Mind Games

by David George Richards

Chapter Fifteen

  The Board Meeting

  The Corporation’s headquarters were in Hackensack, New Jersey. Ben Watkins and Glen Tyler flew over together. The conversation during their journey never once included the project. They were both far too experienced to chance giving anything away before they were at the meeting.

  The building was very impressive, especially as you drove up. It was all steel and glass, surrounded by perfect lawns and numerous fountains. The style was a perfect blend of modern architecture with historical elegance and majesty. More like a glass palace built for the twenty-first century, than an office building.

  The building was supposed to project an image of power and purity, but Ben always found it intimidating. That was because he knew that the power the building represented was very real, whereas the purity was definitely lacking in its many corridors and rooms. Like the man that ran the Corporation, the building was cold and without heart.

  The boardroom was just as impressive as the building. It was the size of a tennis court, with oak panelled walls and deep leather chairs. The table was also made of oak. It was immense and heavy. Gloriously varnished, it was shiny and black, and inlaid with many different types of wood. Gold leaf decorated it’s edges.

  Ben knew most of the people who sat around the table, although there were a few who were unfamiliar to him. All of them except for one were men in dark suits. She wore red. A scarlet flower in a sea of black. Her name was Rosanna Casarotto, and she was the Corporation’s Head of Special Projects. That was a glorified title to describe Grant’s hatchet woman. But there was no doubt in Ben’s mind that Santa Monica had been a Special Project.

  There was a lot of general chit-chat as colleagues greeted one another in a friendly manner, disguising the bitter rivalry that would manifest itself at the moment of business. Even Rosanna Casarotto smiled demurely and poured coffee. It was like watching a cat offering cheese to the mice.

  All conversation ceased when Grant came in. A Scotsman, Douglas Grant was in his late fifties. He was tall and grey haired, and totally without heart. As a major share holder, he had wrested control of the Corporation in a bitter boardroom fight many years ago. Since then, he had successfully fought off all opposition with a ruthless determination that bordered on paranoia. As a result, he was very hard and unforgiving. He expected a hundred percent success from his team, and anyone who had the temerity, or misfortune, to come to the boardroom and present failure was devoured without remorse. It was a winning formula, and the Corporation’s fortunes had soared under his leadership.

  Everyone quickly took their places in the sudden hush. Glen Tyler sat on the opposite side of the table from Ben. Ben knew that it was a political as well as a physical divide, and at the moment of truth, Tyler would surely knife him.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Grant said in a booming voice. Even though he hadn’t set foot in Scotland in over forty years, his accent was still strong. His team returned the greeting as one, referring to him as Mr Grant, like school children greeting a teacher. Ben did the same, you never knew who might be watching.

  Ben’s project was the twenty-fifth item on the agenda. It took three hours to get there. And during that time, several board members were highly praised for their efforts while two were screamed and bawled at. Ben had watched, the sweat glistening on his face, as the two hapless victims had squirmed and wriggled. But there was no escape, and they had both been verbally chewed to pieces. Ben had also watched Rosanna Casarotto. She had said nothing, but had quietly circled the two names on her agenda.

  Grant stared down at his copy of the agenda, brushing aside the crumbs that were all that remained of the biscuits that had accompanied the coffee. They were like the ancient remnants of a much kinder time, long gone, but not forgotten.

  “Item twenty-five, Mr Watkins!” Grant bellowed. “You’re costing me a fortune! What have you ta tell me?”

  Even though he knew he was next, when Grant shouted his name, Ben was still startled. “Everything is going according to plan, Mr Grant,” he said almost too quickly.

  “Oh, aye? It is, is it?” Grant said, far too sweetly. “And whose plan might that be? Ours or Matthew Hall’s?”

  Ben glanced nervously at Glen Tyler. But Tyler kept his head down, as if reading his notes. “Both, Mr Grant,” Ben replied as forcefully as he could. “When I left, the subject of the field trial had been disconnected from the ventilator and was breathing on her own. Her neural net has already been recovered, and Mr Tyler’s computer people are already analysing—”

  “Donnae steal his glory, Mr Watkins!” Grant interrupted in a loud voice. “Mr Tyler will have his own say in a moment. Stick to your own report.”

  Ben nodded. “Yes, Mr Grant,” he said obediently, and took a deep breath before continuing. “As you so rightly pointed out, the project has taken an unexpected turn. But I believe this to be a bonus rather than a failure. Matthew Hall is confident of re- awakening the subject of the field trial, and the benefits of this will far exceed our original intent.” Ben stopped talking as he saw Grant raise his hand.

