Brains

  “Yes,” replied the doctor. “Pick one up in the lingerie section. Nothing too fancy,” he said with a wink.

  So, they had purchased a plain black satin model, and he had worn it every night for as long as he lived in that house. The nightmare went away. Why it had returned now, sixty years later, was not something that Overbridge was about to waste time considering. He would simply acquire a sleep mask.

  His Sunday routine was different from the weekdays. First, the exercise regimen lasted sixty minutes instead of thirty. Second, the New York Times Sunday edition had to be read. To this was allocated ninety minutes, and was the sum total of Overbridge's efforts with regards to current, non-medical events. He figured that news which did not make it through a week was not important enough to bother with. In any case, he had little interest in knowing about events over which he had no control. Finally, there was no housekeeper, and so, instead of breakfast at his apartment, he left for the New York Athletic Club at precisely 8:45.

  He walked west on 94th Street to 5th Avenue, then south to just above the Met, where he entered Central Park. His standard, slightly circuitous route had him exit across from 7th Avenue at Central Park South, from which it was a short block to the doors of the NYAC. Exactly three miles, exactly six thousand steps, exactly one hour. He dropped his coat at the check stand, then went into the dining room for brunch. He sat at the same table where he had been with the Tuckers on Friday, the same table which he had occupied every Sunday morning, with rare exceptions, for the past twenty years. He had a two-egg omelet with mushrooms, ham, cheddar, and tomatoes, four slices of their excellent bacon, pineapple, four slices of buttered wheat toast, and orange juice. As always. At precisely 10:45 he left the building, retracing his path home.

  At his apartment, he made the unusual choice of changing his tie. He had started the day wearing a navy bow tie with lavender polka dots. He removed it and carefully tied a sky blue tie with small red birds. He went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He had a special system for that, a unique rotating toothbrush holder with eight slots. He used the brush in the forward position, replaced it after finishing, and rotated the holder one position in a clockwise direction. He thus assured that his brushes would dry completely between uses, for optimal hygiene. His housekeeper replaced the whole set every three months, on the same day that she replaced his worn shoes.

  ◆◆◆

  The drive to Queens was uneventful, but as he rode up the elevator with his driver, the doors opened on the first floor, where he was surprised to see a large waiting room full of people with dogs and cats, obviously a veterinary hospital or clinic. The doors closed again, and continued up to the third floor. Pierre was lying on the bed, some sort of thick tights on his legs, with a wire harness at the top.

  “Ah, Dr. Overbridge,” Maxwell said, “this is our chief programmer, Blaylock. Pierre was just about ready to start programming his sensations.”

  “Okay,” Blaylock said to Pierre, “the key is to think about where you are touching as you touch it.” He handed him a long thin pointer. “Start with places that you can feel. Think about the sensation, and where it is.” Pierre touched the tip of the probe to his arm, his chest, his face, while Blaylock watched an animation of the areas of the brain mesh which were showing activity. As expected, the stimulations followed the well-known pattern known to neuroanatomists as the 'homunculus.' After about fifteen minutes, he announced that calibration was complete. He went to the bedside, helped Pierre roll onto his side, and plugged the stocking harness into a cigarette-pack-sized box attached to the connector on Pierre's spine, also attaching a long cable from his workstation to another socket on that box. “Start on your legs now. Remember, think about where you should be feeling the sensations.”

  Pierre started, touching the skin of the knees, the thighs, the feet, the toes. Blaylock nodded approvingly as brain impulses were detected in the appropriate areas on the cortical mesh. After he had covered as many points as possible, Blaylock put a blindfold on him, and then asked him to identify where he was being touched as Blaylock used the probe. Pierre's face lit up. “I can feel it,” he said softly. “I can actually feel it.”

  Blaylock then gave him a probe with a round hook, like a cane, and instructed him to work on the sensations of the soles of his feet. “This part is critical,” he explained. “You can't balance without it.” A full thirty minutes was devoted to each foot, with first light, then medium, then heavy touch. They turned him over, and although it was awkward, Blaylock insisted that the programming would work much better if Pierre continued to do the touching for his buttocks and the backs of his legs himself.

  The next thing Blaylock did surprised Pierre, and shocked Overbridge. First, he drew three “X-es” on Pierre's stomach. He then touched the center of each X a few times, and intently watched the response on the monitor. Then he turned away, and quickly turned back and touched something to one of the targets. Pierre screamed, and the scent of burning flesh filled the air. Before anyone could react, he then stabbed the second target with a pin, and to the third he applied ice.

  “Why did you do that?” Pierre whimpered. “That really hurt!”

  “Sorry,” Blaylock said, “but I needed your response to pain, and heat, and cold. Fortunately, our other research has shown us that we just need one strong stimulus to calibrate, and we can use that to program the rest. The touch sensations we already mapped give us the brain coordinates. At least it was quick. Believe me, I'll make it up to you in just a few minutes. Why don't you show Dr. Overbridge what you accomplished after he left yesterday. It will take some time to integrate the data.”

