Thresholds

Thursday - 03/21 - 04:56

I try to envision my approximate location as I walk the fourth or fifth corridor of the winding maze to the Board Room. I don’t usually lose my bearings, so I think it could be the Launch Day jitters disorienting me. That, or it could be how much I’m bleeding.

The finger prick was one of the verification measures at the start of the first corridor, where I’d also had to remove the mask to scan my pupils. Sometime since, I’d noted how the silence was thick enough in this subterranean maze to actually hear drops of my blood hitting the cold stone, and I’d quickened my pace.

Finally coming to the entrance of the Board Room, the guard there notices my predicament and skips the handshake. It feels gracious, whether it was for their benefit or mine. At this point, after so many meetings, these rituals seem merely a formality.

Today is Launch Day. Every single member of The Verity knows who I am.

No one flinches when I enter the Demonstration Cell Board Room with a tightly clenched fist raised above my heart, thin crimson rivulets disappearing into my sleeve and gathering wetly at my elbow. I always bleed more than anyone else. It’s a lifelong symptom of mine, which everybody here also knows. I almost laugh out loud at the absurdity of the blackout mask on my face meant to hide my identity. But, rules are rules.

I sit down, accepting the wad of tissues from the identically masked person seated at the table next to me with a wordless nod. Speaking aloud is forbidden unless you’re on the podium and equipped with the voice modifier, but the truth is I’m grateful for the silence. I can guess the tremor in my voice without having to open my mouth.

To quell my anxiety as I wipe furiously at my arm, I go to a trick I learned decades ago from one of my pediatric oncology nurses. On a particularly bad night in an unfamiliar hospital, she told me to look for things that reminded me of home when I had to be somewhere I didn’t like. Back then, I noticed the clock in the inpatient room made the exact same ticking noise as the one in my own bedroom. Or how wherever I slept, I always woke up to find my stuffed lamb had fallen out of bed.

Now, I scan my surroundings through dark mesh, desperate for the tiniest comfort. For any similarity between this meeting room and the one that’s become like home to me at Systema. On the 31st floor of a proud tower of glossy windows, where I sit weekly for various debriefs and progress reports. Whether my trick would have worked, I’ll never know. Because at that moment, The Speaker rises to the podium and adjusts their microphone with a gloved hand. As the meeting is called to order, I silently reassure myself: this is the very last time I’ll ever need to be here.

The Sunday Before - 03/17 - 15:32

“Thank you, everybody, for coming in on the weekend.”

I shuffle through my purse which I’d hung over the back of my chair while David Mathieson brings the room to attention. I fish out my nameplate and place it on the oak table in front of me, embossed side facing outward to the seated semi-circle of my cohorts.

Agnetha Dahl

Internal Review Chair of Circulatory Programs

Systema Biotech

“Happy Launch Week!” our CEO bellows. A smattering of applause. The room holds its breath.

“I’ll save my big thank-you speech for Thursday because, as of now, we still have prep to do.

"TCR-1 is ready for Launch Day. Of this, we’ve all made 100% sure. The blood we simulated is ready. In the coolers are 25 litres of our Programmable Hematic Medium - more than enough for the demo. With the investments from Launch Day attendants we will be able to start the real work-” a dry collective chuckle, “generating thousands more. And building dozens of TCRs to ship globally. Folks, all of this within the next quarter alone.”

I can feel my body and those around me hum with barely-contained electricity. The culmination of the last eight years of the Total Circulatory Replacement Project.

“As of now, closed-loop trials have officially been completed for safe blood transfusions across every variance we could simulate; from a vast spectrum of age, mass, and pre-existing conditions. Once circulation of our blood begins, the system adapts instantly to the unique needs of that subject and maintains equilibrium with zero intervention. I implore you all to see it the way I do: with what we’ve put into this project, TCR-1 isn’t even a prototype anymore. This machine cannot fail.”

A second round of applause, this one spirited enough to fill the room to the brim.

“That being said,” Mathieson continues, voice dropping a register and bringing the room down with it, “to err is human. Now that we’ve ensured TCR-1 is ready, it’s essential to guarantee that every one of us arrives at Launch on Thursday as finely tuned as that machine. I couldn’t be happier to report that I have no doubts looking around this room.

