by Jaq Wright
“I should probably mention that Aidan and I had a thing. Just thought you should be aware.”
Cameron was intrigued. He knew almost nothing about her other relationships. “Tell me more.”
She looked at him blankly. “Nothing more to tell. He was in graduate school in neurophysiology when I was a medical student at Mayo, and we had a thing. Lasted a few weeks. I've talked to him maybe a dozen times since. He's at MIT's McGovern Institute, and is a specialist in the study of brain organization. I thought he might have some useful ideas.” She took a large bite of sandwich.
Cameron was more than a little irritated. She had said almost nothing at the airport, on the flight, or during the cab ride to campus. He had been able to extract the name Aidan Beauchamps, but that was about it. When pushed, she said she had no new ideas, no new information, and wanted to avoid speculation until she had something more to go on. On the flight, she stuck earbuds in her ears and listened to an Audio Digest podcast which summarized articles in the most recent Journal of Forensic and Legal Medicine. Cameron had read an article on Dakota Fanning in the American Way magazine in the back of the seat in front of him.
◆◆◆
They met Aidan in his cramped office. He was a short, intense man with nearly black eyes and black wavy hair. His speech was a rapid-fire staccato, almost manic. As soon as they sat down, he launched into a monologue on the difficulties inherent in the academic pursuit of grant money, and the need for additional funding for research. Mitzi was only able to listen politely for about four minutes before she interrupted him.
“We came here for some help,” she started. He stopped abruptly and sat back.
“Yes, yes, of course. What can I do for you?”
Mitzi described the cranial mesh and the videos they had seen of the subjects walking. He asked some questions, but mostly just listened in a focused way that made Cameron slightly uneasy. When she was done, he gazed up towards the ceiling, then suddenly jerked forward, slapping both hands on his desk.
“I would give anything to have access to this data,” he enthused. “Do you realize how much faster we could advance our knowledge with an actual cortical interface? All we have are skin electrodes and functional MRI, and believe me, that is useful for mapping, but hardly for improving our understanding of encoding.”
“You do realize that unwilling subjects are essentially being kidnapped, tortured, and killed here,” Cameron broke in.
“Oh, yes, of course, forgive me, just saying, from a research standpoint . . . Well, it would be unparalleled.”
“Except in Nazi death camps,” Cameron finished for him.
“The question,” Mitzi asked, glaring at Cameron, “is, what would be the potential practical use for the data which could make the effort worthwhile.”
“Well, it could simply be the obvious, that this guy is trying to reanimate his legs. I agree that you would not need the whole brain cortex for that, but, as an experimental interface, you would be able to extract information that would allow you to then refine a smaller, more practical implant. Still, it seems like there would at least have been some subjects-”
“-victims,” Cameron interjected through clenched teeth.
“-yes, yes, victims, with smaller implants.” He paused, staring at a point just over Mitzi's head. “Or maybe he has a degenerative condition, and is trying to get ahead of becoming locked in. You know, be able to connect to a computer so that as he lost sight, hearing, motor control, etc., he would be able to still interact with the world. You said he was paraplegic. Maybe his disease is degenerative.”
“His disease is that he was shot in the spine.” Cameron offered.
“Okay, so not degenerative. How about gaming? There are thousands of nerds who would pay enormous sums to be completely connected. You know, just plug in a USB, and have total sensory immersion into another world.”
“Seems unlikely,” Mitzi frowned. “This guy is already a billionaire. I think he is more about controlling THIS world than some fantasy world.”
“So, maybe that is it – incredibly high-speed, high-resolution interface with a computer and of course the internet. In many ways, it is the human-machine interface that is limiting things now. If he were directly connected to a supercomputer, he could access data, perform calculations, infiltrate systems. In theory, access everything, everywhere, anywhere connected to the internet. Like a comic book super villain.”
“That actually fits the profile,” mused Mitzi. “Still, there is the problem that the interface is not sustainable. No one would want to control the world for a few weeks until their implant killed them.”
