Veil

by Aaron Overfield

  “I thought I’d never make it through all that paperwork,” Hunter joked to cut the silence.

  “Yeah, they want to make sure you sign away your soul before they let you use the bathroom around here,” Schaffer offered in return.

  “Right, well I’m glad my clearance went through so quickly. I have to say I’m damn curious what the Department of Defense could possibly want from me.”

  “It’s not so much what we want from you but what we need,” Pollock interjected. He quickened his pace a bit and wondered why he always ended up falling behind; he wasn’t that damn short.

  “I stand corrected,” Hunter replied while he scanned the lab.

  He made note of everything in the lab, as if he might need to recall it in a second’s notice. Not unlike the way people were instructed to readily memorize specifics of a fake mugging, after which they’d get drilled for the details.

  Heh, drilled.

  They led him to a conference room in the back of the lab, which contained only a table, six chairs, a whiteboard, and a water-cooler. Schaffer and Pollock took turns explaining why Hunter was brought there. The two military scientists described what they needed from him, without disclosing anything about the nature of Veil. They made sure not to divulge any impertinent information at all. After they gave as adequate an explanation as they could, they opened the floor up to Hunter.

  His immediate response was disconcerting.

  “I understand what you’re trying to do, but what I can’t understand is why in the world anyone would ever want to do that.”

  Schaffer and Pollock gawked at each other.

  Not quite the response they expected … or hoped to hear.

  Hunter spent the rest of the afternoon educating the two military scientists about why their goal simply wasn’t achievable, and how it would likely never be possible. He suggested that they certainly must have realized it was impossible to “remotely deploy” neuroelectricity. Just like there was no way to charge an electrical device without plugging it into, or otherwise making contact with, a source of electricity. That couldn’t be news to them. Right?

  It wasn’t as if one could shoot neuroelectricity, or any electricity for that matter, through the air with the accuracy of Spider Man shooting webs from his wrist, he jabbed. He reminded them that a stable current required conduction, which was only possible through direct contact. It was something fundamental to any stable electrical current, and a neuroelectrical current was no different. He recommended that they might as well give up if their project absolutely required remote deployment of neuroelectricity.

  No how, no way buckos, he told them.

  However, he could promise them some kind of handheld device that was able to extract and insert—or download and upload, respectively—neuroelectricity. He was certain he could devise such a contraption. He simply reiterated the notion that he couldn’t fathom why in baby Jesus’ diaper anyone would ever want to do such a thing. Sure, one could use a device to extract someone’s neuroelectricity, store it, and then at some point in the future insert it back onto his or her brain. But … why—oh—why—in the fuck, why? Perhaps they didn’t accurately describe what they needed? Or perhaps they needed a nap?

  Or was the whole thing like Punk’d or some shit?

  Am I on Punk’d?

  Hunter pretended to scan the room for a hidden camera. He peered behind the water-cooler and pried the bottom of the whiteboard from the wall a bit, enough to peek behind it. The two science officers didn’t know what to make of the man.

  Pollock sneered at Schaffer with one eyebrow raised.

  This is Hunter Kennerly, bro?

  Schaffer wanted to throw a chair at Pollock’s face, simply from the look alone. Well, and because he was Pollock. His face seemed designed for the sole purpose of having things thrown at it.

  After they emphasized that, yes, what they described was exactly what they needed, Hunter repeated himself. Yeah, it was possible. It would leave the person whose neuroelectricity was extracted in a state equivalent to an engine running on idle. Sure it was running, Hunter said, but nothing was going anywhere and the person would probably experience some kind of deep, dreamless sleep-type state during that time.

  He added how the person would need to be hooked up to some kind of life-support and provided at least some artificial neuroelectricity until theirs could be restored. According to Hunter, a person could have undetectable neuroelectric activity and still not be considered brain dead. So, as long as they had blood flow to the brain and minimal neuroelectricity sustaining them, there shouldn’t be too much risk or damage.

