by Steven James
He met Calista Hendrix at the elevator.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
“Mornin’.” She flipped her hair back and joined him in the hall. He’d never seen her here in the morning before, but she looked as stunning as ever. “Did they do the scans on that guy yet?”
“Patient 175-4?”
She looked a little annoyed by the protocol of not referring to the patients by name. “Yeah.”
“Dr. Malhotra is with him now. I don’t believe he has gotten started with the fMRI. As far as I know he’s still prepping the patient.”
He led Calista to the room.
The paralyzed man was lying motionless on the gurney. His eyes were closed. Tubes ran into and out of his body.
Dr. Malhotra smiled broadly when he saw Miss Hendrix enter the room. “Good morning, Calista.”
“Hey.” She walked over and grazed a finger gently across Thad’s cheek. “So, he’s ready?”
“He is. I’m sure Colonel Byrne has explained to you that any movement gets in the way while we’re doing the brain scans. It’s much easier to work with patients when there’s no extraneous movement.”
She stated the obvious. “Easier than just asking him to lie still.”
“From my experience, yes. Much easier.”
“And so, he’ll never wake up?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Technically then, so he’s a vegetable?”
“Well”—he gave a small chuckle that made Heston uncomfortable—“it looks like that, but in his case he’s perfectly aware of what’s going on. We’ve simply induced a condition known as locked-in syndrome.” A pause. “Actually, you did. With that injection you gave him last month.”
Heston felt a terrible chill run through him.
Induced?
They induced locked-in syndrome?
No. This is not what you signed up for, this is—
“That what it sounds like?” Calista said.
Dr. Malhotra patted Thad Becker’s arm. “The patient remains alert and aware but is unable to communicate in any way with the outside world. A few years ago there was study on persistent vegetative states, ones in which it was assumed the people had no cognitive awareness of their surroundings.”
But he told you this patient was in a coma. Why is he telling you this now? Just because she’s here? Could that be—
“And you’re saying they do?” she asked.
“Yes, or at least those people in the study did. While doing fMRI brain scans of the patients, the doctors asked them to think of playing a tennis match, and the researchers found that the same areas of the brain lit up as when people typically think about, or play, tennis.”
She considered that. “So how long had they been lying there like that? Longer than this guy?”
Heston already knew the answer to that; all of this had come up in his interview for the position.
Dr. Malhotra answered her. “Oh, yes. In one case the patient had been in that state for over twelve years.”
“So that guy was aware of his condition but couldn’t communicate in any way with the outside world, not in twelve years?”
Dr. Malhotra looked toward Heston and indicated for him to answer the question for him. “Yes,” Heston said softly. “The researchers asked him yes or no questions to see which parts of his brain lit up.”
“And they could tell by his brain activity what his reply was?”
Heston nodded. “They asked one patient if he was in pain. He said—well, thought—no.” As he stared at the man lying before them, it struck him that this man was listening to everything they were saying.
“I’ll bet they asked him if he wanted to die, if he wanted them to kill him.”
“Actually,” Dr. Malhotra responded, “asking that question would have put the researchers in a somewhat delicate situation. Wouldn’t it, Mr. Dembski?”
“Yes.”
“How’s that?” Calista asked.
Once again the doctor looked toward Heston to answer her. “Well . . .” He really did not want to be talking about this. “If the patient expressed a desire to die, the doctors could not legally kill him, but if the patient was in a persistent vegetative state and unable to express any desires at all, they could remove his feeding tube, let him die a natural death.”
“By starving him.”
Heston was about to say, “Yes,” when Dr. Malhotra cut in ahead of him: “Well, we typically don’t put that fine a point on it. Under the law it’s a legally acceptable treatment alternative.”
Starving = a treatment alternative.
Talk about doublespeak. Orwell would have been proud of that one.
Calista bent and studied the patient’s emotionless face. “So, let me get this straight. If they’re not suffering you can let them die, and if they’re trapped in, like, this mental prison for months or even years, you can’t?”
“Well”—the trace of a smile flickered across Dr. Malhotra’s face—“down here we can do as we deem necessary for the advancement of medical and scientific research. But yes. Life is valuable. The laws are in place to affirm that principle and protect that.”
Is that how you affirm and protect life? By sentencing the innocent to the most terrifying sentence of solitary confinement imaginable?
“Huh,” she muttered. “That’s wild.”
Heston couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to be suffering from locked-in syndrome: trying to scream, listening to the nurses go about their job every day, lying for hours, weeks, years like that, left alone only with your thoughts, no way to move, to communicate, to show emotion, to show love. Every day waking only to find that you’re not dead yet, that you’re still unable to kill yourself and not even able to ask someone to do it for you.
It truly was the worst kind of prison he could think of.
“So.” She rubbed her hand softly through Thad’s hair. “How long are you going to keep him like this?”
