The woman approached the left side of David's bed and directed the other man to his right. “Lie back, David,” she said. “You woke before we had a chance to disconnect you. We have a bit more work to do and you'll be up on a FloatLink.”
David sunk back down into the mattress, guided by the gentle cradle of the woman's hands. She nodded to the man in blue, and he jammed a needle straight into David's upper left arm.
TWELVE
LYING HERE IN MY HOSPITAL BED
“I'm afraid you've suffered a fairly severe concussion, Mr. Sparks. Nothing life-threatening, but concerning nonetheless.”
All through the morning nurses, doctors and at least a dozen other people David assumed were hospital staff, due to their incessant measuring, note taking, muttering, poking and prodding rushed hurriedly in and out of David’s room. Alice paced the room as the children occupied themselves in the play area down the hall. No one knew what caused the concussion, though the scene in David’s bedroom lent several theories.
But what caused it wasn’t what worried Alice. What worried her—what made her sick—was she had no idea how long he’d been like that, and what could have happened if she came home a day later like originally planned. After a week in California with her parents she was ready to go home. The kids missed their toys and their friends, and Alice missed her partner. After twelve years of marriage, they still loved each other … but work, life and two kids tended to put romance on the back burner. Nonetheless, they still knew they needed each other and time apart always reminded them of this simple truth.
She had called Saturday to give David a heads-up they were coming home so he’d have a chance to clean up any mess he made, but it wasn’t until Sunday morning when they landed that she became concerned. Normally she wouldn’t have worried about David's lack of a phone call, assuming he'd been busy with one project or another around the house and simply had lost track of time, as he was liable to do. But this, this total lack of response after several days, this worried her.
When she and the kids arrived home, the first thing she noticed was his car still in the garage. As they came in she and the kids called through the house, hopeful to hear David shout back a surprised hello in response. But when no one answered, she rushed from room to room, her heart dropping closer to her stomach as each stage of her search came up empty. Finally checking the bedroom, the scene of her husband splayed out and unresponsive almost gave her a heart attack. At first, she was certain he was dead. Then, upon a test of his pulse, found him thankfully alive, but still unconscious.
Her fear subsided somewhat when he stirred under her touch, but frantic confusion took its place as she ran through the various scenarios that could have led to what she found. A 911 call and fifteen minutes later, he was on his way to the hospital.
The first several hours of their visit, of course, were spent waiting in the emergency ward for space to open. The doctors figured he'd already been unconscious for a few days, so it was unlikely another few hours would make much of a difference, especially considering the more traumatic, life-threatening injuries. When they did finally see him, they attacked with a barrage of questions. Yes, he bumped his head on the bed. No, he couldn’t name what day it was. Yes, he knew his name. Yes, it still hurt. These questions were followed by a CAT scan, and then more waiting.
“You'll be dispatched today, Mr. Sparks. I spoke to your wife, and she said she's on her way back to the hospital,” said the doctor. “You're going to need to take things very slow for a while and get plenty of rest. Your brain has experienced a severe trauma, although it doesn't appear there is any permanent damage. There's very minimal bleeding, and from our tests it appears the worst of it is over.”
David nodded in understanding, his brain splitting with each tilt of his head.
“This does mean no going to work—and absolutely no driving. You very likely will experience continued blackouts, so our suggestion—our prescription—is you sleep as much as you can. You should start to recover most of your faculties within the next several days, and within a week I expect you'll be back to normal. Push it, though, and you risk permanent brain damage.”
“Thanks. I understand,” David said, resisting the urge to nod. “I don't think I can accomplish much of anything right now anyway—I can't even stand up on my own.”
“We'll be sending you home with a wheelchair, David, but it will be absolutely temporary. There's nothing wrong with your actual muscles. Your sense of balance and equilibrium is off. You could probably force yourself to walk, but at this early stage I strongly advise against it. Chances are you won't need the wheelchair after you've gotten back into your home and gotten some valuable rest. Bring it back when you come in for your check-up in a week.”
David's eyes fluttered as the doctor spoke. He forced them to stay open, but it became harder and harder to focus on what the man was saying.
“You need to sleep, David. Your wife will be here soon and then you can go.”
David mumbled something unintelligible as his eyes fell closed and he drifted back to dreamland.
THIRTEEN
SECRET AGENT MAN
A piercing clatter woke David and he bolted upright in his bed, searching for the source of the racket. The woman in blue, Juliet, knelt below him as she meticulously gathered a variety of medical instruments from the floor.
“I'm sorry if I woke you. So clumsy,” she said, waggling her fingers. “How are you feeling?”
David twisted his head from side to side. Besides being a bit stiff, he felt healthy, well-rested and full of energy.
“I feel ... magnificent,” he said. “Is it okay if I stand? Stretch a little?”
“If you're up to it, you can do anything you like.”
