Things could’ve been worse still: he could’ve not had Hunter. Above and beyond the friendship and the constant technological additions to his life, Hunter made sure Brock had everything and everyone he needed. Hunter practically had his own staff of people to assist him.
Brock lived alone and had a job; he enjoyed freedom, friends, and a life. Hunter gave all of that to Brock without ever asking for anything in return. Without ever once saying anything about any of it. Hunter simply did those things, not as if they were expected of him, but as if those were things that of course he would do, because Brock was Brock, and Hunter was Hunter, and they were Brock and Hunter.
After all those years, the day he got the message from Hunter—who was asking for his help—became without any doubt the happiest and proudest day of Brock Elsbeth’s life. He loved Hunter like a brother, and he knew Hunter felt the same, even if Hunter never actually said the word. God, to be able to do something for Hunter other than be his friend…
Brock was happy. Brock was excited. Brock was beside himself.
Ok, whatever, I’m in a wheelchair beside my wheelchair.
Brock knew Hunter would point out that, if Brock were beside himself … well, Brock knew what Hunter would point out. Hunter was a jackass.
When the Terminal application suddenly popped up on the monitor attached to his chair, Brock knew what it meant. Hunter was the only one who could or would access his Terminal and unless it launched by itself, it meant there was a message. Except there was no message; there was only a black window with a blinking white cursor.
Way before the accident, he and Hunter used computers to send messages but that was prior to the internet and subsequent email explosion. When they weren’t using online Bulletin Board Systems, they used backdoor terminals accessed by a modem to send messages directly to another computer. Sometimes they sent messages written in what they considered at the time to be ‘encrypted code’ but what was more like basic juvenile cipher.
“GA,” Brock directed his computer to type. It meant ‘go ahead.’
What he received in response was his and Hunter’s code; they hadn’t used it since they were in their teens. While he knew Hunter wasn’t actually using the code itself to be covert, he knew what signal Hunter was sending. By waiting for Brock to message first and by using their code, Hunter was saying: This is serious, bud… this is dangerous.
The message he translated from Hunter was simple.
“LOC INFO R PPL 4 ASN DOC Gensay R VAR. PRO Neurosci. DMWM TMW. SK.”
A mixture of their childhood code and TTY code used by interpreters to relay messages for the deaf, the message Brock deciphered meant he was to locate information or family for an Asian doctor named ‘Gensay’ or some kind of variant of that name. The doctor’s profession was linked to neuroscience. Hunter instructed him not to message and that he would message Brock tomorrow. End of message.
Brock replied with, “SKSK.” That meant Brock was ending the message and closing the Terminal, which also indicated to Hunter that he received the message.
Brock’s heart raced. He didn’t know what it was, but whatever it was, it was big. Hunter contacted him the day he got the first call from the Department of Defense. Hunter said the D.O.D. wanted him for some project regarding neuroscience, but that was all the information they could give him at the time. Hunter came to see Brock the day he left for D.C. after his security clearance went through. The last thing he said to Brock was to joke how he’d never hear from Hunter again, he’d see Hunter on the news, or Hunter would hit something really big. It was looking like maybe Hunter hit something big. Brock felt like he was thrust into some old James Bond movie. Or a Bourne movie. Ugh no, not a Bourne movie, because Hunter’s gay ass would go on and on about how he could probably get Matt Damon to suck his dick.
Gross, dude.
So, James Bond it was.
Twenty-four hours. That was how long Brock Elsbeth had to find the information his friend desperately needed. There was no way Hunter would’ve sent the signal of danger along with his message if he wasn’t desperate for the information and if he had absolutely no way of acquiring it himself. One way or the other, Brock was going to get Hunter the information. Twenty years of debt he owed that man … his friend.
Brock thought he’d have better luck if he started with the field of neuroscience and worked his way backwards from there. He figured if he compiled a list of significant neuroscientists and combed it for a name that sounded like “Gensay,” it would prove to be a lot easier than trying to tackle all the different permeations of a name that resembled “Gensay.” Unfortunately, after a few hours of going through every website, every database, and every journal about neuroscience that he could find, Brock hadn’t come up with a single name that sounded remotely like “Gensay.”
Brock even paid to access the full-text of several online journals. The only thing he found was an article that happened to reference neuroscience. It was about a role-playing game that contained a fictitious tribe called the Jensai, based on a real city in Ghana. Other than that, Brock found nothing usable by starting with the field of neuroscience as a whole and working backwards from there. There were too many places to start from and he would essentially have to read everything in order to come across individual names.
Brock was forced to take the more difficult route. He started with lists of Asian surnames that sounded like “Gensay.” He obtained lists of surnames from as many places as he could find and compiled them all as broadly as he could. He tried not to leave out any possibilities. He then went back to search the field of neuroscience again, but that time searched for any surnames that matched those variant spellings.
The closest result came from a given name rather than a surname, although by that point Brock took whatever he could get. It was a one “Jinsy Andrews,” a Doctor of Neuromuscular Medicine. For some reason, that person didn’t feel right to Brock; they didn’t feel like the person he was looking for, so he made note of the doctor and kept going. By the time he found the name “Jinsy Andrews,” seven hours had passed since he received Hunter’s message.
