Jack Fell Down and Broke His Crown

by Mike Mayak

I was standing in front of the mirror, admiring my legs in those basketball shorts I’d kept from High School and didn’t notice Mom & Dad coming into the downstairs bathroom.

“I think you look great, Jake!” My Dad said.

“Awww yes! So handsome!” Mom added. “And nice legs!”

I blushed. “Aw, c’mon, Mom! Besides, these aren’t my legs, you know.”

“Enough of that!” Dad said. “They’re yours. You’re getting along on them okay now.”

I nodded. The Medical Team had said it would take a little for me to acclimate to this different body. About a week before I was using my hands and arms the way I used to but it had taken a month for me to walk without a cane.

I stared at the face in the mirror. Brown hair, a few freckles, nose that looked like it might have been broken once but otherwise kind of nice-looking. I was still getting used to it.

My air scooter had been rammed by a wayward shipping van whose programming had gone haywire. I was lucky to be alive but much of my body was pretty much “shattered,” they explained. In the week they’d kept me in a preserver Mom and Dad decided on a transfer, even if the only available body belonged to a convicted murderer who was facing execution. The shipping van company was paying for it, anyway. All that was left was for the owner of the other body to give his okay, with a possible promise of being given physical form again after he had served “his sentence.”

So I was now in his body and his essence was in what was described as “an old-fashioned microchip player.” I had to wear a medallion around my neck that identified me as a Transfer in case one of the original guy’s buddies ran into me and decided to settle a score. It took some of my friends a while to get used to my new look, and I had realized that this body was 26, that’s two years older than I actually was but losing two years was better than losing my life.

I’d tried to get them to tell me who this guy was, but they said I wasn’t supposed to know and my folks said I should let the dead stay buried.

Well, this guy wasn’t dead and besides I had some connections.

Guy I had made out with a lot when we were in High School was working in one of the official Medical Departments now. He owed me a favor or two. That’s how I wound up standing in a back basement room of the facility while a technician plugged a small speaker and camera into what looked like an ancient portable CD player.

“I can give you five minutes,” the Technician said walking out of the room.

I stared into the camera. It would let him, his essence see me and hear me through the speaker.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Jake. I’m in your old body now. It’s really nice. I just wanted to tell you. I appreciate it.”

There was a tinny voice from the speaker, sounding like a mechanical reproduction of a voice.

“You’re-me-now.” the voice said. It was a statement, not a question.

“No,” I said. “I’m me. You’re still you. Even in there.”

“This-place-worse-than-jail.” said the voice. “Am-nowhere. Swirling-around. Doing-nothing.”

I realized that his essence was trapped in that device or chip or whatever.

“I just wanted to introduce myself, and thank you.” I said. “I…I mean, you saved my life.”

“Never-saved-life-before.,” said the voice. “Only-took.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, My throat felt dry. These hands I now used had killed.

“I’m Jake McGrath,” I said. “I just wanted you to know that.”

There was a long pause from the device. I just stood there.

“I-am-Scott. Scotty.” the voice said.

I grinned. “That’s my middle name.”

I sighed and looked around the room. What else could I say?

The Technician came back into the room, precluding the need for more conversation.

“Okay. Gotta put him back,” he said.

“Yeah, thanks,” I said with a small wave at the camera. The voice didn’t react.

The Technician unhooked the device and placed it back on its shelf.

“Can he hear us now?” I asked.

“Not without the hookup,” the technician said.

“How long before you put him in someone else or something else?” I asked.

“He’s not a high priority.” the Technician said. “Anyway, he’ll dissipate without stimulus in about three years.”

“Can you give him this, stimulus?” I asked.

“He didn’t want it,” the Technician said. “This is just a slow form of execution. If he’d realized that before, you might not be standing here right now. So count your blessings.”

As I walked outside I realized that even the chilly breeze felt good.

—end—

NOTE: Written while attending the World Fantasy Convention, October 26, 2023.—-jeff