Moving On

The hospital’s Director of Ethics entered the room softly. It had been darkened but not enough to keep him from seeing the bandaged figure floating above the no-gravity plate.  He  reached for the control panel. A soft light grew, and other things were done. When the figure twitched slightly, the doctor made a very slight change, the light became a tiny bit dimmer, and the twitching became almost impossible to see. But he could detect it, after many years of this work. “Mademoiselle?” he said softly. “May we speak?”

A thin wisp of sound came from the floating figure, from damaged lungs that only the elaborate equipment allowed to speak at all. It was enough for the doctor. He continued, “I understand your situation.” He hesitated before continuing, but brutal as honesty seemed, he needed to be sure she understood to make a proper decision. He had come to hate this part of his work. “You .  .  . “ he almost continued with “were” but paused, then demanded of himself that he use the present, incorrect as it now was, “You are a very great dancer. But you were trapped by . . . clutter backstage during a terrible fire.  And now you are here where we are doing everything we can to help you.

Another pause with only the sound of a painful breath. He went on. “There are options.”

The figure did speak now. “I want to dance.”

Good. She could respond. But how well did she understand? He said gently, “We can, in time, mend you enough so you can teach.”

“No. I want to dance.”

He was not allowed, by the rules of his job, to lie to her. “Mademoiselle. There was very grave damage done to you. Teaching would be a most worthy use of your knowledge and talents.”

Silence. “I do not give permission.”

He flinched. She knew, then, the constraints of the situation. The hospital, culminating with his work,  had determined she was able to decide and she had turned down one alternative. Under their laws, it was final. And, in truth, there was sense to it. The treatment would be very long and very painful. He went on to the alternative he tended to favor.

“Your mind, with all its knowledge, can be transferred into a . . . substitute”

The bandaged body did move slightly. And spoke. “Into a thing of metal. An ungainly mechanical object.”

That was really not a fair judgment. He tried to explain. “We . . .Medicine is way beyond that now. It would be a marvelous creation, able to move beautifully. And your mind would feel the movement.”

“Horrible. Grotesque.:

What might she want? Surely not simply death.

She spoke again. “I demand a clone.”

He had somewhat feared this and needed to make sure she understood.

"It wouldn't be you."

"I know. But in a sense, she will be." The voice was thin. The bandaged body was moving restlessly. despite all the pain-deadening measures.

The doctor frowned slightly, then quickly erased the wrinkled forehead. "What do you mean?"

"She will be me as I should have been. If I hadn't been  . . . “ The voice stopped. She didn't need to say more--he understood all too well. And chose not to argue. He could have pointed out that this new person might make other choices, not be as she envisioned. He was quite sure she was aware of that. He wished he could have offered her also the storing of her mind he had earlier spoken of, a mind to be there to guide this new creature,  but that was totally forbidden. Only one version of a person was allowed. He bowed his head  and said, “You have decided?”

“Yes”

“I will make the arrangements.”