  Hopefully.

  If they wanted the device, he could make it. He told them all it would have to do is extract neuroelectricity and store it in such a way that it could retain its exact pattern so later it could be reinserted and correctly applied onto the brain. He added how, with considerably more time and money, he could probably create one that extracted neuroelectricity, memorized the pattern, compacted it all and then reassembled the pattern on the fly during discharge, not unlike an embroidery machine. Schaffer and Pollock conferred with each other and then asked Hunter which kind of device would be smaller: the one that retained the exact shape of the neuroelectrical pattern or the one that simply memorized it.

  “The one that memorized it would be smaller. It would require more circuitry and programming, but it would be much smaller. It would probably resemble a Taser,” he speculated. “Instead of merely extracting and storing electricity it would collect neuroelectricity, memorize its pattern, condense it all down, and later upload it back onto the brain in that same pattern.”

  Schaffer and Pollock thanked Hunter and told him that they would work with him starting the next day to begin designing such a device. They summoned a serviceman to escort Hunter to General Coffman’s office and then afterwards to his accommodations.

  After Hunter left, Schaffer and Pollock remained in the lab. They stared at some of the diagrams Hunter drew on the whiteboard.

  “Why does it feel like we’re missing something?” Pollock wondered out loud.

  “I’m sitting here asking the same thing,” Schaffer confessed.

  Neither could understand how something seemingly so complex and profound could be reduced to a contraption the size of a stun gun. Surely there was something else to Veil; some process that occurred in Tsay’s huge mainframes, which took up an entire room. There had to be something they weren’t considering. If it was that simple and could be done with one little handheld device, how was it never done before? How was it never considered before? How could it all be that simple? And the size of a friggen Taser.

  Maybe they were upset someone could come in and not only easily solve a problem that seemed overwhelming to them but also suggest they were both idiots for thinking they could do what they were wanting to do in the first place. Schaffer and Pollock looked at each other and in that moment they felt like equals.

  Schaffer shuddered and promptly exited the conference room.

  “Your dad was a what … ummm a…” General Coffman started before he had to refer back to the paperwork he was reviewing. “A Lieutenant Commander. In the Navy.”

  “Sir, he was, sir,” Hunter nodded.

  “Retired now,” the General read on.

  “Yes, sir. He and my mother live up in Washington.” Hunter suddenly remembered where he was and added, “The state, sir.”

  “Get along with them?”

  “Yes, sir. Both. Pop’s my best bud,” Hunter lied. His father was an abusive, power-hungry, homophobic whiskeyoholic. In other words, a lot of fun. Lots and lots of fun. About as fun as Hunter’s entire childhood. Oh, happy happy, joy joy.

  “Been reviewing your file.” The General continued to thumb through the results of the clearance Schaffer fast-tracked. “Eagle Scout, Order of the Arrow, graduated valedictorian from Georgetown, then a graduate program at MIT, doctorate from Caltech, stayed loyal to them and still working there. Published,
awarded, well respected. No detectable participation in any Socialist liberal bullshit Occupy movements, no criminal record, no abnormal violent tendencies. No delinquency. No faggotry.”

  “Well, I might look nice and nerdy on paper, but don’t let it fool you. I can still be one tough sonofabitch, sir,” Hunter assured him with the right amount of masculine arrogance and cockiness.

  The General put down the papers and laughed. He liked the kid. Dad in the service, respectful, off-the-charts intelligence, gritty. Dad was white, mom was black. Just like his own marriage. Ok so far for a civilian, he figured. In fact, the kid looked more like a soldier than a whitecoat. He was strapping, strong. The kid resembled that Vin Diesel fella, except not queer.

  I need to ask Lynn if that Vin Diesel fella is a fairy.

  The General thumbed in the direction of the research building.

  “And what do you make of those two?”

