Brother

I close my eyes as I dial the number. I already know, deep inside me, that this call isn’t going to help. My heart speeds up as the phone is answered. I wet my lips. I know this is going to be a tough sell and I am not sure if I am up for the job.

‘333 what is your emergency?’

My lips are too dry to speak. I wet them but the words won’t come.

‘Hello? Can you tell me your emergency?’ the voice speaks again, ‘which service do you require?’

‘I… erm… ambulance?’ I stutter. ‘My brother is… is very ill.’

‘Have you called 311?’

‘I… no… but it’s an emergency… I don’t have time to wait for a GP assessment! Please!’

‘Ok, putting you through!’

Good, first hurdle passed. When I had appendicitis last year, I’d had to jump through literal hoops to even be offered access to the emergency line and that had been life-threatening! I wait a nerve-shattering five minutes – those lines are always busy – and then a voice speaks.

‘Hello, you are through to the Medicare 333 emergency line. My name is Holly. What is your emergency?’

‘Ah yes, hello,’ I manage, ‘M-my b-b-brother… he needs an ambulance!’

‘Can I take your name please?’

‘Sure, it’s Jennifer – Jen.’

‘Hello Jen. Now let’s talk about your brother, can you tell me the problem?’

Thank God, it’s somebody with a bit of compassion in their voice! That will help!

‘He is in a great deal of pain, clutching his ribs and belly… he’s barely conscious and can’t lie down flat due to the pain… he’s.. he’s not communicating.’

‘Ok my lovely, stay calm there… it’s going to be ok, we’re here to help now!’

‘Thank you,’ I murmur.

‘Ok, what is your brother’s name, age and location?’

I give her the address first, hoping she will issue an ambulance whilst I am talking so it’ll already be on route.

‘Name and age,’ she says again, a little brisker. Maybe she knows this trick. Damn. I’m fucked if she does. Maybe she already dispatched it. I can hope!

‘His name is Robin, Robin Chambers and… and he’s… thirty f-four years old,’ the lie burns in my throat.

‘Ok, and is he able to drink fluids?’

My heart thuds. ‘No.’

‘Fevered?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much pain would you say he is in, on a scale of one to ten with one being normal and ten being the very worst pain you have ever felt?’

I think back to my own appendicitis. ‘Eight or Nine.’

‘Ok, sounds like he needs some intervention! Can I have his government-issued Medicare number please?’

‘I… I don’t have it? I can give you mine?’

Silence for a long minute on the line. Please God, let her have already dispatched the ambulance!

‘It would need to be his, I am afraid.’ She finally speaks.

‘He… he lost his card…’

‘I see. You know that we cannot issue ambulances without a Medicare number…’

‘Please, he’s in so much pain! We are waiting on the replacement card, but they said it could be weeks! He’ll be dead by then!’

More silence, then a little sigh.

‘Ok. Let’s try something else!’ she says, ‘Can you describe your brother to me, physically? With a physical description and the name and address I might be able to locate him in the system and check against his photo.’

‘I… I can’t…’

‘Because he doesn’t have a Medicard?’

And there it is, I’m caught out. She’s figured it out. Fuck. Let’s just hope she has a heart! Can turn a blind eye. Probably not worth risking her job on, I already know that. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why couldn’t he have been a girl? Or me a guy? We look similar enough, could probably have pulled it off using my card if we’d been the same gender! I mean, at least until they got him on the table and realised… but then what sort of a medic would open a patient up and then not operate?

That would be unethical!

I feel the tears brewing and glance to my “brother”. He looks about thirty now, side-swept dark hair and handsome face screwed up in pain. Water dribbles down his brow, wetting the hair at the side of his thin face which looks so much like mine. He’s shivering for the fever and there’s a patch of wetness on the duvet that is wrapped around him. Sweat.

His organs are shutting down.

I knew it would happen and yet I never really believed.

‘Hello?’ the voice sounds sympathetic, but I already know she won’t budge.