“No,” said Aidan, “THIS implant is not sustainable. He just needs a better implant. That's an engineering issue. Look at atomic bombs. The first devices weighed many tons at Los Alamos, then they got them down to something small enough to actually drop on Japan, and in a few years, the engineers had serviceable high-yield devices in handy backpack sizes. With a better implant, he would possibly have something serviceable in the near future. Of course, developing that could also take years. Depends on how much R&D money you can throw at it. You wouldn't even need human subjects -” he raised his eyebrows at Cameron, “victims. Animal models would be fine for implant optimization.”
“What would be the main obstacles with regards to improving the interface?” Mitzi asked.
“Wire size, insulation, and heat. A metal mesh like the one you describe would be fine for detecting impulses for controlling movement, but if there was any significant signal being placed INTO the system, you would develop enough heat to cook the brain. Also, you would need to insulate at least some of the wiring, adding to the bulk. And of course, finer wires would allow for a thin enough implant to put INSIDE the skull, which would solve a myriad of problems. Did you run into anything about research on wire mesh?”
“No,” Mitzi replied.
“Good, then you probably have some time.”
They took a cab back to Logan Airport. Mitzi hopped out, but Cameron didn’t move. “Let’s go,” she urged.
“I think I’ll stay for a day or two. I have some computer science contacts at Aasgard I want to talk to.”
“What’s Aasgard?”
“It’s an artificial intelligence firm chock full of people who are used to thinking far out of the box.”
“I’m staying, too, then.” Mitzi started to get back in.
“No,” Cameron was firm. “They aren’t the kind of, uh, people who would talk to someone they don’t know.”
Mitzi squinted. “I guess I’m not the only one with old ‘friends’ in Boston.” She slammed the door and stalked into the airport.
◆◆◆
Santiago checked into the resort near San Pedro De Macoris on the southern coast of the Dominican Republic Friday afternoon. He went to his third floor suite overlooking the pool, and immediately set up. He first rolled plastic screens onto the sliding glass doors on the balcony. From the outside, it would be reflective, but he was able to see out just fine. He set up high-powered binoculars, and started scanning the people around the pool. He had enough equipment for five possible subjects, and it took just over forty-five minutes to decide which were the most likely. He put on his swim trunks, and headed down to the pool, a satchel over his shoulder. He walked around the pool area a few times, just another tourist strolling. He stopped several times to sit on the wall around the deck, sipping from a water bottle he took from his satchel as he took in the sights. After a quick dip in the pool, he went back up to his suite.
He booted up his receiver to monitor the five directional microphones he had positioned on the retaining wall, pointed at the five families he had identified. All were also recording for later review. He soon ruled out family number two. They were speaking Portuguese, not Spanish. Five was also eliminated, when four more children wandered by, their conversation clearly pegging them as all being part of the family. Mother number one showed herself to be unacceptable, spending far too
much time on her novel, not paying enough attention to her child playing in the water.
That left families three and four. Three was promising. The child, a boy of about ten, was a somewhat chubby, whiny momma's boy, who was obsessed with splashing his parents, who were talking animatedly non-stop. They kept talking about the husband's parents in Guadalajara, and the mother used her cell phone to record Junior's shenanigans a good twenty-five percent of the time. It sounded like they had just arrived for their two-week stay.
Four was similar, although the boy was a little older, a lot thinner, and marginally less annoying. The father was constantly on his phone, and the mother was also talking, but stopped frequently to video the son. There was little conversation between the parents, but the man had told several people on the phone that they would be back to Mexico City the following Wednesday.
A good day's work. He phoned Alyssa. “Hi, gorgeous. I need you here tomorrow.” He tried to sound seductive. His heart sped a little as he thought of her hard, supple body.
Alyssa laughed mockingly. “I’ll be in at nine p.m. out of Atlanta on Delta. And remember, no funny business.” The line went dead.
Chapter 17
Friday, October 21
New York
After his usual Friday clinic of scheduling surgical patients, Dr. Overbridge left the hospital precisely on schedule and began his walk home. Just as he had finished step two hundred and fifty-six, he felt something behind his right eye. Painful, but not debilitating. He knew at once what it was, having waited for this particular moment for over thirty years. He immediately turned, and walked into the Dunkin Donuts next to the 99¢ store. Predictably, there were two policemen, one the beat cop who passed Dr. Overbridge more days than not while making his rounds.