"I’m going to turn it over to our next speaker; somebody whose role on Thursday is paramount to our success, and whose work has unequivocally gotten us to this point. Agnetha Dahl, Internal Review Chair.”

A zing of adrenaline shoots down my spine and my posture levels as 25 necks swivel to my direction.

“Thank you, Mr. Mathieson, for the introduction.”

Too quiet. I stand and project my voice as far as I can muster.

“I know everybody at this table by name, and I’m familiar with each of your work. But I do understand if the familiarity is one-sided. As the ‘internal’ in my title suggests, I’ve done almost all of my work remotely until today.”

I can feel the gazes warming up. A few perfunctory nods. Keep going.

“I’d like to go back to our hypothesis. Our driving force, our reason. I trust that it hasn’t become lost in the mess of wires over the years.

"I was born with Progressive Marrow Failure Syndrome. It’s an inherited blood disorder - my bone marrow can’t produce enough healthy blood cells to go around. As a child, this affected my physical growth, gave me early-onset anemia, and then leukemia. I spent years of my adolescence in pediatric hospitals, later dedicating my education and career to circulatory biology. Finding Systema and becoming a part of this team felt like kismet.

"That’s the short version, of course, but I just mean to introduce myself with full context before I tell you my role at Thursday’s event.”

I notice peripherally my colleagues’ tablet screens powering down, their pens lying abandoned next to their notepads. Every single eye on me. I have the room.

“Anybody who is familiar with me or my work on TCR-1 knows that I challenged this project - and each of your contributions to it - every step of the way. That may even be too weak of a word. I renounced it.”

Raised eyebrows. A few murmurs, glances.

“If the blood we’ve simulated fails inside a body, it does so with a vengeance. Our systems - our bodies, I mean - are meant to process malfunction gradually. I can attest to this: over the years I’ve felt it countless times. The slowing down, the deficiencies. The redundancy of adapting, surviving.

"Once the TCR initiates circulation, any failure would kill the patient outright. No partial loss or opportunity for rollback. At that point, you’re a drained vessel. Drained of your old, sick blood. All of its history, protections, all of its memory. I can’t fathom a more profound vulnerability.”

Stares harden. Weight shifts.

“That’s why I had to be unequivocally sure of every proponent of this project. I never once referred to any faction as ‘experimental’. I can’t afford that word. We may have never met face-to-face, but I’ve been in combat with everyone here today regarding your contributions. I dismissed you. I doubted you. And eventually, I authorized you. I needed absolute certainty.

"I will let my position on Launch Day speak to the assurance I’ve acquired for this team over the years. I’ll shake each of your hands there, as I’m being hooked up to TCR-1 as its first human patient. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for your efforts in giving me a new life.”

Thursday - 03/21 - 05:46

I came to The Verity nearly three years ago as a last resort.

Customary to such societies, I didn’t find them advertised on any surface-level posting: Is your job endangering the very concept of ethics in medical biotechnology? Work underground to sabotage them in the ultimate act of betrayal today!

No. I’d had to dig. The depth of which came at the cost of every iota of my history, both medical and professional, surrendered to the powers that be. Proving my rank and my loyalty had been an exhaustive process. They can’t deploy just anybody for this.

Our final run-through meeting is nearing adjournment, and I’m looking at a grain of rice on the table in front of me.

“In-ear transmitter,” the Speaker clarifies, the faintest echo detectable underneath the amplified robotic buzz of the voice modifier. “Receive only.”

Now that they stood so close, I find myself shocked that their body radiated warmth, and how I notice it the way you notice a stranger standing too close behind you at the ATM. All at once, I register that every dark featureless blob in this crypt-like room is a live human person, each with their own martyrlike convictions for being here. I wonder how many of them had thought about this, too.

I had already surrendered my Systema tech to the guards at the first corridor; everything The Verity would need to carry out the demonstration remotely.

“We will establish contact the moment you’re brought to the stage, long before the cycling of your blood is to begin. You’ll be kept up to date with the code entry process on our end, up until TCR-1 is disabled. Tonight your gear will be returned discretely to your home, your connection to us permanently severed with the completion of this mission. Is that understood, agent?”

I nod once and touch two fingers to my right shoulder, slow and deliberate. The official affirmative response.

“The Verity thanks you for your service.”

