and learned that this current society had special apartments for floating heads in one wing of the RC facility. The surrounding area’s appearance had even been designed to look like the twentieth century.

     The next several days we discussed the changes in culture over the centuries, how science had developed, improvements in medicine–cancer no longer existed, nor heart disease, or strokes.

     “For example, medical science just discovered how to cure your cancer,” she told me, “a few years ago. After careful testing it was determined it would be safe to thaw you out.”

     “But they only froze our heads to eliminate the cancer,” I said.

     “Cancer cells migrate,” she said, “and we weren’t going to take the chance. We owe you too much.”

     She refused to elaborate.

     She did explain that society had developed to the point where violent crime was virtually unknown, a decided improvement.

     “With the economy so healthy that need and want no longer exist, and with so much land available on the colonies, there is no need to steal or harm one another. Why steal someone’s vehicle when you can so easily afford to buy one?”

     “What if you can’t afford the purchase?” I asked.

     “Then an agreement allowing the customer to work off the balance is reached.”

     “Like a barter system?” I asked.

     “Yes, very similar,” she replied.

     “How is this possible? I can see it working on a one-to-one basis, but not how an entire society can function.”

     “We have you to thank Dr. Velpeerson,” she answered, smiling at my confusion.

     “Me?”

     “Yes. The theories you and your wife developed concerning plasma physics and materials development have become commonplace now, from manufacturing to waste and sewage disposal. We even used it to deal with all those old reactor cores your society buried in the desert. In fact, you own the patents on the technology.”

     “Really? Tell me, is nuclear power still in use?”

     “Yes, very much so, along with hydroelectric and solar, it’s our primary power source. But our reactors, fusion and plasma, are in geosynchronous orbit, around 32,000 miles up I think.”

     “That makes a lot more sense than having them down here,” I agreed. “You mentioned colonies? Are the moon and Mars colonized now?”

     “For centuries, we even have colonies on Mercury, Titan, Europa; even Pluto has a stable population.” She smiled. “But I meant the colonies on worlds orbiting distant stars.”

     I gaped, “You’ve developed a star drive?”

     “Yes, but they’re much too big to install in a ship. So they are used to ‘throw’ the ships to their destinations.”

     “How?” My curiosity was piqued; I’d been a Trekkie since day one.

     “Cosmologists from your era were theorizing that black holes could be harnessed to do this; we figured out how about two hundred fifty years ago.”

     “Wow.” It was all I could say.

     “That’s enough for today,” she said. “Tomorrow we will begin discussions about employment, your investments, and physical possibilities.”

     “You mentioned patents,” I reminded her.

     “Tomorrow.”

     She just loved to tease my curiosity.

#

     “Good morning, Niles,” she greeted me the following morning.

     “Good morning, Wanda,” I replied, then rather boldly asked her a question I had thought of yesterday.

     “Just how many degrees in psychiatry do you have?”

     “Seven,” She giggled. “I’m an MD, a Psychiatrist; I have two degrees in advanced psychology, three in clinical psychiatry, and a degree in readjustment psychology.” She grinned at me while I gaped at her, “I am also a licensed chiropractor, yoga instructor, and herbologist.”

     “Well, I doubt I’ll need your skills in those last couple of fields.” I smiled then took on a very serious look. “How is all of that possible? You barely look like you’re thirty.”

     “Thanks!” She beamed. “But truth be told, I’m old enough to be your grandmother!” She paused to enjoy the surprised look on my face and added, “I’m 117 years old, oh, and I speak twelve languages, in case you were curious.”

     “Okay, I’ll bite. How?”

     “Simple. We doctors figured out how to turn off the gene that makes you grow old and die.” She smiled. “I expect to enjoy several more centuries yet!”

     “How long will I live?”

     “That depends on many things that you still have to decide. Now stop trying to get ahead of me. We have other topics to go over before we discuss lifespan.”

     “Does that include telling me about my wife?”

     “Not today, no… that information is restricted, and not available until after your readjustment is complete.”

     “Since we were married we’ve always made all major decisions together… What’s the use of planning for the future if I don’t get to spend it with her?”

     “There is a rational behind our methods, you will find out when our sessions are finished.”

