I, Human

by John Nelson

  “I thought the switch had to happen within hours to prevent severe migraines.”

  Dr. Klaus had stepped into the room behind me. “Yes, and that’s a short window, so we better get started.”

  Everybody shuddered at the sound of his faintly metallic voice, as we all turned around to face the curmudgeon. Finally, I said, “I can’t imagine why?”

  “But, Alan … if you can’t figure it out, who can,” he snickered. I didn’t reply. “I’ll brief you on the ride over to the hospital.”

  I followed Klaus out of the office, as we took the elevator down to the basement maglev commuter station. There were only a few people on the platform between shifts, who were no doubt curious about why the train had been held up. Klaus keyed us into the VIP’s car, and we took a private room. I sat across from him, on black-cushioned benches, with a ceramic table between us. He slid over his portable device, which had a long document and a place for my thumbprint.

  “This is an above-top-secret security agreement; no need to read it; it’s pretty standard.”

  Nevertheless, I quickly scanned the whole document in thirty seconds and saw the same kind of language from my previous security clearance. I placed my thumbprint on the last page; my identity was acknowledged and the document closed. I slid the device back to him.

  Klaus began to brief me. “This sort of malfunction has been happening more frequently, despite great improvements in the neural processors and their interface with the neocortex. The results vary; some people just melt down into a ball of cringing flesh; others, like this guy, become violent.”

  “Did he have any violent tendencies as a child, before his processor was implanted?” I asked.

  “No. And that’s the heart of the matter; did the malfunction cause the behavior, or did the brain and/or the repressed psyche cause the device to malfunction?”

  “And, given my right brain or borny tendencies, you feel I’d be a more sympathetic interrogator?”

  “Yes, in a nutshell.” Klaus saw my hesitation. “You were a psych major in college; I feel confident you can draw him out.”

  This was a little disconcerting. I closed my eyes and tried to still my mind and its anxiety, and to focus on the task at hand. I opened them. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “You do need to show me how you do that interior thing of yours.”

  I smiled, not in this lifetime.

  The maglev arrived across town at the hospital in five minutes, and we were quickly escorted to the patient’s room by a security contingent. Without further instruction, Klaus pointed to the door. “I’ll watch from the viewing window.” He paused and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry; I won’t barge in on you. It’s your show.”

  I stepped inside as the patient’s doctor was checking his pupil response, with a light scanner that projected a holographic image for him to check. The doctor turned to me. “I’m lodging a protest.”

  “Doc, lodge it with the guy in the hall; I’m just the front man.”

  This was even more demeaning, and he shook his head and stormed out of the room, waving his hands in the air. I pulled up a chair. The patient, Boris Harkum, turned to me. It took a moment for him to focus his eyes.

  “Mr. Harkum, sorry for this intrusion. This will only take a moment.”

  “Okay, I’m feeling … up to it.”

  “But, in the past few weeks, you didn’t feel … well?” I asked.

  “No. I felt very agitated. All these fucking numbers, the meaninglessness of it all.”

  “Was this a recent feeling, or had it been building up?”

  He tried to probe his mind for an answer to my question, but he was painfully slow without his neural processor. I smiled sympathetically and patiently waited for his response that took over a minute.

  “Kind of both. I used to like my job; numbers are finite, nothing arbitrary about 2,000 + 2,000 = 4000. No bullshit or personal bias. What’s made of the results is not my problem. I was the number cruncher, but something … happened.”

  “A sense of … hopelessness?” I asked.

  He looked startled by my question, and then nodded his head. “Yes.”

  “At this point, did you feel … agitated?”

  He again grappled for an answer that wasn’t readily called up. “No, just hopeless.”

  “How long did this feeling last before you became … agitated?”

  This took another thirty seconds to recall. “Not long … maybe a month …” Harkum closed his eyes and winced, then put his fingers to his temples. “Oh, this really hurts now.”

