“This is significant,” Garrett said, “but perhaps not in the way that it seems.” The next few slides gave computerized images of the same scenes taken from five different subjects. “An obvious first assumption would be that the algorithm is interpreting the subject’s perceptions with less than one-hundred percent accuracy. Note that all of these are the same basic image, the mountain, the forest and the lake. All differ in the exact color of the water and the sky, the extent of snowfall on the mountain peak, the number and color of the surrounding shrubs, the extent of cloud cover overhead. However,”—Garrett paused and smiled vaguely at the audience—“if we blend these disparate images into a composite, then the resulting image winds up much closer to the actual scenes being viewed.” He put two images up on the screen, side by side. As he had said, they were indeed quite close, differing now only in fine details. “We believe that the algorithm is, in fact, highly accurate in interpreting the subject’s perception of what he or she is seeing. What is less than accurate is the subject’s perception itself. If our interpretation of this data is correct—and we think it is—then no two people see anything at all in exactly the same way. Nobody’s memory of a scene or an event is entirely accurate or can be relied upon with absolute confidence.”
The corner of James Garrett’s mouth twitched upward. “It is well known from legal and criminal proceedings that the testimony of eyewitnesses often differs from each other. Our data would seem to corroborate that fact. Our eyes and our memories are easily fooled. The brain perceives through senses that are frail and unreliable.”
Interesting, Michael thought. Fascinating, even.
Across the hall, Michael could see Michael Morse. He appeared to be paying rapt attention to James Garrett and his talk. Michael wondered what he was thinking.
“Michael?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Michael Foreman. Remember me?”
“Of course.” The voice on the phone hesitated. “What can I do for you?”
Michael Foreman was not entirely certain what he expected from this phone call. The two men had not spoken in nearly a year, but Michael Morse, it seemed to Michael Foreman, would probably have some insight into the situation.
“What can you tell me about a company called Remington Simulations?”
For a moment, there was silence. “Aside from what’s been on the news? Are you talking about the ten dead victims?”
Michael sighed. “I’m afraid that I am.”
“Ten cities, ten dead victims. So, what’s your interest?”
“You remember that one of my friends mentioned you to me? Ralph Guthrie? He’s one of the victims.”
“I didn’t know that. The names haven’t been released, yet. I’m sorry to hear it.” Michael could almost hear the other man hesitate. “Remington does not have a good reputation. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with their products, it’s just that their products bear a remarkably close similarity to other people’s products.”
“Patent violations?”
“So, it’s been claimed. They’ve quietly settled a number of lawsuits.”
“But their tech is supposed to be good?”
Michael Morse laughed. “It’s very good, what they’ve copied it from, at least.”
“Any ideas on how it happened?”
“Yeah, actually. First, the haptic zones provided by the hardware center around a small device that vibrates, an OSCI. The frequency change of the vibration can mimic almost any tactile sensation. It feels real…but here’s the thing: it’s low energy. There is no way that such a device can deliver a fatal amount of electricity.”
“Unless it’s been tampered with,” Michael said.
“Exactly. Ten victims in ten different cities? A manufacturing defect would seem to be a possibility, but just those ten, and only one in each city? I don’t know. Anything I can think of seems far-fetched.”
“It’s a fact that ten people are dead. Something caused that to happen. You’re implying that it was deliberate.”
“Presumably, the suits were manufactured at some central location. A manufacturing defect could explain it, but it’s more likely that the suits were deliberately sabotaged there, where they were made, at the point of origin.”
“Okay,” Michael said grudgingly.
“Alternatively—now that we’re speculating—I suppose it is possible that they could have been subjected to some outside influence.”
“How would that have worked?”
“It might have been possible to hack the system. In which case, some mad computer genius might have been sitting in a secret lair in the wilds of Alaska, drinking beer and amusing himself.”
“And if such a thing was happening, is there any way to tell?”
Michael Morse seemed to hesitate. “I’m not sure. If an expert were to examine the programming, he might find something, some new code added to the programming, or some changes to the old code, but if it was deliberate, whoever did it might be good enough to cover his tracks.”
“The cop who interviewed me said that the FBI is involved, now. I’m sure they’re going to tear these suits apart. If there’s something mechanically wrong with them, they should be able to find it.”
Michael Morse laughed softly. “Maybe. I’m not sure they’re that good. You know, I would have loved to try their system, under better circumstances. It sounds like it would have been a lot of fun.”
“Really? I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole.”
“Well, neither would I. Not now. Not until they work the bugs out. Just as well they didn’t ask me, I could be dead by now. My girlfriend would not be pleased.”
Chapter 7
Over the next week, Harold Strong or one of his colleagues interviewed all of Ralph Guthrie’s known friends and associates, including the band members. Band practice was a real downer. Ralph’s absence created a hole that was impossible to fill, both in the group’s sound and in their collective psyches.
All of them had been interviewed. None had anything to contribute to the mystery of their friend’s death.
