He sticks his glass over the rail. What is he doing? This must mean something. I can’t figure out what. What should I do? I take a breath to stay calm. I have to put a stop to this “game”. I have to get him inside somehow. How?
“How about this, I just drop this glass on someone down below?” He peeks over the railing.
“You don’t want to do that.”
“Stop telling me what to do!” In his excitement, a small amount of liquor makes the trip to the street below in a little over 2 secs.
“Gary, I’m trying to figure out what you want. Just give me the chance.”
“I want to drop this glass, all 170 feet to the pavement.”
“No you don’t.”
I grab his arm and steadily pull back. Gary helps me get the glass down on the table. I put myself between Gary and the railing. I don’t want him doing anything like that, again. My willingness to help him any way possible convinces him to go inside. He sits on the widow seat just inside the door, while I get the tray with the decanter inside. I lock the door for added measure and put the tray on a table near Gary. I have a chance to make him get treatment. I just have to take it.
“You know what this means? I have to report this to the Security Division.”
Preparations
Wed 8/30/17 3:04 p.m.
“You can’t,” Gary wails.
“I have to. If any of my patients do anything that puts themselves or others in danger, I have to report it.”
“You can’t!” He starts pounding his fists into the seat. I wait for him to stop. He looks away contemptuously. That can’t make me go away.
“I know you are worried about the Stephens Institute. When people find out about your drug problem, the Institute is bound to fail. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes!” He beseeches me with his eyes.
“I can let it go, if you agree to get treatment. Will you go to treatment?”
“If you are making me.”
A non-committal answer won't do. “Will you go to treatment?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, you stay here. I will get you in the computer, under a pseudonym. You’ll have to cover your face. I can get you some gauze for that.”
Gary gets his drink, empties the glass in three big gulps, and gets another glassful. I look through the wall of cabinets covering over the door and the rest of that wall, finding sheets for the bed. Clothes stored for different weather. Pots and pans for cooking. One or two cupboards completely empty. Medical supplies. Three rolls of gauze occupy one side. Different dressings, compresses, bandages, and suture kits adorn the back wall. The right side harbors medication patches given to tech for administration. Stuff like cold meds, sleep aids, anti-histamines, and other meds. The coagulation modifiers, pain meds, and emergency meds kneel in the front. I grab two of the three rolls. With the gauze in my hands, I reconsider. Gary grew a stubble beard from a few days inside. Just a hat is enough.
Gary busies himself lovingly pouring another drink.
I need to get the pseudonym ready and agree searching for a hat last. “Gary, I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything crazy.”
I leave him there, since I don’t have a choice. In his unpredictable state, the only comfort is I provoked the first episode. Leaving him to his own devices isn’t going to be a prob. I go to the cabinets, push on the center one, the door slides towards, a handle pops forth, and I open the door. Put on my shoes.
What Gary is doing is uncommon. People struggle affording real alcohol. Gary and others in high positions retain the means to get it. Sim drinking never encroaches totally drunk, with a max ethanol toxicity of 5 percent. Ethanol medication patches provide a hack around. The user sets the target toxicity level and the tech maintains it, if possible. This tech enabling efficiently facilitates alcohol inebriation. In fact, only one store barters in old-fashioned alcohol here within the confines of Mountain Overlook, costing anywhere from 1 meal to 5 meals, adulterated stuff mixed with a cocktail of other drug (might cause Gary's behavioral swings). Gary’s income buys the real stuff.
With my shoes on, I leave the room and go through the serpentine hallway to the office. Morgan abandoned her desk for a late lunch. Gary simple runs her around with responsibility. She hangs on to her tech for just times like these. I enter Gary’s office, which he has given me access to also. Behind the desk, I pull out my pad and the computer flashes to life in this just amazing office.
The diamond shaped room, shaved flat on one vertex for a door, culminates in greenhouse-esque apex backing the desk in glass. Triangular glass chambers trap a rainbow radiance just past the interior glass walls. Light always comes through at least one of the windows. An inset glass door on the right shutters a balcony extending far to the left, meeting the apartment.
I go to the patient list, create a new alias for Gary, where it gives me a list of choices, and I choose Martin Townsend. I need to scan Gary’s id. It tells me to get him here.
“No.”
“We can transfer it from your pad. Transferring app to pad.”
I go to the appointment list and look for people with experience doing drug remediation. The choice ends up at 3:30 with Dr. Penther, 20 minutes away. We can make it. I get my pad, the computer goes blank, and take another look at the office. The wall across from the windows shelves a mountain of paper bound books, the remnants of Kiros' book idiosyncrasy. I leave the office, go back to the apartment, and remove my shoes.
Drug remediation removes all the foreign chemicals from the body through a simple process complicated by the management of withdrawal symptoms. A chemical introduced in the blood stream bonds to the alcohol or anything abnormal, encasing and gathering it. The new substance, now inert to the liver, displays high ammonia content — cleared by the kidneys harmlessly. The entire process similar to outdated chelation.