     “Sure hope so,” I muttered, disconsolate.

     “First, let’s talk about employment,” she said.

     “My knowledge of physics is centuries out of date, or are you suggesting kindergarten classes?” I asked.

     “They still prefer finger-painting,” she giggled, amused. “No, I’m speaking of college level physics. Several of our universities have inquired about your availability.”

     “But physics must be well-advanced beyond my knowledge. You have colonies around our solar system and orbiting other stars. What could I possibly contribute?”

     “In some fields, yes of course they have advanced. But you have to start with basic physics and that hasn’t changed; plus you developed modern plasma physics,” she answered.

     “Hanna and I did,” I said. “We are, or were, a team.”

     I followed this with my best sad puppy-dog look, hoping to get her to tell me about Hanna.

     “Nice try, Niles. You know I can’t tell you anything yet.”

     Damn all those psych degrees. It wasn’t fair.

     “A couple of the universities,” she continued, “are offering both a physics teaching and research post, plus the opportunity to teach poetry. I’m kind of hoping you will continue with your poetry; I’m a bit of a fan.”

     “My poetry,” I grumbled, “revolved around Hanna, as did my life.”

     “You start getting depressed on me, and I’ll turn your endorphin drip up so high you’ll be grinning all day.”

     Yikes, she was tough as nails.

     “I’ll look over the offers,” I said, unwilling to admit how much they interested me. “Do they pay well?”

     “Several of the offers are substantial.”

     “I’ll look them over, but I’m not saying yes to any of them until you tell me about my Hanna.”

     “Fair enough; let’s get physical.” She smiled. “Do you like being a floating head, or would you like a new body?”

     I stared at her open mouthed.

     “You can do that? You can clone me a new body? But how do you put my brain in it?”

     “Yes, we can give you a new body, but it isn’t cloned, well not exactly, but I guess it starts that way from your viewpoint.”

     “I’m listening.”

     “Cloned bodies are created in a lab as blanks,” she explained. “Once you choose the model you want your DNA is injected into the matrix, and the blank develops into an identical match to you, right down to the neural pathways. Age is around thirty years or so, and they’re said to last for centuries.”

     “How does my brain get inside?”

     “Oh, sorry, I forgot you had asked that.” She looked at me. “It doesn’t. First we had to cure the cancer; it interferes with the process. Your new body has a new brain, so we only need to transfer your memories, your knowledge and thought processes, your personality, and your consciousness into the new brain.”

     “How?”

     “It’s called Flash Transfer,” she said. “It takes about one-tenth of a millisecond and is painless. You blink your eyes, and you’re there. Most of the universities have offered to pay for your procedure.”

     “You seem pretty certain,” I said. “I bet it’s expensive.”

     “Expensive? Yes, very,” she said, “about 1.65 billion dollars and worth every penny.”

     I must have looked curious; she smiled and continued.

     “I had just submitted my application to train as an RC, when my buildings power generation unit decided to fireball. I had third degree burns over 90 percent of my body, and my lungs were severely damaged, and I was blind due to my eyes being fried. A new body was my only chance,” she said. “The RC directors paid for it, and I signed a thirty-year contract.”

     “Thirty years seems a bit long.”

     “Remember,” she smiled, “this body cost one point sixty-five billion dollars, and thirty years is pretty much standard for this. It’s what the universities will expect if you have them pay for it.”

     “As my only other choice seems to be this floatation unit…” I said, unable to shrug. “Besides I know, or knew, professors who would sell their own mothers to score a thirty-year contract. Are you able to help me select the right university? Preferably the one my wife might be teaching at; did they offer her a new body, too?”

     “You just don’t give up do you?” Wanda asked with a smile. “No info until after you make your decisions.”

     “There is another option,” she added.

     “A government research facility,” I answered, “or a private corporation.”

     “Both have offers ready, just like the universities,” she said. “You are a rather popular commodity, but that wasn’t what I was going to say. Buy your own.”

     “I, what? Buy?” I was at a loss for words. “How? We left a bit of money in trust to pay for expenses, but not enough to buy a new toenail.”

     “True,” she agreed, “although the investment people did well for you, but not that well. I’m talking about the patents you hold and the royalties paid.”

