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The full story will be available upon publication. If you like it, please click here to send an email to duke@dukepennell.com and let him know! Justice by Duke Pennell The air was perfect: seventy-two degrees and forty percent humidity. You couldn't ask for anything better. I hated it. The calendar showed it was the first day in May. After a dismal winter, spring had finally come to D.C., bringing life back to the city with apple blossoms and warm sunshine. But I was stuck in the office, with its perfectly conditioned air, and I was dying. My secretary, Susan, peeked through the doorway. "Justice Maslow, that reporter is here to see you." Susan Conway was the type who used every excuse imaginable to look in on me, making sure I hadn't keeled over since the last time she checked. She mothered me, and I was old enough to be her father. A sweet little gal, but exasperating--like most women. An interview. I caught myself almost growling, waste of time. "Send him in, Susan." A vision of loveliness strode briskly through the doorway and up to my desk, her hand outreached to shake mine. "Will I do instead, sir?" she asked. Her mouth was set in a smile, but the arch of her eyebrows told me she was ready for a fight. "Julie Wilson, your honor." Standing, I took her hand and looked her over. The beauty pageant type--a trim woman in her late twenties or early thirties, professionally groomed and well dressed. Blonde, sexy, and with a firm grip. Pushy, spoiled little bitch. "Miss Wilson. Please have a seat." I released her hand and motioned to one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. "What can I do for you?" "I want to get your story. George Thomas Maslow, age seventy-four, Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, widower." The corner of her mouth turned up in a smirk. "A Rich Old White Man. I think you're--" A flash of pain swept through my left leg, making me grit my teeth. "Miss Wilson, I don't have time for this. My background is well-documented. Nothing of import has occurred since I joined this court, over twenty years ago. What are you really after?" She locked her gaze with mine for a few seconds. "All right, let's cut to the chase. You have advanced bone cancer. Osteosarcoma. It's terminal. Yet, you haven't stepped down from the bench. Why not?" "How I deal with my illness is my business, young lady, not yours," I snapped, grimacing. "If that's all you want to talk about, you can leave now." Undaunted, she said "Then let's talk about Professor Patel at MIT. Nanotechnology and nerve cells. Are we getting any closer to information the public might be entitled to?" She knows. Can't have any interference now, it's too close. I'm going to have to give this little twit something to mislead her. "Miss Wilson, if you had done your homework, you would know I've been thinking about setting up a scholarship fund at MIT in my late wife's name." I rubbed my aching left leg. "I really am hard pressed to see why any of this is of interest to you." I tapped the override button on the morphine pump under my shirt. The steady drizzle of narcotic kept my pain under control most of the time, but I needed an extra burst now. The last couple of months, the contraption had become my best friend. Christ, let it work soon! "Are you all right? You don't look too good, your honor. Can I get a glass of water for you?" Yeah, sure, water. This time the morphine wasn't helping. The pain had become a fire inside my leg, raging higher and higher. I hunched forward too far and fell out of the chair, hands clenched around my left knee. I gasped through clenched teeth, "Get Susan!" Wilson bolted to the door. "Miss Conway! Miss Conway! There's something wrong!" In seconds, Susan knelt by me. "Sir! What is it?" I gasped, "Call Dr. Williams at Georgetown. His number is on my desk. Tell him I said, 'It's got to be now.'" I hit the override button again and again, until it brought darkness and oblivion. I came to on a hard hospital gurney, surrounded by people in white coats and scrubs. The pain was worse than ever. Dr. Williams was looking down at me, frowning. "Maslow, are you sure about this?" "Jesus Christ, Williams, we've been over this time and again. What choice do I have?" "At this point, none. I don't believe you'll live through the night." "With this agony, I wouldn't want to. You've alerted Patel?" Dr. Williams nodded. "Then, let's get on with it." I had nothing to lose. I was tired of fighting, and ready for it to be over. He looked around to his team, nodded, and said, "All right. Let's begin." One of the white coats injected something into an IV line and I was enveloped in a soft, warm cloud. God, it doesn't hurt anymore. Dying will be worth it. I floated away, into the blackness. Staring at my own dead body, I thought how odd it is to outlive yourself. My vision didn't work well. Things were sharp, then blurred, then sharp again, like a camera that was being focused by an inept photographer. My body was on an operating table to my left, in the center of a brilliantly lit white room that was a cross between a mad scientist's dream and a television studio. A group of half-a-dozen people in dull red scrubs, led by Dr. Williams, attended it. All wore surgical masks that obscured half of their faces. The smell of disinfectant overrode the cloying sweet odor of blood. It wasn't a very attractive body--old, worn, and emaciated from the ravages of bone cancer. Looks like a cadaver. Hell, it is a cadaver, and the cadaver is me. No, it only used to be me. Good God, this is going to take some getting used to. A brain transplant! Who'd have believed it? The doctors at Georgetown and the engineers at MIT really outdid themselves this time. I'm alive and I'm not insane. I hope! A combination of relief and disbelief at my survival--against all odds--overwhelmed me, spilling out in a peal of girlish laughter. The sound shocked me into silence. Looking down at my new body, I saw beneath the sheet the unmistakable shape of two feminine breasts. What the . . . ! My gaze went to Dr. Williams. "I'm a woman?" And everything went black. |