His next and more frustrating option was to phonetically approach ‘Gensay’ and try to imagine it as a full name, first and last, and look for any combinations that, when said together, sounded like “Gensay.” The majority of his results, combined with the outcome of his first two approaches, made him realize the “G” was most likely a “J,” which was at least something he could go off. After assembling nearly every possible variation of “Jensay” as two names, a given name and a surname, Brock was ready to tackle neuroscience again.
That approach ended up being the most successful. Right away, it provided him with a Dr. Huey-Jen Tsay from the Institute of Neuroscience in Taiwan and a Dr. Jin Tsay, who published several research papers in neuroscience as a graduate student from Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri. Jin Tsay was heavily referenced in several journals but beyond grad school seemed to have no further published works. Although doubtful the situation involved some doctor in Taiwan, Brock decided to start with Huey-Jen Tsay, because he at least appeared more relevant in the field of neuroscience. Jin Tsay was, after grad school, noticeably more obscure if not completely absent.
Dr. Huey, as Brock decided to refer to him and in the process couldn’t stop singing random Huey Lewis and the News songs in his head, seemed like he could be the guy. Research and papers in movement disorders, neuromuscular changes, neuroinflammation, neuroreceptors. Some pretty powerful stuff … that’s the power of love … Papers about things Brock couldn’t understand but that seemed to contain the right words and appeared to be about precisely the right things; things Hunter would’ve been interested in and working on. Papers Hunter himself could’ve written. Brock was pretty sure he’d found his guy. He was pretty sure that was it. Damnit … if this is it - please let me know … All right, that was enough.
No more Huey Lewis, damnit.
To be thorough, Brock looked into
Dr. Jin Tsay as well. Studies in neuroelectricity specifically. Lots of studies. Research about exactly how neuroelectric signals organized information and how science could work to access it during that process. One journal included a paper by Dr. Jin Tsay that described how, from what Brock could ascertain, he discovered that somehow neuroelectricity retained information. Brock knew he must’ve read it wrong because, despite all the stuff he didn’t know, he did know that electricity didn’t contain information. Electricity was electricity, neuroelectricity or not.
Still, it sounded intriguing enough. He thought he heard something specifically about neuroelectricity when Hunter called to tell him how the Department of Defense contacted him out of the blue. Brock didn’t pay much attention at the time because it didn’t seem pertinent. Brock didn’t always pay attention when Hunter spoke. A lot of times Hunter talked to talk; the man could’ve probably jacked-off to the sound of his own voice. Brock was pretty sure Hunter said something about neuroelectricity, though.
Something caught Brock’s attention. In one of the journal articles that referenced Dr. Jin Tsay’s most recent research about neuroelectricity, the author stated in his explanatory endnotes that the doctor could not be reached for comment on a specific critique. Dr. Jin Tsay’s partner, who remained unnamed so Brock had to go back to the original article to find it, responded to the author that Dr. Jin Tsay was the lead scientist on that study but had since entered a government contract and was unavailable for comment at that time. Piecing everything together, Brock decided to focus his investigation on Dr. Jin Tsay instead.
After Brock stared at the monitor for over forty minutes, the Terminal application opened and the cursor blinked.
Jeez, finally.
“GA,” Brock typed.
“Successful?” Hunter asked, that time not using code or TTY.
“Y,” Brock replied.
“Info?”
“Dr. Jin Tsay, loc DC, reported missing over 4 mths ago, wife Suren Tsay. Partner prior to govt contract is Dr. Ken Wise, emp at BrainServe, they reported Wise on personal leave. Have info for Suren Tsay. Have not made contact. SK.”
“You really think so?” Suren asked. Her head was flopped to one side and was supported by her fist. From the weight of her head, her elbow was digging into the arm of the sofa, and her feet were up on the ottoman in front of her.
“I mean, I’ve never used it, so I don’t know. But yeah, from how I understand it, I really think it could,” Ken replied. He was lounged in a large chair across the room from her, and his feet were also on the ottoman. He reached down and slowly lifted a glass of wine off the hardwood floor.
Suren took an unconscious cue and straightened her head slightly so she could use the arm that was supporting it to grab a glass of wine from the side table next to her. She placed the glass in her hand that was rested on her lap, returned her arm to its original position, and lowered her head back down onto her fist. Both took a drink of wine at the same time and sat in silence. They held their wine, stared off at nothing, and thought about how Veil could possibly change the world.
Ken decided his mind wasn’t going to stop swarming with an entire universe of possibilities.
“Hell, lady,” he cut the silence, “it could become some craze. Like the internet mixed with video games mixed with virtual reality. Like sci-fi movie stuff we’re talking here. That’s the kind of potential Veil has.”
“I guess. I mean, I have thought about it. I’ve just been so focused on what we’re trying to do. I haven’t really thought much about what it’s going to turn into once it leaves our hands.”
“You can never prepare for that, anyway,” he assured her.