     “How much?” I asked, trying to hide my nerves.

     “Your share,” she said, “comes to one point sixty-eight billion, leaving you a bit of spending money for clothes and such. Plus you wouldn’t have to sign any long contracts–you could move from school to school until you found the one you wanted, including off-world, and way off-world schools. Or, you could be a guest lecturer, and see each school, and the school would pay your travel expenses.”

     “What would I look like?” I asked. I wasn’t being vain, just curious.

     “Like you did when you were thirty,” she said, “plus any improvements you select.”

     “Improvements?”

     “Twenty-fifteen vision is a popular one,” she said. “I wanted to be a tall, long-legged blond and a bit bigger.” She waved vaguely at her chest.

     “I do like the hair,” I said. Blonds were a weakness of mine. Hanna had beautiful blond hair.

     “Guys frequently want to be tall,” she said, “broad shouldered, have great arms and chests, and be better, um, endowed.” 

     “I see that hasn’t changed.”

     We spent an hour or so looking at the variations available, and I selected a few improvements, she placed my order for me.

     Two days later she walked with me over to the lab where the DNA sample would be taken, with a needle. I wake up seven or eight centuries in the future and they still use needles!

     The accountant was waiting for us in his office and politely asked about payment.

     “I’m buying it myself,” I said. “I kind of like the notion of traveling.”

     “Very good, sir. Please sign here.”

     My robot hand did a fine job of signing the purchase order.

     “How long?” I asked.

     “We need to do a calibration.” We followed him into a lab, divided by a curtain, I suspected my “blank” was on the other side, but I resisted my curiosity.

     “Sit here, please,” my original doctor said.

     “Hi, Dr. Sasha,” I said, “we meet again.”

     “Good afternoon, Niles,” she said, connecting several electronic leads to my still bald head.

     My RC excused herself for a moment.

     “What’s the calibration for,” I asked, “kind of like formatting a computer?”

     “When I count to three, I need you to blink for me. One, two, three, blink,” Sasha said, and I did.

#

     “Hi, Niles,” Wanda said. “Enjoy the ride?”

     “Where did you come from?” I asked. “I was just looking at Sasha.”

     “In the blink of an eye, Niles,” Sasha said as she came around the curtain. “And I must say you are looking good!”

     Only then did I realize I was lying naked on a table while the two women looked me over.

     “You mean,” I asked, “this is me?”

     “And how!” Sasha definitely liked what she saw. “Can you sit up?”

     “Sure,” I said as I sat up, swung my legs around, and stood to my feet. Before either could protest, I grabbed a robe hanging on a hook and put it on.

     “Spoilsport!” Wanda teased, “I had six guys watching when I was transferred, and two even asked me out to dinner!”

     “Voyeur,” I teased back. “Any clothes around I can wear?”

     “Only after your physical,” Sasha said, “then a bit of physical therapy to make sure your new body is a match, and you’ll be ready for your big date!”

     “Big date?” I asked, looking straight at Wanda.

     “I buy dinner for each of my new friends,” she said, “before letting you run loose.”

     “And Hanna?”

     “I’ll have all the info with me.” She smiled. “I promise.”

     The physical therapy was the longest week of my life.

     “Meet me at The Hacienda at 6 p.m. sharp,” Wanda said on the last day.

     I showered and shaved, combed my hair, and tried hard not to run to the Mexican restaurant two blocks from the lab.

     “How many, please?” the waiter asked.

     “I’m meeting my RC for dinner,” I told him, as my new and improved eyes scanned every table in sight.

     “Ah, Dr. Velpeerson,” he said, “this way, please.”

     He led me towards the rear of the dining room, and I tried not to knock him down as I rushed forward; I would recognize that flowing blond hair if I was blind!

     She too had opted for a new body, and a nice one at that.

     “Hanna!” I said loudly as I rushed to her table. Wanda watched from the far side of the table, smiling.

     Hanna stood, and turned toward me. As our eyes met she called out, “Niles!”

     I wrapped her new body in my new arms and kissed her, hard.

     Our bodies might be new, but our love was centuries old.

     And new, all over again.