  The doctor rushed into the room and came over to his patient. I stepped back. Dr. Klaus waved me into the hallway and started to walk off. I followed him and caught up. “I think it’s obvious …”

  “Alan, not here. We’ll go back to my office and discuss this in private.”

  On the maglev ride back to K Industries, we had a brief exchange about sports; I was amazed that Dr. Klaus was a tennis buff; I would’ve thought his short stature would be a huge disadvantage. He assured me he was just a duffer, but he liked to follow the professional sport, especially when they had switched back to wood rackets, which made it more of a volley game. Five minutes later, we were sitting in his office, at his couch and coffee table setting, more like colleagues.

  After we settled in for a moment, he summarized his conclusions. “So, a feeling that his job and maybe his life were meaningless, developed into a sense of hopelessness over a period of time, and that …”

  I smiled. He knew the answer, but wasn’t about to articulate it. “And this ‘feeling’,” I added, “short-circuited his neural processor and its modulation and that made him more agitated and created the violent rage.”

  Dr. Klaus sat back in his seat for a long moment. Finally, he said, “I’m not sure I agree, but that’s a line of speculation everybody’s afraid to acknowledge, but that’s my problem not yours.” He paused for a moment, stood up and walked back to his desk. He pointed to the chair across from him; I came over and sat down. “Well, now that I have you here, why don’t we just settle on your field assignment?”

  I felt like protesting; I still had a few more days of consideration, but I knew my answer. “Okay. I’ll go, but I want to pick my undercover wife.”

  “I assumed as much.” He transferred a portfolio to my portable; I scanned through the pages viewing the agent profiles and their photographs. Jean Whatley’s picture and profile were the last on the list. I wondered if Caruthers’ suggestion and her “appearance” here was all part of some set-up. But I did like the soft curve of her face and her “sparkling” eyes.

  “This Whatley girl seems good.”

  “Yes, Whatley’s a good match for you and this assignment, and if you hadn’t picked her, we would have insisted.” He paused for a moment and rolled off one of his smirky smiles. “We’ll start briefings next week; this time it’s in Washington, so you’ll have a few days there to … get adjusted to each other.”

  “Yeah, my wife will love that.”

  “Then don’t tell her; it works for me,” Klaus said offhandedly.

  9.

  I decided to walk home after work, to sort out my thinking about today’s assignment and this new revelation that Harkum’s feelings had short-circuited his neural processor. These devices, first designed and implemented in the mid-21st century, were made from one’s own cell tissue, using advance nanotechnology. From the start there was no auto-immune reaction and so that couldn’t account for this malfunction. The concept was that the grafted tissue would be absorbed and function like an evolutionary brain appendage; it would then interface with the neocortex and accelerate the firing rate of its neurons—a quantum leap in computing power. The processors could also be “grown” in an afternoon to replace older or defective ones, which was the case here. But, what I was suggesting was that the more they mirrored human brain tissue, the more they were subject to the same psychosomatic effects. If a lifetime of toxic em
otions could cause brain cancer, they could also affect these neural processors, and even accelerate that process.

  Suddenly someone walking past me on the sidewalk bumped into me. I saw that it was a woman who was now slowing down. I picked up my pace and passed her, our hands hitting and a folded message was placed in my cupped hand. I didn’t look at her, and at the next corner, I walked into a restaurant and used their men’s room. I unfolded the message: KKC at 6:30. I flushed the note down the toilet and headed out to the street. I left a message for Sherry that I would be working late and to eat without me. I hailed a cab and had him drop me off at Washington Square Park. I ate dinner at a Middle Eastern restaurant that advertised all natural meat kabobs; I doubted it but the idea was catchy and the food was delicious, maybe just a little too spicy for me. At 6:30 I entered the Kitty Kat club, hopefully for the last time. I wondered if Emma was going to actually meet me here, since bringing Bart to the club might have generated a security alert, but then, how would he have justified his own presence there?

