Brains

by Jaq Wright

  “Hey, Hansen here. Were you able to get anything for me on ServCorp?”

  “Sorry, didn't have time, we had a threat situation this morning at LaGuardia. I'll get someone on it for you.”

  “I'd appreciate it.”

  Mitzi glared at him. “You could have been a little more, say, enthusiastic in your request.”

  “He's only going to do it if it's not a big deal. If he thinks it is urgent, there will be lots more questions.”

  ◆◆◆

  When Overbridge arrived, he was taken to the physical therapy area, where Pierre was jogging on a treadmill, still tethered to the workstation. Overbridge jumped as a voice came from a speaker on the wall. “Hello, Dr. Overbridge.” The voice was tinny, electronic. Like a computer voice in a low-budget sci-fi movie. “It's me, Pierre!” He looked over at Pierre, who had stopped the treadmill, and smiled at him broadly. “I can just think the words, and the computer speaks!” said the disembodied voice. “At first, when they hooked it up, I had to actually talk, and the computer would come in right after, but with only a few minutes' practice, I was able to do it without speaking. Isn't that amazing?”

  Overbridge was, indeed, amazed. He knew, of course, that the mesh he had implanted was large enough to include the Broca's speech area in the left brain, and since that is where expressive speech is generated, it made sense that they could pick it up. What truly had amazed him was the speed at which the program had succeeded in producing speech. He turned to Maxwell.

  “How did you generate the speech so quickly?”

  Maxwell shook his head. “From the first moment he started speaking, we have been recording his speech and brain signal. It was a simple matter, conceptually, to identify the speech articulation pathways. Conceptually. The analytic processing was very complex, which is why it took until this morning for the program to be ready to work.”

  Overbridge accepted that, not really being all that computer savvy. Had he truly understood that the process had used a system costing in the hundreds of millions of dollars, and taking up an entire floor in the basement of the building, he would have had many more questions.

  Maxwell continued, “The fact that we have access to both Broca's area and the motor cortex controlling the tongue and vocal cords was naturally critical. Next, we are going to have Pierre try and learn to type and use a computer mouse virtually. That should be facilitated by the work we have done on speech, but it will take some time with Pierre using a computer in order to get the program going.”

  Overbridge was puzzled. “Why are you worried about this? He can already talk, type, and use a computer, after all.”

  “That actually is a very good question. I will be able to answer it better tomorrow. Shall we say seven again?”

  By now Overbridge had understood the futility of arguing for an earlier time. He checked Pierre's scalp, assured himself that there were no complications, and rode back to Manhattan in silence.

  It was only later that he noticed that he had felt no compulsion whatsoever to count, and he was not even sure he had used the correct toothbrush. He slept soundly, and for the first time in years, was awakened by the sound of his alarm.

  Chapter 31

  Wednesday, November 2

  Queens

  When Perez arrived in the control room, Blaylock was seated at his keyboard, his fingers flying, while simultaneously he was nearly screaming commands into his headset. “I know you don't have complete data, do it anyway!”

  Maxwell turned to Perez. “We have a problem. The subject became feverish during the night. Cabrera thinks he has full-fledged meningitis. His brain is not working normally due to the infection, so the process is not progressing well. We are having to contend with delirium, and fear, and pain. We would do much better with a cooperative subject. And one who did not have a dog surgeon.”

  Just at that moment, an electronic alarm started to sound. Perez looked at the monitor, where Cabrera was frantically starting to do CPR on the boy. To no avail. The heart line remained flat, and after thirty minutes of chest compressions, Cabrera looked up at the camera, and shrugged. “He is gone,” he said, beaten.

  Blaylock threw his coffee cup against the wall, cursing. “We were so close,” he said, discouraged.

  “How close?” Perez asked.

  “Literally a few hours from having had a complete download and relational integration.”

  “Can you still run the simulation?”

  “Yes, but it will not be right.”

  “Run it anyway. How long will it take to become active?”