‘He’s…’ I trail off.

Silence.

‘Jen, be honest now. Is your brother a HG?’ she finally asks, that voice still dripping softness.

There it is. I nod stupidly, unable to speak, then realise that she can’t see me - I purposely dimmed my video – and so I manage to stutter a simple yes.

‘Oh, love.’ Yep, that’s real sympathy. Maybe she has one at home? ‘You know HGs aren’t covered under government Medicare,’ she says, ‘it is part of the contract you would have signed...’

‘I know,’ I concede.

‘You were supposed to take out private cover?’

‘I did…’ I murmur, ‘I did have but you see I lost my job in the big purge last year and… and his cover was part of my private care plan through work and…’

‘I am so sorry for you,’ she says. Again, I feel like she’s genuine.

‘Please, at least some pain shots? Put them on my card? I had appendicitis last year and they gave me meds…’

‘I am so sorry, but I cannot do that,’ she says. ‘Is there anything else I can help with?’

‘A final shot then? To end the agony?’

‘You know I cannot issue those from here – you need a doctor to administer those – for a fee.’

‘Please!’

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t!’

‘Oh God! Have a heart! His fucking organs are shutting down! He’s in agony!’

‘I wish you the very best of luck. I will send an info-sheet through this line with details of grieving centres and local units who offer state-benefit disposal but other than that I am afraid my hands are tied.’

I give out a little scream and hang up.

Robin is groaning. I am helpless.

I move to sit by his side and brush the wet hair out of his eyes. They move up to drink me in. Childlike. Innocent. Trusting. Full of love. They said he wouldn’t be a child but in so many ways, they were wrong.

‘Is the medic coming?’ he manages to gasp out.

‘Yes love, they will be here soon.’

‘They won’t… for me…’

‘I know they shouldn’t but… but I persuaded them.’

His hand grips mine and hope shines on his face. My “brother”, my darling. My heart feels physically bruised. He gasps again and lets out a little murmur. It’s always the abdominal organs that go first. The contract warned of that. It was the first sign. If you were lucky, they’d die from that, or of a heart-attack, before the rot started to take the brain.

‘Help me,’ he whispers, ‘please!’

With a groan I move back to the phone, still holding his hand with one of my own, and dial the emergency line again.

‘333,’ a cheery voice speaks, ‘what is your emergency?’

‘Ambulance please.’

‘I am sorry, this number is temporarily banned from using the emergency health line.’

What?’

‘I am afraid you have been reported for attempted Medi-fraud, your line is barred for 24 hours.’

‘Bitch!’ I scream, losing it, ‘That bitch!’ and slam down the receiver so hard that the following morning I find it cracked. 24 hours. Long enough to be sure my darling Robin will be gone. I guess can always go out to find a phone from a neighbour or something but that would mean leaving him and I already know that it would be useless.

And so I have no choice but to just sit with him until the end.

I return to his side and try to imagine what my life will be like without him. Empty. Lonely. Dull. Just as it was before him. Robin and I live in “hamster box housing” – cheap government apartments which gained their nickname for the tiny, cramped conditions they offer. I sit in a grey-painted room which holds a fold-out bed: currently down and occupied by Robin, a pull-out kitchen unit and a single screen which is set into the wall. The bathrooms are communal but they have a permanent janitor, so they are at least clean.

There are no windows. Windows cost more.

There are no frivolities, no knickknacks, or ornaments. I sold all of those when I lost my job in the purge. I sigh. The purge as it was called – where so many of us were suddenly outed from our jobs due to the cheapness of hiring HGs instead – after all, they can do everything we can, and they are known for being more pliant, more trainable. You don’t need a wage for a HG, just make sure you feed and clothe them, and they will do as you wish. Almost as good as a robot but with more personality and – these days – a cheaper outlay.

HGs are cheap, that’s the other bonus of them. That’s how I managed to afford Robin (with a decent amount of saving and careful spending).