  “Off the record, sir, Pollock seems like a well-intentioned buffoon and Schaffer—well Schaffer’s a self-important faggot, sir. Excuse me for saying so.”

  Hunter knew what officers thought of guys who didn’t work their way up simply because they tested so high, went to the academy, or were commissioned. It was the same thing the lower ranks thought of them: they were as weak as guys who never joined in the first place. The General was about as easy as the two scientists. Hell, maybe easier.

  The General wasn’t about to lose composure that quickly in front of some civilian kid, although he did have to swallow back a laugh. Shit, he thought Schaffer might be a fag a couple of times himself.

  This kid’s sharp, he mused before he responded.

  He figured he could loosen the belt a little.

  “You’re fine,” he started—and gave Hunter that ‘good ol’ boy’ implicit approval. “But, those are two of my best guys, which is why they are on this project. And if they say they need you well then, fuck it, they must need you. But keep in mind,” he leaned forward and pointed at Hunter, “you signed a declaration coming in here and swore to protect the safety of your country and,” he used his other hand to tap on the sheet about Hunter’s family, “you know what that means. All you have to do to protect her is keep your fucking mouth shut.”

  Although he had to fight back a strong, reflexive urge to roll his eyes at such bullshit, Hunter played his part.

  “I’m not a rat. And I don’t betray heroes or my country. When they asked me to help with the project, I knew it was my duty. That’s how it is.”

  “Damn glad to have you aboard son,” the General approved. He stood up and reached across his desk to shake Hunter’s hand.

  “Glad to be able to help sir,” Hunter schmoozed and shook the General’s hand with precise firmness, because he knew the General would scrutinize it.

  The General came from behind his desk and put his arm around Hunter. The two walked toward the door. Hunter already knew what was next. He could have set a timer and done a fucking countdown for it. It’s what they all said to him after he finished his little dog and pony show that pathetically impressed every single officer he was ever forced to tolerate.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t follow in the Lieutenant Commander’s footsteps.”

  And there it is!

  Rather than say how he was out having too much fun doing drugs and sucking dick, he went with the old standard.

  “Bad heart.” Hunter frowned and tapped his chest with his left index finger. “Congenital.”

  “Say no more, son,” the General replied with genuine sympathy.

  His left arm was still around Hunter’s shoulders, so when he reached across with his right hand to shake again, Hunter had to wiggle his arm out from between them. Hunter shook his hand, nodded and left. The General closed the door behind him.

  Good kid, General Coffman thought. He grimaced at his next thought. I’d like to let him live.

  “It doesn’t work,” Pollock blurted out and pointed at the device on the lab table. Schaffer was standing next to the table and shot Pollock a look of disgust.

  Huh? was Hunter’s gut response.

  They requested he meet them in the lab after he was informed that the military canceled his flight. He was instructed to notify his employer there’d be an indefinite delay in his return. All that after successful tests of the device he developed. An entire day’s worth of successful tests. It didn’t work, his ass.

  At least, that was what he tried to convey. He attempted to muster up as much indignation as he could; he was pretty sure they bought it. Of course he knew it didn’t work. He wasn’t sure what they were trying to do but he knew, whatever it was, the device in front of them wasn’t going to do it. Hunter wasn’t lying or kidding or being dramatic when he said he didn’t understand why anyone would ever want to download someone’s neuroelectricity, only to upload it back onto that person’s brain at a later time.

  That was the stupidest fucking thing he ever heard and, all things considered, he knew he wasn’t given the full story. Still, he did what he was supposed to do and in damn impressive time to boot, if you asked him. Nine days. Nine days straight, mind you. Nine fucking days to come up with exactly what they asked. Good luck finding someone else who could come close to that kind of turnaround. Besides, it wasn’t his fault if it didn’t work for them, because it did exactly what they said it needed to do.

  “It doesn’t work for our specific purposes, he means,” Schaffer clarified but immediately realized it wouldn’t actually be much of a clarification for Hunter.