David swung his legs over the side of the bed and let his feet alight upon the ground. Besides being strangely gummy, like the padding found in gyms, the floor radiated an odd heat. Rather than tile or linoleum, it consisted of a shiny plastic-like, spongy material. He turned his sights to the window at the left side of the room and peered out. He gazed absently through the window, taking in the wide expanse of sea, as he massaged the alien object embedded in his skull. The bundle of wires that tugged at him earlier were gone. In their place he discovered a metal plate, warm and buzzing with electricity.
“We've upgraded you to wireless. No need for cables anymore,” the woman said. “Not that you're going to need any connection of course. Your files are updated and you're back to normal. We did leave a physical data port below your panel, however, should you need a firmware update or prophylactic backup in the future.”
“Where am I?” David asked.
The woman frowned. “Hm. I guess we knocked out a few recent files when we cleared out your temporary memory.”
“What?”
“You're in the Plasticity Federal Medical Facility– the NeuroReconstruction Unit, to be exact. I guess I could fill you in. It’d probably speed up your brain’s file recreation processes after all.”
David furrowed his eyebrows. A pinch tweaked the back of his neck.
“What’s the last thing you can remember?” she asked.
“I was on a train, on my way across the ocean. I remember a city in a bubble, but after? I can't remember a thing.”
“That's the last we could access too. You don't remember an explosion? Pain? Strange sounds?”
“No ... the train—then nothing.”
“You're a lucky man, Mr. Sparks. What you've been through normally requires quite the series of invasive removals to delete. Lucky for you, your mind was already shut down.”
“I—I'm afraid I don't understand.”
“You were caught in a terrorist act, David. The train you were on was carrying explosives, and they detonated as the train pulled into Central Station. Most of the people on the train died, as did many who were in the station. We're fairly certain The Preservationist was behind it—he and his so-called “Cause.””
David's heart raced
, he knew they caught him on surveillance with Calvin prior to entering the train—all it would take would be one look at the security footage and they'd assume he had something to do with it.
“So ... I'm free to go?” he asked, trying to act casual.
“Of course. There are a few things we'd like to discuss, however.”
Oh God, here it comes. Pretend you don't know anything.
“When you came in here, you were in rough shape—we didn't think you'd make it, but after a quick retinal scan we saw who you were and moved your case to high priority. Your body was too badly burned to make a visual identity, you see. After the retinal we confirmed your connection with Calvin Simon—or, as he's more commonly referred to, The Preservationist.”
Defeated and helpless, David slumped back in his bed.
“Don't worry, Mr. Sparks. You're not under any suspicion—not after the memory dump.”
“Memory dump?”
“Yes. Beyond the external physical damage, your internal organs also sustained major injuries. Most of your neural system remained intact, however, so we transferred your neural system into the FloatNet. After that, we shut down your autonomic system and proceeded with a full rebuild, complete with reconstruction of all internal systems and external physical features.”
David scratched at his metal plate.
“Your body was too far gone to repair while keeping your brain alive. We had to kill you, David, to rebuild your system. Growing organs takes time; no matter how much we advance the technology we're still operating under the laws of nature. So, we transferred your consciousness to the FloatNet, our neural staging network, where it remained stimulated in a position of stasis. Of course, it received regular exercise while exploring your subconscious, and should still be as healthy as it was before the accident—nothing more than a long dream, as far as your brain is concerned. Once your body was rebuilt, we transferred your mind system back from the FloatNet and into your newly revived, and updated, brain.”
“Are you joking? You’re telling me you killed me, and then went digging around in my head?” David asked, pounding his fists on the table. “This is science fiction. Stuff like this doesn’t happen in real life! Besides aren't there laws against this? What about my right to privacy? You invaded the only place a man truly has for himself!”
“To answer your first question: no, David, we would never joke about a matter like this. Normally we would have let you die, but while we were exploring your neural system in the FloatNet, we did some prodding to determine your connection to The Preservationist,” she answered. “Regarding your second question: the rule of law is suspended in instances where terrorism is suspected. We do what needs to be done to preserve the society, and this was clearly a case of terrorism. Still, as far as we were able to determine, you have no real connection to him other than trust—and trust is something we need in our organization.”
David took a few deep breaths. “I'm not quite sure I follow ...”
“Our research indicates you had no prior association with The Preservationist, or, as you refer to him, Calvin, before the events in The Grasslands. Still, for some reason he placed his trust in you—and we need you to help us.”
“Help you how?”
“Calvin Simon is a bad man, Mr. Sparks. He, and the war he is attempting to incite, are a threat to the continuation of the human species. We need you to reconnect with him and find out what you can about his next plan.”
“Wait a minute—he survived the explosion?”
“Our sources indicate he abandoned the train seconds before detonation and is currently in hiding somewhere here in Plasticity. He's building an army, David—only we don't know where, who, or when they're going to strike. We need you to help us.”
“Wait, wait, wait. You want me to spy?” David asked. The very idea was preposterous. “Why would you assume I want to help you? As far as you know, I'm working with him.”
“Yes, and as far as he knows, you possess that capacity. You're not a leader, David. You're a follower—and you're loyal. Calvin has likely already figured this much out,” she replied. “Besides, we have a way to pay you back.”
