“All right. When they were operating down there, they had to make some decisions very fast. They found enough tissue from the scrotum stuffed in there to graft some of this incredible artificial skin to match. They couldn’t ask you, naturally, so they went ahead and formed a vagina and a clitoris like they do for trans-sexuals. It’s an old procedure. But so far they’ve been maintaining your normal male hormone levels. The whole area has formed and mended well, but they have to have a decision before starting any program of rehabilitation with you. You can still attain orgasm, but not in the old way. They can construct a living prosthesis there out of the artificial stuff, but there would be no feeling in it and there’s no prostate left. Or they can change the hormones and introduce permanent peptides into your brain that would turn you physically and probably emotionally but not genetically female.”
“Huh? What do you mean, ‘emotionally?’ ”
“My boy, they know enough about neural receptors now that they could introduce a substance that would make you fall madly in love for life with the next person you saw.”
The idea frightened him. The next battlefield for the enemy? he wondered. The idea frightened him even more than SAINT.
“Let me think about it. See myself as I am. But—what about Angelique? They wouldn’t tell me anything at all except she was recovering and they refuse to let me see her.”
“You will. She’s needed more help than you, not so much for the outside as for the inside. When she thinks she’s ready, you’ll meet her.” He paused for a moment. “This isn’t the worst of it, though.”
He grew suddenly concerned. “What?”
“Nine hundred and thirty one men, women and children were evacuated to make way for their doings and held pretty much incommunicado at an old French army base in Guyana leased for the purpose. They’re not prisoners any more, and it’s been impossible to keep the press away from them. Bonner has managed a very smooth, scientific line complete with the mad computer warnings, but there’s a worldwide hue and cry against all large computers. Magellan will survive, but only because it does so little business directly with the public and so much vital to governments, but the whole story is coming out and being splashed across the newspapers and television stations of the world. Even Tass, which is showing how huge capitalistic monoliths, in the name of profits, let such a thing happen beyond the control of weak western governments. Naturally, you and Angelique could hardly be kept out of it. An old associate of yours who calls himself ‘Red’ has already sold the story of you and he being chased by a monstrous thing to Hollywood for a good sum.”
“Well, I guess it was inevitable. Doctor Bonner was setting things up when he was here, I guess. He knew they couldn’t keep a lid on it. So what’s the problem?”
St. Cyr sighed. “Well, money and muscle has kept them out of this hospital, although they’ve tried, but this isn’t a country where secrets are easily kept and this is a pretty large hospital. It’s one thing for you to have your private agony, a wound of war, but it’s not private now. It’s an enormous story, you know. Everyone who reads or watches television knows what happened to you, and also knows Angelique’s problems. The Enquirer even paid a bundle to interview your ex-wife on what she thought of it and what kind of lover you used to be. The same goes for Angelique, of course, but it’s a different sort of case there.”
The implications of it all hit him now, and he groaned. There would be no anonymity, no privacy, ever. Even when it had cooled down and become old news, everyone he’d come in contact with would know. “Hey, what’s it feel like to be castrated?” “Hey, when you gonna grow breasts?” “Oh, I like being out with a celebrity. You’re the only guy I feel really safe with.” Jesus!
“The company will provide good security, but sooner or later you’re going to have to face this. I thought you ought to understand, before making your decision.”
He sighed. “What would you do?”
“Well, I can’t comment, and at my age it wouldn’t make much difference, but it’s far easier to be one thing than neither, socially. With hormone, peptide, and plastic surgery you would appear normal and fit into society as one thing. A change of name and location, a false background, and you would be able to have a private life. Even without the change, you’d be ten minutes of old news then instead of a continuing…”
“Freak. Yeah, I know. Shit!” Normal, huh? To them, perhaps, but not to himself.
It was several days of exercising before he could manage even to stand with a walker, and he couldn’t go far, but he did manage to look at himself, naked, in a full-length mirror. St. Cyr had been right—aside from what appeared to be a permanent new dark reddish complexion and white hair, whatever damage had been done to him had been so skillfully rapaired he could hardly believe how little he’d changed. He looked at himself, and tried to imagine himself as a woman, and failed miserably. All he could do was look at it all and cry.
But he knew he’d always be Gregory MacDonald, not Georgette or whatever, until he died, and he so told his physicians.
The therapists were excellent, and he was on solids in a week and walking where he pleased within the month, although it would still be some time before he was absolutely right. He could, in fact, go to outpatient soon, although the truth was he had no idea where the hell he was to go now that it was over.
Father Dobbs paid him a visit near the end of the eighth week after he’d been freed of his devices. He’d been busy filling out forms and writing official reports and it had taken up a lot of his time and taken his mind off things.
He was glad to see King’s Bishop, even if the title elevated him a notch, but he knew that Dobbs had not come all the way down to Port of Spain just to see him.
After the usual pleasantries and small talk and comments on how fit he looked, the priest got around to the point. “She wants to see you, my boy. She wants to see you very much, and the doctors think that it will be the best thing for her.”
He was instantly excited, but he came down fast. “Does she—know about me?”
“No. We thought you should be the one to tell her. It’s a hurdle you’ve already faced, and she must now.”
He nodded. “How is she?”
“Well, she is as fit as she will ever be. There is no trace of the old paralysis, but she had extensive internal injuries. One of the bullets that struck the Bishop passed through into her right hand at an odd angle, and she’s got only limited control of the hand and she’s lost two middle fingers on it. Her scars aren’t disfiguring, but they dwarf yours. She broke bones in her hip and pelvic region when she fell—repairable, but because of the time lost she’ll always walk a bit stiffly. She claims that these are small prices to pay for having full muscular control, but we know it’s bothering her. Of course, she’ll need continuing physical therapy and medication for a while, as will you.”
“And her hair’s white, too? I been thinking of a dye job now that I have enough to matter, but I’ve let it slide.”
Dobbs sighed. “No. Uh—she wasn’t quite as fortunate as you. She was on the lower end of the stone and got more of the heat blast. She has no hair at all, and they say that none will ever grow there. They’ve tried transplants from others and some artificial business, but none of it took. She’s done small eyebrows with a liner or somesuch, but she won’t abide a wig. She says it’s part of her penance and she wants to be seen just like that.”
He nodded. “That sounds normal. Does she remember anything?”
“All of it, until that last night. They put her into some sort of trance state. She has occasional visions, but nothing more, and the visions are disjointed and distorted and make little sense. She knows what happened, though. The only clear thoughts she has is someone pushing her onto the rock and then the screams and the heat, and she says that, during that time, Bishop Whitely came and talked to her. You can see the state she’s in.”