Thursday - 03/21 - 16:45

Standing at the furthermost edge of a line of Systema colleagues on stage, I contemplate the inevitability of this moment. The same way I contemplated it three years ago sitting at the edge of my chair in front of David Mathieson’s desk, pleading the case I knew I could never win. My voice had cracked pitifully mid-argument and I knew right then that repeating myself was only wasting what voice I had left. This project was moving ahead with or without me, and the only way I’d be able to stop it would be from my spot on this stage. Today.

Hundreds of industry techs, investors, and doctors mill the dim theatre space in front of me, lumping together like a squirming cluster of cells when the stage lights bloom on. The top of my head feels warm.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” our CEO croons, and I fight a bizarre urge to snort. Taking in this scene from above would look like a performance art piece or a highfalutin charity auction. The lab coats we were all given side-stage are starchy and too pristine.

“When I first hypothesized Total Circulatory Replacement as a treatment therapy to my Translational Blood Sciences professor in my grad school days, the response was a single wave of his hand. I mean, he carried on as if it had merely been a mosquito whining by his ear that had interrupted his lecture. To this day, I think that’s all he heard.”

His audience purrs good-naturedly. Faint static crackles deep in my left ear. I tune Mathieson out for the next several minutes and focus only on the feedback. Listening for a greeting, a sign-on, even the softest breath to reassure me. Hearing nothing, I dial back into the theatre.

“–tirelessly developing 100% functional synthetic blood, our Programmable Hematic Medium, which–”

–creates an immune system that stops recognizing itself.

“–a one-time procedure that relieves the sick body from the chore of a never-ending ‘healing’ cycle–”

–locking a sick body into a foreign technological ecosystem that will fail them.

“TCR-1,” Mathieson gestures grandly to the shiny vertical console centre-stage, “has been my baby for eight years. But it’s not just mine anymore. The number of hours each and every person on this platform has put into this project is astronomical.”

I focus on keeping my breaths deep, even, and imperceptible while my cohort is introduced one by one. I speed-run the plan in my mind for what I tell myself must be the last time. I will be seated and hooked up to TCR-1, fitted with ECG leads, the oximeter, blood pressure cuff. Various sensors. A harmless saline will be circulated first, briefly. Then-

I don’t need to think any further, I remind myself. The Verity will communicate their entering of the code that disrupts TCR-1’s signals, and the machine will power down. I try to predict Mathieson’s reaction, fighting back a smile as I picture the cloud of confusion, then mortification, that will cross his face. His voice low and urgent with hovering techs as they try in vain to boot up the machine. The crowd’s slow, delicious loss of interest.

It’s these thoughts that propel my body forward when my name is called, that have me calm and almost floating towards the dialysis chair as Mathieson delivers my tragic backstory to a pool of glassy, sympathetic stares. As an homage to the theatre of it all, I even give a tiny, pitiful cough and play up exhaustion as I assume my position. I don’t know why I do it. But the audience loves it.

As promised, once I’ve been fitted in a patient gown and made to sit, a deep voice sounds in my head.

“Agent Dahl. The Verity sends its regards.”

As I lift each of my arms for the large-bore cannulas to be inserted on either side of my clavicle, I rest two fingers on my right shoulder.

“Every system reveals itself at the point of offering.”

The cuff is placed on my arm. Begins to tighten.

“The threshold has been crossed.”

The glass of the cool, sterile reservoirs drip with condensation. The liquid inside is pale, almost luminous.

“You have been chosen to carry the truth farther than any of us could.”

The chair reclines with an air of finality. I launch myself back up with a start.

The voice. What are they saying?

Eyebrows furrow on stage. Crowd stirs. I am standing centre-stage in a translucent paper gown, hair falling loose into my face as my head whips from side to side. Searching for who?

“Do not turn away now.”

I am gently guided back to my seat. I hear Mathieson chuckle and make a wry comment into the microphone. A clever improvisation. A placating rumble of laughter from below.

My eyes follow the arc of thick clear tubing from my body into TCR-1. Watch it cloud with a torrent of liquid. When it hits, I taste metal. My veins feel cold. I thrash.

“Completion will make the truth undeniable. We will bear witness.”

The torrent darkens. Thins.

“Be still. The world will understand because of you.”

And Launch Day at Systema Biotech goes exactly according to plan.