  Pierre was a little shaky, but he indicated he was ready. Maxwell booted up the program from the day before, and there was the avatar, now standing in a complex environment, with a curving path, inclines, and stairs. Maxwell clicked on the “start” icon, and the avatar started walking down the path. A little jerky at first, but then more and more smoothly. He was able to climb stairs, turn, and both sit down and stand up. Pierre was sitting in his bed, motionless other than his eyes. Overbridge was fascinated.

  Blaylock announced they were ready. He and Maxwell helped Pierre sit on the side of the bed, his legs dangling, and they put a walker in front of him. Maxwell turned to Overbridge.

  “I'm sure you remember when Pierre used his gaming glove to stand up in your office?” Overbridge nodded. “He has worked for weeks to get his leg muscles strong enough for activity, and in the process our program was able to beautifully map out his muscles, and the spinal nerves attached to them. There was no feasible way to program the sensory nerves, hence the exercise we just completed. We will now attach Pierre's cerebral cortex, through the mesh implant you were instrumental in applying, into the processing unit, then back into the spinal interface. He will, once we start, have both sensation and motor control to his lower body.”

  Blaylock raised his brow at Pierre, and, getting a nod, tapped in a few commands. Instantly, Pierre's right leg straightened, kicking the walker across the room. “Sorry,” he said, “my fault.” He then carefully, slowly, started to swing his legs, first back and forth, then side to side. He stretched his ankles out, pointing his toes, then flexed upwards, and finally scrunched his toes.

  “Help me up,” he insisted, and Blaylock and Maxwell helped him to his feet and repositioned the walker. He stood for a few minutes, at first grasping the walker tightly, then loosening his grip, just trying to use it for balance.

  “Just stand there,” Blaylock instructed. “The artificial cerebellum is calibrating.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Pierre.

  “Would you like to explain, Dr. Overbridge?” Blaylock offered.

  “The cerebellum,” Overbridge started, “is the coordination center of the brain. It is low in the back of the skull, and it takes simple commands like 'bend my knee,' and adds in all the other things that go with it. Like relaxing the opposing muscles, or, if you are standing, shifting the pelvis
to balance the weight over the other leg.”

  “Exactly,” broke in Blaylock, “and since your brain impulses are just being taken from the top of the brain, that all has to be done artificially. It just takes a little while to get calibrated.”

  Blaylock's terminal pinged, and he then directed Pierre to lift first one foot, then the other off the floor, giving the computer additional critical information.

  And then, Pierre walked.

  Overbridge watched in amazement as Pierre moved slowly across the floor, then turned and walked back, using the walker for balance. He repeated the maneuver a dozen times, then sat to rest.

  “What did you decide?” Maxwell asked Blaylock.

  “Socks on, no walker first,” Blaylock replied.

  “What does that mean?” asked Pierre.

  “The computer is using both the sensations from your own nerves and the pressure sensors in the stockings to maintain your balance. I want to see if you can walk without the walker. Leaving the socks on. As you are moving, the computer is gathering more and more information and refining the parameters of the artificial cerebellum. I am very optimistic. This is going very well, and soon you will not need the socks, but for now, let's leave them on.”

  As his son walked slowly back and forth across the room, Overbridge realized that he could feel tears running down his cheeks.

  By four o'clock, Pierre was exhausted, and although he wanted to continue to work, Overbridge insisted they shut off the computer and let him rest. Maxwell took him downstairs. “The car will pick you up at seven tomorrow evening.”

  Overbridge turned. “Why not seven in the morning? I will clear my schedule.”

  “No,” Maxwell replied. “Continue your normal routine.” Overbridge started to object, but Maxwell raised his hand to stop him. “Seven tomorrow night.” He opened the car door, and Overbridge got in.

  ◆◆◆

  Santiago called Perez from the basement. “Cabrera wants to talk to you. I think it would be good, he is getting hard to control.”

  Perez sighed. “Bring him up.” He hung up, shaking his head.

  A few minutes later, the door opened and Cabrera came in. He was shaking.

  “What is the problem?” Perez asked, “Is the boy not cooperating?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Cabrera was talking in a rush, wringing his hands. “He is happy to play the games Mr. Blaylock requested, but after Xbox bowling and then tennis, he vomited, then had a full-blown seizure. When he came out of it, he did not want to play, and now he just sits on the mother’s lap. He says he has a headache. The CSF leak is getting worse, and I don’t have any good way of keeping up with his electrolyte problems from all the fluid loss. I don’t know if I can keep him going. And he will inevitably get meningitis at some point.”

  Perez raised a hand slightly, and Cabrera shut up.

  “You will keep him alive and conscious for another week. I don’t want to hear any complaints, nor do I need any details.” Perez raised one eyebrow significantly. “Remember, with his survival comes the survival of yourself and your family. Do not fail.”

  Cabrera opened his mouth, but Perez turned away, saying to Santiago, “Take him downstairs.”

  ◆◆◆

  After Cabrera was escorted back downstairs, Perez turned to Maxwell. “How long do we need to get the data Blaylock needs?”

  “More is always better, but he thinks that if he can get three good days working on memory, we should be okay.”

  “Very well.”