“As long as it takes,” Dr. Malhotra replied. “A month. A year. A decade. People have survived in this state for over twenty years.”
And when Heston heard those words, he knew he was not going to let that happen. He made a decision that would undoubtedly cost him his job and, if the rumors were right about Colonel Byrne, might end up costing him even more than that.
But this wasn’t right, it just wasn’t right what they were doing here.
Dr. Malhotra leaned down toward Thad’s ear and said to him, “I know you can hear me, Mr. Becker. I just want you to know that I’m going to do all I can to keep you alive. Be assured that every breath you take will be helping the advancement of science.”
“Right now, though, there’s no way to wake him up?” Calista asked.
“No.”
“But he’s heard everything we’re talking about here?”
“Yes.”
“That’s sort of creepy. I’m glad I’m not in his shoes.” She tapped his toe. “Or, well, whatever.” She gave a girlish giggle as if all this was somehow funny.
Dr. Malhotra turned toward the door. “Heston, prepare the patient for the scan. I have a few things to discuss with Miss Hendrix. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
After Dr. Malhotra left, Heston stared for a long time at the man lying there in front of him.
Patient 175-4.
Thad Becker.
He could see Thad breathing with the help of the ventilator, his eyes closed, his chest moving ever so slightly with the life that was pumping through him. The man was aware. He’d been aware the whole time and had heard the whole conversation about his condition.
Heston knew what he needed to do.
At the counter, he prepared a syringe with a very specific cocktail of drugs.
He had no idea what would happen to him if he did this, he didn’t know if Colonel Byrne would do to him what he’d done to this man, but Heston couldn’t bear to think about Thad lying here for months or years having his neural synapses studied in a sterile,
objective way without any consideration for his desires.
There really was no reason to use an alcohol pad to clean off Thad’s arm before inserting the syringe, but Heston did it out of habit—only realizing afterward how ludicrous it was, in this case, to take steps to eliminate or reduce potential infection.
He placed the tip of the needle against Thad’s arm and hesitated for a moment. The machine beeped in a quiet, steady rhythm beside him.
Thad didn’t move. Couldn’t move. And Heston wasn’t sure if he would have pulled away if he could, or if he would have reached over and pressed the needle in himself.
The patient couldn’t make that decision, though, so Heston did it for him.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he injected the cocktail of drugs into Thad’s arm. He wasn’t sure an apology was really necessary when you’re releasing someone from a living hell. He wasn’t sure it was necessary to apologize for killing someone who’d just been told he was going to be trapped there, in that locked-in state, for years or even decades, but still, Heston did apologize.
After a few more seconds the monitors stopped registering the signs of life and went blank. It was over.
As he was whispering a quiet prayer for this man, that he might find some peace in the afterlife, Heston heard a shuffling sound behind him near the door.
He turned, yes, he was aware of that—
And of seeing a gray blur of movement—
But that was the last thing he was aware of because someone swung a rod and struck him hard against the side of the head, and he crumpled, unconscious, to the floor.
Dr. Malhotra, who was holding one of the sturdy pipes used in the robotic research, stared down at Heston.
“It looks like you just found someone to replace Thad,” Calista said.
“No. I’ve got something better in mind.”
Billboards
Someone else must have called the police even before we did, because by the time we arrive at Emilio’s house two officers are already there.
We tell them the truth: We’d come over to our murdered friend Emilio Benigno’s house to see if we could notice anything out of the ordinary, we found the door open, stepped inside, saw that the place was a mess, and heard someone leaving through the back door. We followed him just long enough to get a plate number and a description of the pickup and then reported it to the authorities. We finish by explaining what happened in the Philippines.
“And what made you think there might be something out of the ordinary at your friend’s house?” the beefy officer, whose name tag reads “A. Geisler,” asks me in a somewhat accusing tone.
“Because he was murdered.”
“In the Philippines.”
“That’s right.”
“With cobras.”
“Yes. So are you looking for the pickup? Did you put out an all-points bulletin or whatever you call it these days on the vehicle? Whoever was in this house might have been involved with planning Emilio’s death.”
His partner, Officer O’Nan, a slim man with a substantial mustache, answers instead. “I saw that on the news about Benigno. They said it was an accident. He was bitten by the snakes while trying to do a magic trick.”
“It was not an accident,” I tell them.
“I think that’s something you should leave for the police to look into.”
“We tried that.” Xavier is getting frustrated. “Didn’t get us anywhere. And if it was an accident, who was ransacking his home?”
“Burglars who watch the news and knew he was dead, that his house was empty, and that he was a successful international performer who would have money.”
I gesture toward the house. “Burglars who leave his checkbook and credit card on his desk but tear all his books off the bookshelves? They were looking for something specific.”
The two cops exchange glances.
“Uh-huh,” Geisler mumbles. “Wait here for a minute.”