The band members comprised a mixed bag of professions. Ralph had been the only game-playing enthusiast and Michael, the only physician. Aside from the music, they didn’t have much to talk about. They played for an hour or so but their hearts weren’t in it.
Over the next few days, Michael heard from more than one mutual friend of Ralph and himself. All had regarded the police questioning as pro-forma and routine. Most thought the cops were just going through the motions, not really expecting to discover anything useful.
The funeral took place mid-week. Ralph’s parents seemed shell-shocked. His brother, his brother’s wife and two kids sat like wide-eyed statues, tears trickling unnoticed down their cheeks.
Michael hated funerals but he showed up because that’s what good friends did. Melody came with him. Thankfully, she had little to say. Melody’s relentless self-absorption was beginning to grate on Michael’s nerves. She sat quietly by his side, looking beautiful and appropriately grief-stricken.
The next few days passed uneventfully. Harold Strong seemed to have decided that Michael had nothing further to offer the investigation, which was certainly true.
Three days later, he was walking from the hospital food court into the dining room with a roast beef on rye and a bag of potato chips when he saw a guy he had never met but recognized sitting at a table. He was big, well-built, with broad shoulders, dark hair with a touch of gray at the temples and sharp eyes. Michael hesitated, then walked over to the table. The big guy looked up. “Mind if I sit down?” Michael asked.
The big guy’s eyes flicked to a seat across from his own. “Sure,” he said.
Michael sat. “You’re Richard Kurtz.”
The big guy nodded. “Yup. And you are?”
“Mike Foreman, neurosurgeon.”
“I guess you don’t operate at Easton. Otherwise, I would have run into you.”
“No,” Michael
said. “I do all my cases at the school.”
Kurtz nodded. He had a three-quarters eaten burger sitting in front of him. “What can I do for you?”
“I understand that you’re a police surgeon.”
“Part time, but yeah.”
“I heard a lecture you gave, last year, on acute treatment of bullet wounds.”
“I give it a couple of times a year,” Kurtz said. “Also, one on MVA’s and another on general trauma.”
Michael nodded. “I understand that you’ve been involved in a number of police investigations.”
Kurtz grimaced. “This is true. Why do you ask?”
“I ask because a friend of mine was recently murdered.”
Kurtz gave Michael a brooding look. “That is unfortunate,” he said. “Please accept my condolences, but why are you talking about it with me?”
“It’s just that I could use a little advice.”
Kurtz seemed about to say something, then he hesitated, leaned back in his seat and glanced at the clock hanging on the dining room wall. “My best advice,” he finally said, “is to let the police do their jobs. I know a lot of surgeons. I am a surgeon. I know that surgeons have this tendency to think they’re smarter than everyone around them. This may or may not be true, but being smart doesn’t mean a thing when you have neither training nor experience. Unless you have some actual knowledge of the case, or some relevant expertise, there is nothing that you can add to a police investigation.”
“No,” Michael said, “of course not. And yet, with no relevant expertise, you have been involved in a number of police investigations. How did that happen?”
Kurtz rolled his eyes. “Bad luck, mostly. Wrong time, wrong place. In the beginning, I didn’t have any idea of what I was doing, but I did have information that turned out to be useful. By the fourth or fifth, I also had some expertise, not that my police colleagues would be willing to admit it.”
Michael sat back in his seat. “My friend was electrocuted while playing a video game, speaking of wrong time, wrong place.”
“Are you talking about Remington Simulations?” Kurtz asked.
“Yeah.”
“Ten victims,” Kurtz said, “in ten different cities. It’s been in the news.”
“I’ve been thinking about it.” Michael hesitated. “I can’t get it out of my mind.”
Kurtz looked at him with evident sympathy. “I have, on occasion, allowed my curiosity to run away with me,” he said. “In retrospect, I can’t regret it. It’s driven my life and my career in directions that I never would have expected, but things could have turned out very differently. A couple of times, I almost managed to get myself killed.”
Michael felt a frown creep across his face. He hardly knew what to say to that, so he said nothing.
“It’s tough to just sit there and do nothing,” Kurtz said. “I know that, but I think you should mind your own business. I will admit, it’s not advice that I followed for myself, but as I said, it all could have turned out very, very differently. Frankly, I’ve been lucky. Sooner or later, luck runs out.”
“Thanks,” Michael said.
“You bet.”
Not particularly helpful, Michael thought. He had never been a fan of, “Do as I say, not as I do.” Still, Kurtz had a point. Even if Michael were inclined to hit the streets, go undercover, knock on doors, interview suspects and track down witnesses (which he most certainly was not), he hadn’t a clue where to start.
Richard Kurtz had a reputation as an excellent surgeon but otherwise, he led a career that was foreign to other surgeons’ experience. In the insular world of the hospital, Kurtz was an anomaly, and not one that Michael had any intention of trying to emulate.
Nope. Kurtz was right. Let the experts do their job. Michael’s job was operating on people’s brains.
“Very good,” he said. “Again.”