  Chapter 28

  Sunday, October 30

  New Jersey

  Mitzi and Cameron were up early, and they found a diner serving excellent high-fat food. Just what they needed to prepare for a day’s work.

  Once it was fully light, they set out again. The first building they looked at caught their interest. A three-story red brick building, looking about thirty years old, it had few windows, and those which it did have were fitted with bars. There was a simple door with wire-reinforced glass on which was painted “Decadent Cake Design.” It had closed mini blinds, and the room behind was dark. Posted hours were Monday to Friday, 8-5. A thick bundle of cables came off the corner of the roof to the adjoining telephone pole, and the edge of a satellite dish was visible on the south end.

  Cameron looked at his printout. “Why would cake design require the kind of web access and power consumption this place has?”

  “Dunno, but we don’t have enough here for a warrant. I think we should come back tomorrow and I can try and apply for a job.”

  “That sounds a little risky.”

  “Got any better ideas?”

  Cameron said nothing.

  It took the rest of the day to check the other nine addresses. One more was interesting enough to pursue, an Italian restaurant on the ground floor, four floors above. “I’ll go look. Wait here,” Mitzi said as she jumped out.

  “We really need to talk about our plans,” Cameron muttered.

  Mitzi simply walked into the restaurant and asked to speak to the manager. Several minutes later, a tall, thin man with sallow skin hustled out. “I am the manager. Is there a problem?”

  She flashed her FBI credentials. “Just a quick question. Can you tell me what business is upstairs?”

  “I think they call it a server farm,” he replied. “There are usually a couple of guys there all the time, they have meals brought in. Maybe total of eight or ten different men. All men.” He smiled. “That’s all I know.”

  Mitzi thought a minute. “Do they have a freight elevator? Like from the loading dock around back?”

  “Yes and no. There is an elevator, but it doesn’t work. They had to haul their equipment up the stairs. Must have taken a thousand trips. I watched them from the back room.”

  “When was that?”

  “About a year ago. Since then, like I say, just a couple of guys at a time coming and going.”

  “So is someone there now?”

  “Probably so. Why don’t you knock? Stairs are around back, you can come through the kitchen.”

  “Isn’t there an outside door?”

  “Sure, but it’s locked, and they don’t have a bell.”

  She thought a beat, then asked, “Do these guys happen to be Latino?”

  “More northern European, I’d say. And a couple of Asians. Totally look like computer nerds.”

  The manager led her through the kitchen and to a staircase next to the loading dock. “Thanks,” she said dismissively, “I’ll take it from here.” He stood there for a minute, then went back into the kitchen.

  Mitzi called Cameron. “I’m at the bottom of the stairs, gonna go up and knock.”

  “Wait, I’m coming.”

  “No, YOU are the one they are looking for. They don’t know me.”

  “Maybe not, but I should at least be close.”

  “Fine, come around back and knock on the door next to the loading dock. I’ll let you in.”

  With Cameron positioned at the bend in the stairwell, Mitzi walked up and knocked at the plain steel door. There was no answer right away, so she pounded loudly. She heard some noise, and after a few seconds, the door was opened by a short, round-faced man with thinning blond hair. The scent of marijuana was strong. There was another man sitting at a long table with about twenty computer monitors and keyboards. The whole space was filled with rack after rack of computer equipment, and the floor was thick with cables. Looked just like a server farm.

  She pulled out her credentials, and the man paled. He looked like he was going to run, or maybe pass out.

  “Easy there,” she said. “I just have a couple of questions. May I come in?”

  He looked back at the other man, who shrugged. “You have a warrant?”

  “No, but the odor of marijuana counts as probable cause. If you talk to me I don’t care about your pot, but we can do this the hard way if you prefer. I just have a couple of questions.”

  He thought a few seconds, then pulled the
door open. Cameron came up the half flight and joined them.

  They all sat down. A phone rang, and the guy who had been at the table answered it, and started tapping furiously at one of the workstations. He put the phone down and went down one of the rows of machines.

  “He’s resetting one of the servers,” the blond guy said. “That’s what we do. We sit here all day and all night, just waiting for a call that something is screwed up, we reset it, and go back to doing nothing.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “Actually, it’s perfect. We are all grad students in comp sci at Rutgers, mostly just study while we are here.”

  Cameron was waiting for the kid to come back out of the server jungle, his hand on his gun, just in case. He came out and picked up the phone. “Should be good to go,” he said, then sat there watching his screen.

  “Tell me about your employer,” Mitzi was asking.

  “Just a big company, ServCorp, that leases out server space and hosts web services. They have about thirty places like this, as I understand it.”

  “Any others in the New York area? Would you have their addresses?”

  “About ten, I think. I can get you the main office number, if you want to talk to them. They could give you the addresses.”

  “Can we look around?”

  “Guess so, as long as you don’t touch anything. I’ll come with you.”

  The three of them walked up and down the aisles. Nothing but racks of computers. The other worker was just getting off the phone.

  They took the number for the corporate office, and left.

  It was getting dark again as they finished the last drive-by. They got another cash room at another abominable motel.