“Officer, would you do me the kindness of calling for an ambulance. I believe my aneurysm is leaking.”
The police officer radioed it in, and Dr. Overbridge refused his offer of a donut, stating that he may require surgery and that he preferred to keep his stomach empty.
When the ambulance arrived, Dr. Overbridge refused to lie on the stretcher, but instead climbed onto the seat next to the attendant. As they headed north on 3rd Avenue, the driver said he was lucky, that Our Lady of Salubrious Penitence was only a few blocks, and they had a world class neurosurgery department.
“No,” replied Dr. Overbridge, ”they do not have a world class department. They have a world class neurosurgeon. And I am he. You will kindly drive away from that fetid pile of incompetent quackery and take me to Lenox Hill. If I become unconscious prior to my arrival, please ask them to call in Dr. Jack Tucker, and only Dr. Tucker. Please also call my housekeeper, and have her go to my apartment and retrieve a packet of films from my tie closet. It is labeled with my name, and addressed to Dr. Tucker. I am sure she has been wondering about it for years. Ask her to bring it to Lenox Hill with all haste.”
He then pulled out his wallet, and counted out $1000 to each of them, also giving them a card with his housekeeper’s phone number.
And then the world exploded in a bright flash, and he slumped in his seat.
◆◆◆
Jack Tucker was just getting out of a cab with his wife at Lincoln Center when his phone started vibrating. “Who is that?” Cathy asked.
He showed her the text. “Please call Dr. Douglas at Lenox Hill ER for an emergency with Dr. Overbridge.”
“I thought that you said you were not on call this weekend? Is this another scheme to avoid the Opera?”
“I'm not. This says I need to call for an emergency with Dr. Overbridge. That's like being told to call for an emergency with God. I wonder what the great man could possibly want with me?”
He made the call. Oh, the joys of modern life. In his father’s day, if you were on call, you told the service where to find you, or try to find you, and if you were not on call, then you simply were not on call. None of this crap.
“Hi, this is Dr. Tucker, I was summoned. Not sure why, I’m not on call.”
After a minute the ER doc came on the line. “Hi Jack, sorry to bother you, but I have an unconscious world famous neurosurgeon and a packet of ancient X-rays here, addressed to you. The report is in German, but as far as I can tell, it’s talking about an aneurysm. I sent the films down to radiology. Last thing Overbridge said before he passed out was to call you. I know you're not on call, but I thought I'd give you the chance.”
“Yeah, I'll come over. Be there in about twenty minutes.” He hung up.
“Who the heck is Dr. Overbridge?” Cathy was irritated. “Can’t someone else take the case? I don’t want to go to La Boheme alone.”
Jack had an inspiration. “Text Betsy, I’ll bet she’s at the church and would love to go.” The meetinghouse for their church was across from Lincoln Center, and Betsy was one of Cathy’s best friends.
Cathy's fingers tapped on her phone. Barely ten seconds later the phone vibrated.
“Wow, fastest text reply in history. She’s headed over. See you later. Let me know when you know something.” She kissed him as he hopped into a cab to go back across town.
“Who the heck is Dr. Overbridge?” Jack thought to himself. That was an excellent question. Jack was not sure anyone knew the answer.
◆◆◆
Jack's cab pulled up at Lenox Hill Hospital. He jogged up the ramp to the ER, and was directed to Exam Room 12. There he found Dr. Overbridge, or at least the wraith he had become. Jack would never have recognized him. He had regained consciousness, and Ed Douglas, the ER doctor, was clearly frustrated with him.
“It's on the right, the right, the right, right right right.” Dr. Overbridge was chanting as if it were a mantra.
Ed was relieved to see Jack.
“We filled him with decadron and dextran, and he regained consciousness. He's been like this ever since. He either tells us to ‘Get Tucker get Tucker get Tucker’ or repeats that ‘it is on the right,’ or tells us, ‘It's an aneurysm, look at the films, look at the films, look at the films.’”