“I don't need your money,” David replied, defiantly.
“Of course you don't,” said Juliet. “But what you do need is information. We were able to recover your files, David—the files from before The Grasslands. The problem is, they were extraordinarily damaged. They're still in your system, of course, but there’s a low likelihood your body will be able to fully repair the connections on its own. We, on the other hand, are actively working to restore the full file system—but this will take time.”
“You're saying you can give me back my memories?” David asked.
The spark of light in his eyes showed that her words had hit a soft spot—something she could use.
“I'm saying, we're already working on it—but I'm also saying this isn't a simple process. In the past, when we've seen damage like this, we've simply deleted the files—but our scans of your more recent memories indicate a desire, even within your recent memory, to fill in those missing gaps. Frankly we're concerned if we don't fill in those gaps—if we don't bring back those missing fragments—your brain will determine it is too damaged to continue to function.”
“So, load in what you have then. Let me figure it out.”
“That isn’t how NeuroRestoration works, David. If we were to load in bits and pieces, it would cause your brain to suffer a time-subjectivity fracture. We need to load it all at once, otherwise you'll never be able to reintegrate.”
“You're saying you want me to be a spy?”
“Not quite a spy, more like a double-agent. And only while we rebuild your memories. After that…”
“But after that, who knows what you’ll uncover.” David’s face reddened, and he again slammed his fists on the table, knocking the medical instruments back onto the floor. “Who knows what you’ll learn. What it’ll mean or what you’ll ask me to do next.”
“Calm down, David,” she placed her hands on his shoulders and met his emerald eyes. “Yes, we want you to gather and share information, but part of your role also requires you work as a spy for Calvin and his Cause—a spy against us. He's going to know you were here—you've been missing for a few weeks already. His people are everywhere, including this building, and they've certainly told him you're here. We've kept security tight around you, but only as tight as we needed it to be. We do let a few pieces of information slip through the cracks, and our hope is once you contact The Cause, Mr. Simon will consider you a valuable resource.
“You've undergone major reconstructive surgery, both physical and neural, and federal law requires you come back for regular checkups, otherwise you'll be terminated remotely through wireless. Calvin is fully aware of this, and our sources tell us he's desperate for solid information about plans for the Reconstruction. We know his profile, and we know he's going to let you back into his fold—so long as you don't give him reason to distrust you. He'll enlist you as a spy—and if he doesn't, you need to volunteer yourself. He'll use your checkups as a means to bypass security, and he'll likely try to hack into FloatNet as well through your wireless node. All we ask is you report back to us and relay to him the information we give you as facts of your infiltration of our network.”
“I'm not really the sneaking type,” David confessed.
“Are you so sure? You don't have much knowledge about yourself at all, Mr. Sparks. And frankly, neither do we. This is a risk for all of us … but one we feel worth saving your life for.” she replied. “We'll learn more soon enough, of course. While we sit here chatting away, our analysts are developing a set of subroutines to detect and purge any garbage code from the data construct of your corrupted memories. It won’t be long until we start to unravel exactly who you, Mr. Sparks, truly are. Surely you'd like us to share this information with you?”
David sighed. “So, do I get a gun or what?”
FOURTEEN
&nbs
p; MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR
Unfortunately, the answer to David’s question had been a resounding “no.” No, he did not get a gun. No, he did not get super-secret spy training. No, he didn’t get to learn to Kung Fu, and no they didn’t download codes for ju-jitsu into his brain. What he did get was a warning.
“Be careful out there, David. We don't expect you to do anything other than observe—in fact, we require you do nothing but observe. You are not a superhero. If you ever sense you’re in danger, do not try to attract our attention. Any attempt to do so will surely end up with you dead,” Juliet said.
“Are you sure I’m okay to go? I mean, healthy enough?” He glanced around, uneasily—shaking his head as he returned to the window. In it, the city became lost in his own reflection—the vision of a man whose face had gone pale and was about to be sick.
“One of the first things they’ll do is check to see if you're bugged, and then they’ll shut down your main communication OS and upload their own hacked version. Even if you're not working for us, they're going to assume we've installed a back-end logger that will upload your memory. They also know it won't be a real-time feed, because there's no way we can disguise that much bandwidth. So, what you're going to do is give us a nightly dump of your files. You'll be uploading through a proxy, so those bastards will have a lot harder time tracing it. We'll also be intermittently sending packets through randomized secure nodes, kind of like a decentralized torrent to mask any abnormally large data transmissions. But all this extra security means each daily upload will take longer to transfer than would be normal for a data chunk that size. And, we'll obviously have to shut down your neural system to do this.”
David tried his best to listen and make sense of it all, but all he could comprehend was Juliet’s buttery yellow dress. Every other time she visited she wore the same moldy blue lab coat she had on the day he woke up. Normally this splash of color in the drably appointed room would have been a welcome change, possibly even given him a spiritual lift, but today that yellow simply reminded him of bile.
The Unfortunate Expiration of Mr David S Sparks Page 6