  I asked the hostess to take me to a back booth, and I waited to see what would happen. I ordered a beer from the waitress, who shoved her breasts in my face and told me that one was domestic and the other foreign. I had to laugh. Talk about genetic engineering. After a while I saw one of the girls making her way over to me. I thought it might be Wu with another message, but as the girl sat down I saw that it was Emma with a purple wig, her breasts fully exposed, with nipple rings. Before I could say anything, she reached over and kissed me, with her hand rubbing my crotch.

  “Act normal, Alan. Like I’m one of the girls. My name’s Dorothy.”

  I placed my hands on her breasts and rolled her nipples between the thumb and forefinger.

  “Yes. That feels good,” she said.

  I glanced up at her questioningly.

  “Yes, Alan. I’ve worked these clubs before, on KI assignments, but now as a job occasionally.”

  “You mean, like your friend, Wu?”

  She smiled. “Just a contact.”

  Emma paused, probably figuring out how much she was going to tell me.

  “I don’t know who she works for, but I needed a way to reach you and get my info. I’d run into her before at another club and suspected … well, I don’t want to get caught up in this game, so that’s all I’ll say.”

  I looked at her incredulously.

  “I wasn’t … I’m not playing you, Alan. My tech device wasn’t as invasive as Wu’s and would’ve only got what I asked for.”

  She gazed at me, that question hanging in the air. “Well, sorry to say, but they have you on a five year hold.”

  Emma closed her eyes, and then, to hide her feelings, went down on me. “You can talk,” she said between times. I could feel her wet tears on my skin.

  “Guess, the only place that leaves secure is a borny village.”

  Emma surfaced after a minute or so, her eyes as red as her smeared lipstick. She reached over and took a sip of my beer. “Seems so.”

  “Well, I’m going back into the field in a couple of weeks; it wouldn’t be good if it’s the same village.”

  She nodded her head. “No. That would be awkward, especially if your cover wife’s any good.” Emma reached over and kissed me on the cheek. “Take care of yourself, Alan. Maybe I’ll see you in five years.”

  “Is that it, Emma?”

  She stood up. “What else could it be, Alan? I’m on the nonaligned list, and any further contact would compromise you.” She touched my shoulder, then turned and walked away.

  I finished my beer, paid my tab in cash—saw that Emma’s services weren’t included—and then headed out the door. I looked around before turning north and walking back toward midtown, where I’d take the underground home.

  When I returned home, although it was still fairly early, Sherry’s bedroom door was closed and the lights were out. She must’ve had a rough day herself; I felt like knocking on her door and checking to see if she was all right, but by the time I washed up I decided to call it a night myself. I read for an hour, and heard Sherry go to the bathroom, but she might’ve sensed that all was not what I claimed and that it was best to just let it settle. The next morning she was up and out of the apartment before me. I didn’t actually consider this rendezvous, unlike my last time with Emma and our unexpected lovemaking, as an infidelity but women didn’t always see it that way, consciously or unconsciously.

  When I arrived at the office, there were no emergencies or assignments—just a load of paperwork to prepare for my upcoming fieldwork. However, there was a message from Jean Whatley, asking me to a get-to-know-you lunch. I wished I could put it off for another day and let the emotional load from my meeting with Emma and my wife’s angry vibes play themselves out, but like triple plane crashes, female encounters in my life seem to come in threes as well.

  We couldn’t meet outside the office, so we had lunch in the company’s executive restaurant on the enclosed roof. Eating there was actually above our pay grade, but Whatley had gotten Klaus to set it up. I hoped he wasn’t coming. I immediately recognized her as I stepped into the foyer. She was sitting at a window table, her profile to me, so I could take a moment to examine her without equal scrutiny. She was much prettier than her photo, and looked younger than twenty-five, but for undercover female operatives that was almost a job requirement. Suddenly, she turned and looked my way. I waved and walked over.

  She stood up and extended her hand. We shook. A firm grip. “Well, I’m glad it’s a table for two and Klaus isn’t joining us.”