  As silence fell in the room, Grant sat back and lowered his hand. “Let me just recap for a moment,” he said in a much quieter voice. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr Watkins, but the purpose of this extremely expensive project was threefold:” He began to count off the points on his fingers. “One, ta extract information from a person’s mind without them knowing; Two, ta alter a person’s memory permanently, again without them being aware of the change; And three, ta create such a change in a person’s mind that their very personality and beliefs are altered forever. Not a very run of the mill project, you must agree.

  “Now, all this is very expensive, but if the project succeeds, then the benefits will vastly outweigh the costs. A measurement of success for this project is in achieving any one of the objectives I have already mentioned. You have tried ta inform us that you have. But that’s Mr Tyler’s field, and his moment of glory, not yours. Because he’s the technologist, while you are the businessman. Your role is in managing the project. Like the captain of a ship, you have ta guide it through the murky waters that lie between the rocks of financial ruin and technological failure.

  “So, Mr Watkins, have you achieved your objectives? Is the project still on course and in safe waters under your steady guidance? Or have we merely spent a fortune in reviving some irrelevant person from the North of England?”

  Ben knew that he was on the spot. There was only one answer he could give, and as soon as he gave it, he knew that Grant would pounce. Even now, Rosanna Casarotto had raised her pen and was waiting patiently for Ben to go down with his ship.

  Ben’s saviour came from an unexpected source. Glen Tyler coughed politely, and said, “Excuse me, Mr Grant, but I believe that Mr Watkins is correct, even despite the apparent loss of control in the project’s direction.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” Grant said, his eyebrows raised in obvious surprise. “And why do you believe that, Mr Tyler? Please tell us, we are all listening.”

  Grant waved his hand at the people around the table. He was right, they were all listening. None more so than Ben Watkins. Like the rest of them, he couldn’t understand why Tyler had done the verbal equivalent of hurling himself on someone else’s funeral pyre.

  “As you pointed out, Mr Grant,” Tyler began. “There are three objectives to the project. But the purpose of this field trial was to achieve only the first objective, to retrieve information from the subject’s mind. This has been achieved successfully, as Ben Watkins inferred, and as you will see in my written report.

  “However, the current loss in the project’s direction has opened up a very interesting prospect. And that is the possibility of achieving both the second and third objectives within the same field trial. This has many benefits. Firstly, any delays in finding suitable subjects for the next field trials will be eliminated, leading to an acceleration in the project’s overall timescales. And, secondl
y, the current subject is ideal for the final field trial, I don’t think we could find anyone better.

  “What isn’t in my report, Mr Grant, is that my people have already input data into the subject’s memory at Ben Watkins request, and checked it several days later. It doesn’t degrade. Although we cannot be totally sure of success unless the subject reawakens, I am now confident that the second objective can be achieved. I want to press on to the third.

  “Mr Grant, I believe we can succeed in achieving this third objective. I believe we can alter the subject’s mind to such an extent that she will not even question her environment, nor her motives. But to do that, we first need Matthew Hall to succeed. We need that woman both alive and awake. Because of all this, I propose that we extend this field trial indefinitely, or at least until the board thinks that it has gained all benefit from it. I know this means that we will lose some valuable data from the implant, and the cost of the implant itself. But the ability to reawaken trauma victims from their comas could be highly lucrative for the Corporation’s medical subsidiaries, and this will more than recoup for those losses.”

  Ben sat stunned after Tyler had finished. He was amazed at the way Tyler had so casually and unexpectedly succeeded in saving him, while at the same time openly blaming him for mishandling the project.

  Now the only sound to break the silence in the room was Rosanna Casarotto dropping her pen on the oak table in obvious dismay. Even Grant sat thoughtful for a few seconds, his head down.

  “Mr Watkins,” Grant finally said without raising his head. “What are the implications of extending the field trial as Mr Tyler proposes?”

  Ben swallowed. “None, apart from the obvious.”

  Grant raised his head. “The obvious?”

  “The deadline when the relatives of the deceased are expecting the return of her body.”

  “When is that?”

  Tyler answered Grant’s question. “Fifteenth of May,” he said. “Next Friday, in fact.”

  Grant turned his head slightly towards Rosanna Casarotto. “Deal with it,” he said. Immediately Rosanna nodded, and taking up her pen, she began to make a note. Grant then turned back to Tyler.

  “Your proposal is accepted, Mr Tyler,” he said. And eyeing Ben sternly, he added, “As for you, Mr Watkins, I’ll expect a revised schedule from you for the project by tomorrow morning. And this time, I will not tolerate any slippage. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Mr Grant.”

  “Good.” Grant stared down at his agenda. “Item twenty-six. Mr Collins!”