Tech introduced to all the neurons associated with the consumption of addictive substances modulates activity level, dealing with the withdrawal symptoms. This mimics the effects of the removed drug. The affected neurons are determined by which ones have altered action during the remediation process. The patient stays relatively safe after this point. Slowly turning down the selective activation causes each withdrawal symptom in turn. This increases the chances of staying sober. If a 3 hour process is too intense, they can do it in 3 days. Using sedatives is the last choice. The struggle of getting clean further motivates the patient to stay clean, at least the science says.
I push on the door until it slides all the way in and swings open, then I let the door close. His clothes look bad even for a pseudonym. He has red, brown, and blue stains everywhere, alcohol of one form or the other (red wine, bourbon, and absinthe). This indicates his financial status. His thick, full-length wool coat doesn’t belong, so I have to get a different one.
I go to him, get his arm, hold it against the pad, and the pad flashes. Gary pulls his arm away and looks at it.
“I just had to scan your tech id for the patient record.”
“You should have told me, you flea bastard.” Gary bursts out laughing, until tears fill his eyes. "Shit."
“Sorry. I’ll be back with a few more things.”
Necessary Treatment
Wed 8/30/17 3:10 p.m.
I walk around the white couch (across from the window seat), facing a fireplace, aquarium, and media cabinet. The top half of the entire apartment carries a massive, unbroken window that runs through every room. Each thing on the bottom half easily summons up. A sink is the only part of the kitchen that’s visible from the window seat — at the end of the sofa. Farther down, the stove, fridges, and more cabinets occupy the wall. The right side is a collection of three, 2 by 2 meter rooms, the bathroom suite. The bathroom sink, shower, and toilet live in their own rooms. At the end of the hall, a matching glass door leads out to a continuation of the balcony.
I take the short hallway into his bedroom, which doesn’t look as neat as in the window. The goldenrod sheets are crumpled up a
t the foot of the bed. The warm wood floor continues in here hidden under the mess of clothes all over the floor. I go to the closest, bypassing the book shelves circling the room. The first closet holds nothing. The second closet contains Kiros’ clothes on the right, black business wear with some grey (black washed jeans, high thread count cotton shirts, and jackets of various materials). Gary’s clothes hang on left. I recognize the brown woven banana leaf trousers and green t-shirt with a tree on it. I get those. Next there is a suede short jacket. This works. A collection of caps and hats inhabit the top shelf. I choose something like a fedora. The other clothes are business suits (not as high-end as Kiros'), completely black and tech free.
I leave the room, trying not to trip on anything, and make my way through the hallway to the window seat. Gary still sits there. I don’t think anyone from research will see him in the hospital. Just the clothes should work. ”Gary, can you put on these clothes?”
Gary stands and takes the clothes from me, but struggles at balancing, unsteady at best. He actually stumbles a little to keep himself upright even with my help. I can’t stand watching him struggle now, never mind the trip down. I offer him some help. “Gary do you need a wheelchair or something?”
“No, I’m walking just fine.” And he fumbles the mass of clothes in his hands.
I collect everything and dump it on the window seat. “How about a cane?”
“No, Abby I have it under control.”
I see a cane propped up on the back of the window seat. I get it for him. He is going to need this. Will he use it? I hold the handle up to him. He tries grabbing it but keeps missing the handle. With all his issues, he can’t even grab the handle. I grab his wrist and move his hand onto the handle.
“Do you have it?”
“Yes, can I go now?”
“Lead the way.”
He wanders back to his room, after collecting his clothes, all the while dropping something. I follow him and help get everything to his room. I wait outside for him. Gary comes out after a while all dressed, and we're ready to go.
Gary walks towards the door, which I open for him. He makes it through without much difficulty. I follow him through and get our shoes. Gary has at least twelve pairs. I just choose something, a translucent cream colored pair, compared with my plain opaque black shoes.
“Are these good?”
“Sure.”
I give Gary his shoes and start putting on mine. I think about the story to tell everyone who asks questions. Why is he with me for this? He is staying with me to be here for treatment or an appointment. Appointment. The drugs remain confidential. Sounds good. He shouldn't live too far away. Drug remediation comes up anywhere. Why here? Previous history here? No, they can check that out. He wants to go here for some reason. The research institute makes up part of the answer. Next question. At what point should I just leave Gary. They can take care of him. Do I have anything else to do, nothing until 4. I decade to stay with him until then. We are ready to go.
We leave the apartment, go down to B1 — the entrance to the building, where nothing truly changes. We round the small island of black stone heading to the guard station. The elevator we arrived on ends up the only other thing there with us. The lush green forest appears in every direction and disappears into darkness. The metallic door forms a brief interstice in the dense growth, a passage into the underground world. We stop next to the guard station.
“How can I help?”
“My friend, Martin is staying with me. He has an appointment at 3:30 today.” I sidle "Martin".
“Okay.” A pause follows.
“Where do we go to register?”
“Hmm, you need to go the level two.”
“Thanks.”