  Blaylock stared at the ceiling for a few moments. “Probably about two hours.”

  “I'll give you three. Be ready at one.” He pulled out his phone, pressed a button, and when he got an answer, he stated simply, “The boy, the mother, and Cabrera. Use the animal incinerator.” He listened for a few seconds. “Good.” He disconnected.

  Santiago, on his end, sighed heavily. It was not quite that simple. Although, as a veterinary hospital, they were equipped for animal disposal, to deal with nearly four hundred pounds of remains would require at least four batches, each taking about five hours. It would be morning before he was finished.

  His phone rang again. Perez.

  “Give that to Francisco. You are needed elsewhere. Come to the conference room.” Santiago was both relieved, and worried. Worried that Francisco would somehow screw it up. Worried about what more urgent task Perez wanted him to do.

  ◆◆◆

  At first, Santiago did not understand. When he arrived at the conference room, Perez and Maxwell were busily engaged in conversation. They turned towards him, and Perez invited him to sit. He went to the table, but instead they directed him to a wheelchair similar to the one Perez was using. He sat.

  “Spend the next two hours practicing the controls. You need to be completely convincing. As if you have been using it for years.”

  He fiddled with the controls, and succeeded in getting it turned on. After a few fits and starts, he was able to back it around and out the door into the corridor, but not without banging his knee against the table. Twice. Hard. Maxwell closed the door after him.

  “This plan seems complicated. Why not simply pay Overbridge enough to make it worth his while?”

  “We have discussed this before. He is not the sort of man to be motivated by money. He has plenty, and has no regard for those millions. He sees himself as a savior of brains. Unless he believes, he will not be suitably engaged.”

  “Assuming Santiago can do his part, are you sure you can do yours?”

  “I have been practicing daily. I am ready.”

  “I'm not sure Blaylock is. The premature loss of the boy was a setback. Maybe we should obtain another subject.”

  Perez slammed his hand on the table. “No! It is time to proceed. I don't have any more time. Nor any more surgeons. Not even dog surgeons. Plus, we will have the best chance to recruit Overbridge for the next step if we push ahead while he is in the rush of excitement over the poet.”

  Something struck Maxwell. “What do you mean, you don't have any more time?”

  Perez blinked, slowly, then rolled over to the keyboard on the conference table. He pulled up an image on the screen. It was an MRI scan, Maxwell saw, but it was not a brain. He looked at Perez.

  Perez used the mouse as a pointer. “Did you wonder why I never had my spinal implant? This was found on a scan we did in preparation.” He pointed to the lower part of the screen. “Here is my shattered vertebrae.” He moved the pointer a little higher. “And here is a large pancreatic tumor. It is inoperable. I have already become diabetic, and my liver has started to fail. By Christmas, I could be dead. The time is now, while I am still mentally and physically strong enough to succeed.”

  Maxwell stared at the screen. “I hope Blaylock is ready.”

  “We will know at one.”

  ◆◆◆

  Mitzi and Cameron approached the last of their list in the Bronx, having found
nothing promising. Mostly server facilities for large corporations. This one was the same, but Mitzi's ears pricked up when the sleepy-looking kid with large, anxious eyes said it was part of ServCorp. They went in and looked around, but, just as before, there was really nothing to see.

  “Nothing suspicious there,” Cameron remarked.

  “Still seems a little weird to me,” responded Mitzi. “I think we need to know more about this ServCorp. Where is that data from Phillips?” she demanded as they walked to the car.

  In response, Cameron pulled out his phone and dialed. Phillips answered, his voice irritated. “What now?”

  “Just checking to see if you were able to get that stuff on ServCorp.”

  “E-mailed it this morning. Didn’t you see it?”

  “Sorry, I’m out in the field. Do you remember anything about the locations?”

  “Didn’t even open the file. That’s why we have email. Check your inbox, and stop bothering me.”