They walk to the patrol car, and Geisler gets on the radio while O’Nan just watches Xavier and me.
“What are you thinking?” I ask Xav in a voice quiet enough to remain unheard by the two cops.
“I’m thinking, if someone was looking for that USB drive, we really need to find out what’s on it.” His words are as soft as mine were. “As soon as possible.”
Before they find out we have it.
“I’m with you there.”
Xavier calls Fionna, and while they’re talking, he shakes his head and I get the message: Nothing yet.
The minutes stretch out, and when I glance at my watch I can see it’s already nearly ten. The cops are still conferring with each other, taking turns on the radio. Maybe it’s a good sign, maybe they’re actually going to do something about all this.
Finally, they return and O’Nan tells us, “You can go. We’ll take it from here.”
“Take what from here? The murder investigation?”
He eyes me coolly. I don’t look away. Finally, he clears his throat. “Look, like I said, I saw the news, okay? It’s all over the Internet, what your friend was trying to do. It was an accident in another country. We don’t have jurisdiction there.”
“But if this person who was in the house was involved, you have jurisdiction over—”
“You’re a magician, right? You got that show over at the Arête?”
I try to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “What gave me away?”
“The billboards. All over the city. I thought I recognized you.”
“Good job.”
This guy was a real Sherlock Holmes.
“Stick to doing magic tricks, Mr. Banks,” Geisler says coolly.
He and his partner assure us that they’ll take care of everything and exhort us to stop playing detective. As we’re wrapping up the oh-so-productive conversation, Fionna phones and I excuse myself to take the call.
“Anything on the white pickup’s plates?” I ask her.
“Nothing solid, although they are government-issued, which tells us something right there. If the truck is from this security firm Xavier was thinking of, I would think they’d be privately issued plates instead.”
“Unless it was for Groom Lake.”
“Maybe. I can’t verify that either way. I’m still working on the USB drive—Lonnie’s not up yet. I haven’t heard from Charlene. When do you think you and Xavier will be getting back?”
“Maybe twenty minutes or so.”
After I hang up, the officers ask us a few more questions, then Xavier and I climb back into the DB9. Both of us are quiet. I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but I’m thinking of Emilio and all this mystery surrounding him.
And of how maybe I didn’t know my friend as well as I thought I did.
10:03 a.m.
Charlene Antioch stepped through security at the FBI building for her meeting with Special Agent Clay Ratchford. Officially, the offices were closed, but he’d agreed to meet her and had suggested that his office would be the most appropriate place to talk.
Calista Hendrix left the Plyotech building and went home to plan for tonight, when she would be doing more than just a dry run.
According to Derek, everything depended on her getting the engineer to the hotel room this evening. Then tomorrow, Derek would get the information he needed from the man, and by Monday morning they would have the money to finish the research.
And she would be on her way to getting what she wanted more than anything else—the most advanced anti-aging program that medicine and science could offer her.
Dr. Malhotra made a call, and after he’d explained what had happened with Heston, he asked, “I have some thoughts, but I wanted to ask you. What do you suggest we do with him?”
“Keep him unconscious. We’ll wait until the colonel returns to Las Vegas this afternoon before making any final decisions.”
Neither Xavier nor I say much on the drive home.
I suppose we’re both processing what happened. But now, as I park in my driveway,
he breaks the silence. “Back there at Emilio’s house, when we first walked in, I saw you looking around his study. I know the place was trashed, but did you see anything that struck you as unusual?”
“You mean besides the checkbook and credit card being left behind?”
“Yeah.”
I mentally review our brief time in the house. “Maybe just his books. Emilio was a voracious reader, but it was almost always biographies, history, and magic. In this case it looked like he was recently researching something else.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, there were a number of books on transhumanism and The Singularity, whatever those are, but other—”
“What did you just say?”
“Transhumanism and The Singularity.”
He looks past me at a spot in the distance that doesn’t exist.
“What? What is it? You know what they are?”
His continued silence makes me a little uneasy.
“What’s going on, Xav? What are they about?”
“It makes sense,” he mutters, “with the progeria files . . . maybe . . .”
When he doesn’t finish his thought, I press him, “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“I’ll do better than that.” He turns and points at his RV. “I’ll show you.”
The Singularity
Xavier doesn’t let too many people into his RV.
It contains decades’ worth of his research into the paranormal, UFOs, cryptozoology, and government conspiracies. Overstuffed file cabinets fill every spare corner, star charts and posters of underwater sonar scans and a giant blow-up photo of George Edwards’s 2012 photo of the Loch Ness Monster surfacing (which Xavier still claims is legit) cover the walls.
I pat a stack of papers. “What’s up with you and manila folders, by the way? You never heard of computers?”
“Manila folders can’t be hacked.” He’s bent over one of his filing cabinets. “Come here.”
I join him at the far end of the RV.