  “Uhhh—what the fuck are you talking about, Carl? We tested it. If one of you two broke it,” Hunter raised his voice, stared directly at Pollock, and picked up the device, “that doesn’t mean it doesn’t work. It means you fucking broke it.” Oh how Hunter just loved to act indignant and self-righteous and angry all at once. He hoped he wasn’t smiling.

  “Calm down, Hunter.” Schaffer tried to pacify him. “No one broke anything. Pollock didn’t break anything, did you Pollock?”

  “Fuck you both,” Pollock snapped and crossed his arms.

  “Can someone tell me why I’m here, then? Because the three of us in this room know this device works,” Hunter disputed as he held it up and shook it. “Because we all three tested it. All three of us.”

  “Ok, ok—just calm down … When the General gets here he’ll explain everything … We couldn’t let you leave until we got it right … It’s not right yet,” Schaffer hemmed and hawed and continued to play diplomat.

  Pollock leaned over and placed both hands on the table; he held himself up by his finger pads.

  He scowled at Schaffer. “It’s your ass. If he blows this, it’s your fucking ass. I’m not going down just because your little fucking boyfriend over here didn’t do what we asked him to do and so now it doesn’t work,” he growled.

  “Dude,” Schaffer huffed. He took a step back and pulled up his shoulders in a disarming half-shrug.

  Pollock was unrelenting.

  “Fuck you. He was your choice. I had no say in it. I like you well enough,” Pollock turned his head toward Hunter, “and it’s nothing personal,” he looked back at Schaffer, “but this is all on the two of you.”

  And people say science is no fun, Hunter thought and headed to the water cooler to distract himself so he wouldn’t start laughing. He wasn’t sure why Pollock was so angry, but he was pretty sure he was going to enjoy the show once the General arrived.

  A few minutes later the lab doors slid open with their familiar hiss. Hunter was certain they were designed to make that noise on purpose so it’d sound like Star Trek. He was surprised they weren’t wearing fucking Communicators and mock ray guns up in there.

  General Coffman walked through the door; he was alone.

  “In the back,” he barked and headed toward the conference room in the rear of the lab. The three men submissively trailed behind.

  The General didn’t instill any sense of fear in Hunter and didn’t intimidate him in any way. He could tell i
t wasn’t the same for Schaffer and Pollock. He, of course, made it appear he was intimidated or the General wouldn’t feel like he was respected. Schaffer and Pollock weren’t feigning anything; the two dudes were truly scared of the General.

  Shit, y’all should meet my queen bitch of a mother, he joked to himself.

  Once inside the room, the General threw all the chairs aside except one, which he sat in. The three other men were forced to stand. Hunter stood idly by with his hands behind his back. He was entertained and curious about the level of seriousness in the room. Then again, he figured, it was the military.

  “Who wants to tell me how in the name of Mary-the-motherfucking-mother-of-god this happened?” the General boomed.

  “Schaffer, sir, Schaffer and—” Pollock started to say.

  “Shut the fuck up, Luke,” Schaffer stopped him.

  “Then you explain,” the General directed Schaffer.

  “Ok … ok, sir.” Schaffer took a considerable pause before he continued. He knew he needed to be mindful of every single word he was about to utter. “Well, sir, after several successful dry test runs of the device, Dr. Pollock and I were rather confident the device was ready to be implemented for our purposes so Dr. Kennerly,” he glanced over at Hunter and then back to the General, “was given the go ahead to depart. After you debriefed him of course.”

  The General nodded. He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. He still liked the Kennerly kid. Had him over for dinner once. Never had Schaffer or Pollock over before. Never would either, so he knew that was saying something. As far as the General was concerned, Hunter clearly wasn’t at all to blame in that debacle.

  “Pollock and I scheduled a test run for…” Schaffer cleared his throat and nervously glanced at Hunter and then at Pollock and then back to General Coffman, “the Veil project.”