  Cameron looked at Mitzi. “I guess I'll have to go into work.” He made a face. “I'll go in tonight, hopefully not run into anyone. I'm supposedly still off.”

  ◆◆◆

  The security man at ServCorp took the call. Two visits in three days from the FBI. He pressed a number on his handset. Santiago answered. He thanked the man, and went immediately to see el jefe.

  “It looks like Hansen and the woman are attempting to tour our facilities in the area.” He gave Perez the report.

  Perez's eyes glittered. “Perfect. He will soon come to us. Which facility is best suited? I want them both, alive.”

  Santiago considered. “The Brooklyn offices are all somewhat public. As is the downtown Manhattan facility. Easiest would be the one in Morningside Heights. Isolated area, the approach is easily secured, the neighbors are not likely to see anything. Or at least not likely to admit seeing anything.”

  “Set it up. But I need you here. Use someone dependable.” He dismissed Santiago with a wave.

  ◆◆◆

  Blaylock came into the conference room just before one, setting up a video camera, a speaker, and two microphones at one end of the table. The video camera was mounted on a complicated tripod, and was attached to a tall tower placed behind the camera, with several mounted computer cases, and two large video screens. Blaylock plugged a thick cable into a connector on the wall. He set up his own workstation on one side of the conference table. Perez sat at the other end, opposite the camera.

  “Let's put Maxwell at the head of the table. Someone he should recognize. I really wish we had the mother, or at least Cabrera,” Blaylock groused. “You should have checked with me.”

  “Just start the simulation,” Perez said flatly.

  Blaylock tapped on his keyboard. The red light on the camera lit up, and the lower screen behind it showed the scene in the room. The other screen was blank. Blaylock fiddled with a joystick, and the camera panned around the room.

  “Okay, here goes,” he said, and tapped in another command.

  In a few seconds, the blank upper screen slowly came into focus, showing the same scene as on the other side. The camera started to move, as if looking around the room. It finally settled on Maxwell.

  “Where is my mommy!” a voice cried from the speaker. At the same time an image of Marta flashed on the upper screen, as if superimposed on the view of Maxwell's face.

  “She went to be with your daddy,” Perez responded. At this, another face appeared, a man's face. The camera turned to Perez.

  “Who are you, and why did she leave me?” There was no emotion in the computer voice, just words.

  Maxwell broke in. “Do you remember your birthday party?”

  “No! I want my mommy!” said the voice, but on the screen, there was a scene from what was obviously a child's birthday party.

  “What was your favorite part of the party?”

  “I don't want to talk about the party! Take me to my mommy!” Again, despite the objection, the monitor was showing a scene from the party, with a large colorful pinata swinging as a stick crashed into its side, spilling candy into a crowd of rushing children. Soon, it was replaced again by the face of the mother, smiling gently.

  “Turn off the camera and microphone,” instructed Perez. Blaylock complied.

  “I can't see!” shouted the voice. “Why is it dark? What is going on?” On the screen passed images of the room, Maxwell, Blaylock, Perez, then more images of Marta and the boy's father, skipping rapidly from one to another, then nothing more than a whirl of colors and shapes, and finally nothing.

  Blaylock was looking at his monitor. “Interesting. No activity at all. It might as well be off. There was clearly thought activity for a while after the external input was stopped, but now nothing.”

  “It is like an isolation tank,” remarked Maxwell. “Without some external connection, some stimulus, the thinking slows down and stops. Turn the camera and microphone back on.”

  Blaylock complied. The side of the screen devoted to Jorge's thinking lit up, showing the same view as the camera. Nothing moved, nothing changed. They shouted, waved their arms, even waved a photo of Marta in front of the camera. Nothing.

  Blaylock then reset the program to its initial state, and restarted it. Once again, the camera moved around the room, settled on Maxwell and said, “Where is my mommy?” exactly as before. They had a similar conversation with the computer, but then, instead of turning off the camera and microphone, Blaylock paused the program. When he started it again, the computer continued as if there had been no interruption. Once again, when the microphone and camera were turned off, the program stopped, and could not be resumed.