We leave the underground greenhouse for the wildly different second floor and enter a slate covered L-shaped hallway. Directly outside the elevators, a white channel embedded in the wall ascends upward. A glass cover crowns the opening. We go to this strange gathering of stuff on the wall. A voice coming from the channel startles us.
“How may I help you?”
“This is Martin Townsend. He has an appointment with Dr. Penther at 3:30.”
The polite soothing voice answers, “I see it here. I’ve already let the staff know. They should be ready for you now. Please follow the hallway.”
“Good.”
“Thanks for choosing the Stephens Institute of Neuroscience Research and Treatment.”
We follow the hallway. The walls gradually turn from slate to marble as we enter an H-shaped patient wing. Three people staff the nurse's desk, where we wait. Someone comes out from behind the desk.
He says, “Which one of you is Martin?”
I push Martian forward gently. “He is.”
“You two can come with me.”
We follow him to the end of the hall. A door leads outside, but we enter the room nearby. He goes in first, checking the room for something. This room looks almost like the room I stayed in. This round sofa is brown, instead of white. The bed lies in the center of the room.
He straightens the sheet with a firm tug. “Martin, are you ready to get into bed? Or do you want to change first?”
Martian says, “Change.”
“You’re Dr. Conor Abby, right?”
A little taken aback. “Yes.”
“If you want, you can hook him up. I can come back if you need help. How does that sound?”
Unusual. “No problem.”
“I’ll set everything up for you guys.”
He goes to the left side sofa, opens a compartment near the bed, and takes out a white injection node. He pulls out two tubes from the back of the compartment, connects them to the node, and draws out enough tube to comfortably reach the bed, then he goes across to the other side, and takes out a folded piece of clothing, which goes on the bed.
“That’s everything.”
He leaves us. I sit on an empty section of the couch, while I wait for Martin's next move. Martin gets the clothes, a white bodysuit with short sleeves all around.
“I’ll go put this on.”
Gary goes into the room next to the bed, the bathroom. I continue reading something from before, similar studies on how to improve intelligence. They follow the same pattern — test the function, conduct the improvement method, and test again. The techniques vary for each step depending on the tested variable. This is the interesting part. All the studies I’ve read fall one step short of my experiment, the neural connection to the muscles. They reason that the methods to improve the muscle strength portion of physical intelligence are fully realized.
Martin comes out, lies on the bed, and the bodysuit moves to cover the bed. I know from experience that he is directly on the bed's surface. Martin tries to put the material under his body. It keeps moving back, until Martin just gives up.
“Are you ready for me to connect you to the infusion?”
“Okay.”
I get the node from the bed. The suit somehow slithered between the bed and anything on it, except Martin. The sticker on it only attaches to skin. I remove the protective coating and put the device on his forearm, after floating it above the skin until it detects a vein. I go sit down, until the doctor comes in.
She says, “I’m Dr. Penther. How are you doing today, Martin?”
Gary replies, “I’m doing good.”
Penther crosses her legs with the support of the sofa. “Today we are going to give you drug remediation. That’s a good choice. We will give you medicine to remove the alcohol or anything else safely. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.” Gary glances balefully in my direction.
“The biggest concern people have is the withdrawal symptoms. We will give you something to manage those. You will just have to deal with one at a time. Is that good?”
“Yes.”
The doctor waits a sec. “If you need anything, just ask one of the staff around. They can give you something to make the whole process easier. Tha
t is everything.”
“I’m ready to start the treatment.”
“I’ll start it, then.” She departs her position. Dr. Penther stops at where the infusion setup connects to the wall, enters some stuff on her tech, and presses start on the table under the wall connections. The liquid starts moving through the tube with about half the tube air. I don’t see anything moving in the other tube. Everything is working.
Dr. Penther says, “Good luck with your treatment.”
Gary answers with, “Thanks for everything, doctor.”
We are now alone. I sit across from him. I’m just here in case he needs anything. I look at the infusion setup, an air powered system. After the dosed amount leaves the selection matrix, the tube pinches itself off at that point. The system waits for the next dosage.
I keep reading the studies.
A Woman's Secret
Wed 8/30/17 3:50 p.m.
I check for updates on the IMMMR article. Gary reads something of his own. This is the old stuff:
The main hypothesis for the propulsion aspect of the IMMMR arrives at a magnetically derived approach. The charged outer hull possesses enough current to ionize the surrounding air molecules. Magnetic fields manipulate these charged particles in such a way as to scatter molecules above the craft, creating an area of low pressure. A larger number gathered under the craft produce an area of high pressure. These areas of pressure provide lift. An even more intensely charged area determines where the thrust emanates from. The magnetic field pushes the particles away from the craft at a speed sufficient for craft movement.
A newly discovered hypothesis adds a rotor mechanism for increased thrust. This 16 blade rotor spins around the middle of the craft. The total lift surface allows a slow rotor speed, giving more than required lift. This rotor can gyrate along the outside of the craft to change the angle of attack. The incorporation of magnetism or an additional rotor may also play a role. This method features a different use case.
The unique flight systems have benefits and drawbacks.
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