“True,” she agreed. “Have you thought about who you’re going to test it on? You know, when it’s ready?” The lab still wasn’t complete and she knew it was probably months away from being ready, but she had thought about that. She was damn sure it wasn’t going to be her. Ken for sure as hell wasn’t going to test Veil on her.
“What do you mean?” He appeared genuinely confused.
“What do you mean what do I mean?” she laughed. “Who are you going to test Veil on, so you can see if it works, and so you can experience it for yourself?”
“Oh,” Ken replied and seemed to change from confused to embarrassed. “Well … I mean, I’ll never use it,” he admitted. “I never will.”
She straightened up, placed her glass of wine down and stared at it for a second. She picked it back up, took a big drink and placed it back down again. Suren crossed her arms, leaned forward and looked directly at Ken.
“What do you mean you’ll never use it?”
“I don’t believe in it,” Ken declared.
“You don’t believe in it?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I don’t. I guess we should’ve had this conversation already. I just assumed … I don’t know really, I assumed you knew me and that you’d know. I don’t believe in it. I don’t think it’s right.”
“Because of the military? Like when you decided to leave, because you didn’t agree?”
“No, no,” he shook his head again and waved. “Nothing like that. I mean, yeah, I didn’t agree with the whole getting in bed with the government thing, but that’s nothing compared to this. I think this is wrong. Veil is wrong. I think it’s going too far. It opens too many doors that should never be opened. Like that old adage of how just because you can do something doesn’t necessarily mean you should. It doesn’t sit well with me, Suren, the whole thing doesn’t. It could ruin humanity.”
Suren stood, grabbed her glass of wine, and walked to where Ken was seated. She nudged his legs over a little, sat down on the ottoman, and turned to face him.
“Then why did you ever agree to do this? If I knew … If I knew, I would've never—” she started to protest.
“Oh no, no,” he interrupted. “No, don’t think like that. No, I wanted to do this. For so many reasons. And one of them being because as a theory, I think it’s beautiful.”
“But you think it’s wrong?”
“Yes, definitely, I think it’s wrong. I think even if it is possible, we shouldn’t do it. We should never do it,” he spoke with certainty.
“Then why, Ken, would you make it? … Oh my God … why?”
“I’m practical, lady. If nothing else, I’m practical. One, I know without a doubt the military already has their hands on it. So it’s out there. It’s happening. Whether we like it or not. And it’s happening through the very people who killed Jin to get their hands on it and keep it for themselves. I don’t think we need to wonder if they’ve got nice, warm, fuzzy intentions.”
“No,” she chuckled and took a drink of Ken’s wine after she downed hers. “That we don’t have to wonder.”
“Right. And two, I’ve always—always believed in multiple discovery. That is, once someone makes a discovery, probability is very high that someone somewhere else will make an identical discovery, and usually pretty soon afterward, if not at the same time.”
“So all you’re saying is that Veil was inevitable,” she clarified.
“By any other name,” he joked.
“Then why not let it happen, some other way; some other person; some other time?” she asked before she took yet another drink of Ken’s wine.
“Because you asked me to do it. And because even if I don’t believe in Veil, I’ve always believed in Jin.”
All the wine coupled with the dramatics created by what Ken said quickly sank into them and they laughed. Suren stood, lost her balance, and used her free hand to catch herself. They were still laughing when the home telephone rang and startled them. Suren let out a little yelp and covered her mouth. She giggled. The home phone never rang. Ever. The only reason they had one was because Jin insisted on it. Jin thought a home phone was something people should have.
Suren laughed at herself for being startled. She walked to the phone, which was on its third ring. She removed the phone from its base and turned it on.
“Hello?”
Suren didn’t hear anything from the other end and, after a few seconds of silence, assumed it was simply a fluke. She took the phone from her ear and was about to hang up when a strange voice came from the receiver.
“Suren Tsay.”
She put the phone back up to her ear and—from a robotic, monotone voice—heard the rest of the sentence.
“I have a message for you.”
7
CONVOKE
If it were any other occasion, Brock would’ve been much more self-conscious. Not embarrassed, simply more self-aware. Flying was such a hassle. Not only a hassle for Brock, a hassle for everyone. He knew airports were filled with frustrated travelers who suspended their frustration only for the duration of their flight and even then only when they finally took their seat.
When people first arrived at the airport, they were frustrated; when they deplaned at the next airport, they were frustrated. By default, almost everyone in the airport was frustrated. That was a situation in which Brock did not like to find himself. Ever. All the inconvenience youth despised so much, inconvenience that maturity eventually—hopefully—overcame, returned to people when they were at the airport and nearly every adult in sight became painfully selfish and cruel. Throw into that mix some guy in a big, slow chair, and havoc inevitably ensued.
That time, however, Brock felt like the honey badger; he couldn’t be bothered enough to give a shit. Sure, he noticed the usual rolled eyes, the exasperated huffs, and the men who motioned in his direction with their boarding passes while they leaned over and whispered disdainfully into their wife’s ear. While all that would’ve made him increasingly self-conscious any other time, he only had two thoughts as he made his way to the boarding gate before anyone else.
Veil Page 14