  “It would appear that we have succeeded in producing a sentient program,” Maxwell said.

  “Yes, that dies if it does not have ongoing stimulation,” added Blaylock.

  “Make sure that we set up a way to assure that stimulation,” directed Perez. “Now, let's explain to Santiago what we need him to do. The good doctor will be here in just a few hours, and I need everything to be ready.”

  ◆◆◆

  Traffic was bad, and it was nearly eight o'clock when Overbridge's car pulled into the garage. Pierre was there waiting, walking back and forth in front of the elevator. He was wearing a backpack, and the cable from his head snaked down into it, but there was no external cabling. He greeted Dr. Overbridge with a hug. “Nothing can ever repay what you have done for me,” he gushed.

  Overbridge looked at him quizzically. “I thought it took a giant computer to run the interface. Now I see just a small backpack.”

  Maxwell, who had been watching, broke in. “The analysis and programming was extremely complex, but the actual running of the system is easily accomplished with a small but powerful computer. In fact, it is only the artificial cerebellum that requires any real computing. Once the cerebral cortex input was completely analyzed, the algorithm is straightforward. The connections to the spinal nerves are essentially simple wiring. In theory, we could produce a device small enough to be implanted, say in the abdomen, and all the wiring would be internal. It could be charged with a surface induction plate at night.”

  Overbridge felt a sudden rush of excitement. The magnitude of the accomplishment before him was enormous. There was just one problem. “How can we present this to the world so that it will be accepted? None of the normal protocols have been followed.” He started pacing back and forth, something he had not done for many years. He stopped and turned to Maxwell. “Please tell me you have a plan. We must get this out. So many people to help.” It did not even occur to him that, contrary to his carefully cultivated detachment, he was thinking of patients as people, not spines, or brains, or aneurysms.

  “Indeed, we do,” assured Maxwell. “We will perform the first public surgery in a country with fewer restrictions, with records showing plenty of canine research data to back it up. We want you to be a part of that. It is time for you to meet our benefactor, who has provided the literally hundreds of millions o
f dollars which have been needed thus far. He is waiting for you.”

  Pierre got off of the elevator and walked down to his room, as Maxwell escorted Overbridge back to the conference room. As they entered, the wheelchair spun around. Santiago's hand stretched up to grasp Overbridge's firmly. “So good to finally meet you, Dr. Overbridge. My name is Juan Carlos Perez.”

  ◆◆◆

  “As you can see,” Santiago was saying, “I have a very personal interest in spinal injuries since my parasailing accident. I had originally wanted to be the first patient, but with my business responsibilities, I simply have not had the necessary time to have the spinal implant and then the months of rehabilitating the nerves and muscles of my legs. It has been critical to keep me working to assure the ongoing funding.”

  Overbridge nodded. He also suspected that the billionaire did not really want to be a guinea pig. As out of touch with current events as he was, he still had heard of the Mexican telecommunications magnate, who had dealings that showed up in the Sunday Times fairly regularly.

  “As we have proceeded with our research, we have also developed a possibility which may be even closer to your heart. Not closer than your son, of course, but closer to your life's work. And even more important to me than regaining the use of my own legs. Come, there is someone else I want you to meet.” He led Overbridge out the door and down the corridor to another patient room. There, sitting inert in a wheelchair, was a man.

  “This is my uncle, Dr. Overbridge. He was in an industrial accident several years ago. He, like me, is paraplegic. He is also blind and nearly completely deaf.” He rolled over to the other man, so that their knees were almost touching under their shawls, and reached out to stroke the man's cheek. Juan Carlos Perez stirred, smiled, and reached up to take Santiago's hands.

  “Hello, Uncle Luis,” Santiago said gently, at the same time rapidly signing, as Perez kept his hands lightly touching the other man's moving hands. “This is Dr. Overbridge.” He spelled the name on Perez's palm. “He is going to connect you back to life.”