Alan Jacob had been a patient of Michael’s, and one of his research volunteers, for three years. He had been in a very bad car crash and had suffered significant brain damage, primarily to the frontal lobes, the part of the brain from which movement originates. His arms and legs twitched, now and then, but were otherwise wasted and almost useless. Nevertheless, sitting in his motorized wheelchair, his lips quirked upward in what Michael recognized as a smile.
On the computer screen, a cursor pointed at an icon. A game opened on the screen, one that required the player to wield a gun and shoot at a horde of rampaging aliens, filling the tubular corridor of a space station. The game was first person, from the point of view of the gunman. On the screen, the gun pointed, jerked and a gout of blood splashed out from the chest of a horned, space suit wearing fiend. The fiend screeched, fell over and lay still, then another and another.
“This is fun.” The voice issued from the computer. It was a generic voice, one of many programmed into the computer, but the thought that the voice expressed came from the mind of Alan Jacob.
Neuroplasticity, Michael thought, is a wonderful thing. It allowed brains to forge new connections, sometimes bypassing damaged segments, other times, allowing areas of the brain to assume new functions.
Alan Jacob had a white, woven strip covered with electrodes taped to each side of his forehead. Each electrode trailed a wire to a console sitting on the floor next to his wheelchair. The cursor on the screen was not, strictly speaking, controlled by the patient’s mind. It was controlled by the computer in the console, in response to the EEG reading of Alan Jacob’s brain, the same console that controlled his wheelchair.
Experiments with electrodes implanted into the brains of monkeys, dating back as far as the late 1990’s, had shown that the monkeys could be trained to control the movement of cursors on computer screens and even manipulate real robotic arms. Mind controlled wheelchairs had been commercially available since 2016, first produced by A-Set Training and Research, in India.
The control strips on Alan Jacob’s forehead were Michael’s invention, being cheap, disposable and easy to apply, not exactly a major innovation, but a solid, useful step forward.
The system compensated for disabilities in the patient’s brain by technology that could read, augment and carry out the brain’s intentions. As Michael Morse had said to him in San Diego, it was a process external to the brain, an add-on. It had no direct interface with the brain itself.
Neuro-prostheses, brain implants, were the next big step, only one of which, the cochlear implant, currently represented fully mature technology. Many thousands of patients received cochlear implants every year. There were also implants that attempted to compensate for reduced levels of specific neurotransmitters, such as the implant for Parkinson’s disease, except that they didn’t work all that well. Retinal implants were on the verge of commercial viability but were not quite there, yet. Still, in ten to fifteen years, they would be common.
And the future? Consider a brain. A segment of that brain is injured, or perhaps simply ceases to function as the patient succumbs to the ravages of old age. No matter, an artificial module is then snapped into the patient’s head. The module melds with the organic structure of the brain, carrying out all the functions of the damaged segment. As the brain grows older, as its functions erode, module after module is added, until there is nothing left of the original brain. The patient has an entirely new, artificial brain, indistinguishable, in function at least, from the original.
But what, Michael thought, of the mind? The consciousness? What of the soul? Are they still there? Is this new brain you…or only a copy?
There were many theories of consciousness, the most prevalent of which held that consciousness is an illusion, crafted by the brain itself. And the soul? Well, the soul may fly off to heaven after the original brain is gone, or the soul may not even exist. No way to tell, and the question, Michael felt, was beyond his paygrade.
Alternatively (a different approach to the problem), you don’t snap an artificial module into the patient’s brain. Instead, you connect the patient to a c
omputer, to an external brain. This external brain may be as large as a city block. It may be sitting somewhere in San Francisco or Chicago or London. No matter. You’re connected to it. It’s yours, your brain, and when your body, and what’s left of your own original, organic brain, finally erodes into dust, your new brain, your brand new, very large brain, with your mind and your consciousness inside it, will still be there.
Mind uploading, it was sometimes called—still only a theory, a flight of science-fictional fancy, but Michael didn’t doubt that it was coming. The technology was beyond what they were currently capable of doing, but the theory was sound. There was no reason why it wouldn’t work.
Someday.
Chapter 8
“Detective Strong is here, Doctor. Shall I show him in?”
Again? Michael stared at the small speaker perched on the edge of his desk. “Please,” he said.
Michael had just finished with his latest patient, a post-op meningioma, and had already written up his notes. The next patient wasn’t due for twenty minutes or so. A few seconds later the burly form of Harold Strong walked in and sat down in the visitor’s chair. He was carrying a small paper bag that said “Dunkin Donuts” on the side, from which he pulled out a styrofoam cup of coffee. He took the plastic top off the cup and took a long sip.
“Did you know that Dunkin Donuts coffee has won awards?” Harold Strong said.
“I can’t say that I did,” Michael said. “So what?”
Harold Strong grinned. “Just saying. In blind taste tests, Dunkin Donuts beats Starbucks hands down. McDonald’s does, too. You don’t have to pay a lot of money to get a good cup of coffee in this town.”
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