  Jean laughed. “Yeah, I swept the table, but can’t vouch for remote cameras and long-distant microphones.”

  There was a silent moment. I let it extend to see if she would nervously feel compelled to fill the gap with useless chatter. She didn’t. “First assignment?” I asked.

  “To a borny village? Yes. I’ve done some overseas work, so I’m anxious to get the … lay of the land.” She caught herself and smiled.

  “Is that going to be … difficult for you?” I asked and smiled, gazing into her eyes.

  “I guess that depends on us, how we mesh. But, I’m sure, just looking into those kind eyes of yours, that I might even enjoy our time together.”

  “You know why this is required?”

  “Yes. They’re more sensitive and can sense the pheromone levels given off by sexual activity, which is what gave away earlier agents.”

  I nodded my head. She waited, her last question hanging in the air. I added, “Well, the biggest problem for me last time was choosing between the born-again church and the Zen Buddhist; I went with the born-again, since the whole concept of meditating for an hour was a stretch for me.”

  “Damn. I never thought of that. We’ll have to go to church with the rest of them.”

  “And picnics, and Shakespeare in the Park.”

  This made her eyes light up. “Oh, that I would enjoy. I was a drama major in college.”

  “Yeah, kind of a prerequisite for our line of work.”

  The waiter stepped over with the menus; we scanned them and ordered, neither one of us drinking any alcohol. Afterward Jean peered out at the cloud-covered city—with higher temperatures, there were more rain clouds and thus more rain. “I hope the skies are clearer.”

  “Depends. I hear the Southwest is still sunny, but wouldn’t expect the same for the Midwest Sector.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “Well, you’ll have to learn to be patient; everything runs in slow motion, or compared to our pace of life, and the locals are a lot slower, and the feeling level’s quite high. Be prepared to get hugged by total strangers.”

  Jean laughed. “As long as the guys don’t take advantage of it.”

  “Are you kidding? These guys are so … sensitive that it’s amazing they get around to procreating at all.”

  Jean was really laughing now. “Oh, Alan. You’re so funny.”

  Our meal arrived and we ate and talked about
our backgrounds, and while it was fairly guarded, we were probably more open with each other than we had planned. Afterward the waiter came over and handed me a note.

  “And the check?”

  “It’s on the house, sir.”

  I opened the note and a room key for the Waldorf fell out. Jean started to giggle like a teenager. I glanced up from the note and looked at her. She was definitely willing but despite her attractive allure, I hesitated. I guess I was feeling a little sexually confused after the last two weeks, given my tryst with Emma and Sherry’s recent tender overtures.

  Finally Jean asked, “Today’s not good for you?”

  “You could say that. Lots of … static on the home front.” She nodded her head sympathetically.

  “Well, I’m sure it won’t be a problem, but I am looking forward to … ‘a consummation devoutly to be wished.’”

  I laughed. “Catch a recent production of Hamlet?” I asked.

  “You did mention, Shakespeare in the park.”

  I smiled. “I don’t know about ‘devoutly,’ but me too.”

  “Okay, so we wait until the out-of-town debriefing?” she asked. I nodded my head.

  We stood up and Jean gave me a full-body hug that was very stimulating, to say the least. She turned and walked out of the restaurant. On the elevator, crammed with young secretaries in provocative apparel, I thought about today’s hypersexual atmosphere. My father had once told me it wasn’t like that when he was younger, and I had to wonder if sex in the modern post-techno world had become a head-game, like everything else, and that this was symptomatic of our whole deadening society.

  Back at the office, I half expected to see our lunch meeting being played back on the wide-screen, grist for the mill, but it was just another psycho rampage at a sports event. Gene called me over as the guy’s history flashed on the sidebar of the video rendition, which I quickly downloaded.

  “Klaus said since you’re available this afternoon, he wanted you to profile the perp.” Gene gave me a questioning look.

  “Prep work for my new assignment that can wait,” I said with a straight face, knowing that we were being monitored.