I run my fingers through the damp feathers of my darling’s hair again. He’s crying openly now, the pain which is ravaging his body obvious on his now-bloody, twisted lips. It’s like watching a child die, a beloved puppy.

My tears come.

Sorrow for the incoming loss, but also anger for my own stupidity! How could I not have considered this? Why had I not thought to have a back-up plan? I cast my mind back, sitting in that clean white office in front of a girl who looked about twenty but who likely wasn’t – white teeth and perfect hair. You can tell a HG if you know what you are looking for!

‘So, your chosen model will be grown from cells from your own body, is that right’ she asked me, grinning and writing it down.

‘Yes. Will it be female? A sister?’

‘Not necessarily! The initial process is much like fertilisation – only the result will be all your genes! Gender is optional at an extra fee but most people on your budget take the surprise.’

‘But it won’t be a baby?’

‘No, not unless that is the chosen form – in your case not! Yours will be grown. The process of aging is sped up “in-utero” – as we call it – so after the three-month incubation period, your new brother or sister will be born fully grown – we estimate they will look and act about twenty-five years of age once they are released.’

‘And then the aging slows down?’

‘Yes. They will look and age normally after that until expiry.’

‘Ok,’ I said, naïve and stupid, ‘Perfect! Let’s do this!’

Robin interrupts me from the memories, his eyes flying open suddenly and his face twisting again. He grumbles and bends over, his fingers gripping mine so hard they hurt. A HG, a home-grown human companion. You could get all sorts of models: baby, child, adult, elder. They are the biggest breakthrough in modern science. They have potential to change the world… and yet we use them as novelties. Toys.

They have approximately a five-year lifespan.

Of course, you are warned not to get too attached from the beginning. “We call them brothers and sisters, but it is better to see them as like a pet rather than like a friend”, my sales assistant had suggested. (Did she even know what she was? Who knows.) “They don’t last long enough to get really attached to in a human sense.”

And there it was. There was the problem with them. Short lifespans and childlike innocence due to not technically having lived most of their lives. The official word is that the tech can’t sustain life for a long period of time, but conspiracy theorists say it is done on purpose to keep customers coming back for new ones. Who knows.

Either way, in terms of HG my Robin is an old man, at coming on six years.

And I’ve known all along he was going to get sick.

I’ve known all along he will die.

In agony.

With no medical help.

Medicare – the government funded medical service – simply cannot treat HGs. They’d be swamped, more overrun than they already are. At first they tried but something had to give as hospitals drowned in casualties and people died in droves. HG’s are just “toys” after-all, not “real people”, so it was an easy choice for the voting public. Most HG’s last four or five years. As Robin passed his fifth birthday, hope grew, took up root in my heart and spread through my body. Maybe he was different, maybe he was of a better build!

I guess I was wrong.

Robin’s writhing gets worse, his moans turning to little barked screams. I stand and go to the counter to crush up another three paracetamol. I’ve already given him the daily dose, but it won’t hurt now. I mix them into a glass of scotch and cheap orange and then think fuck it, and add a bunch more, nearly a whole tube. My heart tears open but I force my face to remain calm. I put the glass to his lips. He coughs and splutters, but he gets most of it down at least. Enough to stop the pain for good.

‘There, my sweet one,’ I say, ‘it’s nearly over now.’

‘When will the medic come?’

‘Soon,’ I whisper.

A siren sounds in the distance even as I answer and his eyes grow wider, joy showing in them. Gullible – that is the thing about HGs – they are so gullible. Like children who never learned to live forced into the bodies of adults.

‘They really are coming!’

‘Yes! See, and they are going to make you better!’

‘It hurts!’

‘I know darling,’ I whisper but I can see that he’s growing drowsy from the paracetamol and whiskey I have been feeding him. ‘Not long now baby…’

No, not long now.

Not long at all.

Outside I hear the ambulance go past. Not stopping. That’s ok. I already know it’s not for us.

At least Robin is still now.