“So,” said Jack with a smile, “may I look at the films?”
“They're over in radiology. It's an angiogram and a crummy MRI from 1983. From Zurich. I didn't think they even HAD MRIs in 1983.”
“Not many,” agreed Jack. “Guess I'll go have a look. In the meantime, get a STAT scan to evaluate how much of a hematoma we have.”
“It's all queued up, should be ready to go in a few minutes,” replied Ed.
Radiology was just across the hall, and Sunny Patel, the neuroradiologist, was looking at the films.
“Hi, Jack. Check out these antiques. Looks like a 4 mm saccular aneurysm of the right middle cerebral artery. At least it was in 1983. Who knows how large it is now.”
“I wonder why he never had it clipped?” Jack was curious. “That was a pretty small aneurysm, and should have been successfully treated, even thirty years ago.”
“Look at the MRI.” Sunny pointed to the other bank of view boxes, where a terrible-quality early scan was hanging. There was a smooth, fluid filled mass just superior to the area where the aneurysm would have been. “They must have gotten the angio to get more information on this cyst and then found the aneurysm. It looks like the cyst would be pretty much blocking access.”
Jack agreed. “That cyst would have lowered the success rate from about ninety percent down to perhaps forty percent. Funny he didn't have any follow up studies. You would have thought he would have wanted to know if it was growing.”
“Surgeons.” Sunny was shaking his head. ”If it is YOUR brain, they want to operate yesterday, if it is THEIRS, they just go into denial and take up sky-diving. No offense.”
How could he take offense at such an obvious truth? It was like that for hernias. Jack had seen pictures of trusses in textbooks, but the only real one he had ever seen was on one of the general surgeons in the hospital locker room.
“Looks like I may have a long night,” Jack said. “Hope the MRI gives us some more information
.”
He settled down to wait for the scan. Sent a text to Cathy to let her know he would be late, perhaps LATE. Made small-talk with Sunny.
“There's coffee in the next room. Or tea.”
“None for me, thanks. Gave that up a few years ago. Joined the Mormons.”
Sunny was intrigued. “I heard something about that. How's that working out? Got married again, too, did I hear?”
“Two years now. Working out great. Changed my life. For the better. And Cathy is, well, wonderful.”
The stretcher went past, taking Dr. Overbridge into the scanner room. Jack glanced at his watch. 8:30. The opera should go to almost eleven. He went into the control room to watch as they did the scan.
◆◆◆
As they loaded him onto the scanner table, Dr. Overbridge was feeling better. He had stopped jabbering, and was able to think clearly for the first time since the ambulance. He assessed himself. Okay, thinking clearly. Toes move, fingers move.
“Please hold still, Doc.” The tech was talking to him through the ear muffs. An MRI scan was like lying down with your head and upper body in an old-fashioned galvanized steel garbage can, which someone was tapping. With a sledge hammer. He involuntarily began to count the taps.
He wondered how many MRIs he had looked at in his lifetime. When he was in Zurich doing his fellowship with Schneider, their new scanner had just been delivered, and they were doing scans on all of the house staff just to get used to the machine, and see how it worked. To everyone's surprise, on his they had found something. The radiologists had not seen enough scans to really even know what. Now he would have seen at a glance that it was a simple cyst, really of no consequence. At the time, however, they were concerned, and had done an angiogram. THAT had shown something. A small aneurysm off of the right middle cerebral artery. Small enough that nowadays they would fix it with an angiographic coil. In 1983, surgery had been the only choice. Or ignore it. And wait for it to get larger and burst. He had chosen to put his head in the sand, but he had always known that someday it would leak. Or burst. Well, well, today was the day. He never told anyone, just stole the relevant films and brought them back to the U.S. Aneurysms had become his life, and were likely to be his death. Every few years, he had tried to decide who in New York would be the best surgeon. Besides himself, of course. He would then get a new mailer, re-address his X-rays, and put them back in his closet. There was something that always stopped him from having a re-evaluation. Probably fear. Not just of complications, but of the loss of control. He spent his whole life making sure he was in control of every detail. There was simply no way for him to direct his own operation.