I, Human

by John Nelson

  He thanked me for the update and said they’d use a recon satellite to check the cars going in and out of Jerome, but that she may have already slipped out. Since I had him on the phone, I told him about the late-night rendezvous and soaring through the universe. His reaction was similar to Brenda’s—not the expansive type either. He was however interested in the “hug.”

  “Usually these healers are hands-off, but full body contact for that long could be as invasive as one of her healings.” He paused for a moment. “Any effects?”

  I hadn’t had any great intuitive leaps, if that’s what he was asking, but this week I was particularly mellow and more within myself, something that Brenda pointed out before I caught the behavior. I told him as much, and I thought he’d let it pass, but this seemed to bother him more than expected. He didn’t respond for a moment.

  “The next service is Thursday,” he said, as if to himself, “so tell the hotel that you’re leaving for the weekend on Friday, to do some research at the Old West Library in Phoenix.”

  “Okay,” I replied. It seemed like a plan.

  “And Jean, you’re up to bat.” She didn’t immediately reply. “You there?” Musgrave asked.

  “I’m here until Thursday when I get my ticket punched.”

  “Work with Alan. Let him walk you through it. I’m sure you’ll be okay.”

  “And if I’m not? What about the op?” she asked.

  “I like the way your mind thinks, Jean. We go to Plan B; an aunt dies and the two of you have to return to Chicago for a couple of weeks.” He paused. “There we could grow another neural implant for you, and you’d be … restored.”

  “Okay, that’s reassuring.”

  “Let’s see how it all falls out,” Musgrave said. He said his goodbyes and we headed back to Jerome for the night.

  On Thursday, we attended the service, and Brenda stepped forward and had a healing from Maria. I carefully watched her walking back to our chairs, and she appeared to be all right. She smiled at me, and said it was more benign than she had figured. I suggested we stop by the café afterward and talk, but Brenda wanted to get back to the Sliding Sands and either rest for a bit, or go to bed early. Well, as soon as she lay down, she fell fast asleep. It was a little early for me to retire, and I didn’t want to leave her alone, but didn’t feel like any video stimulation, so I went out to the patio, pulled up a chair and just sat there in silence staring up at the night sky. I was really peaceful, and I had to wonder if this new level of integration was due to my last contact with Maria, as insubstantial as it seemed. Then I heard Brenda calling out from the bedroom and I stepped inside.

  She was still asleep but seemed to be having a nightmare, thrashing about and crying out. I thought it best not to wake her, but pulled up a chair and sat there until she settled down twenty minutes later. I decided not to sleep with her. I wasn’t afraid any further violent thrashing of her arms would hit me, but was more concerned about subconscious contamination. The padded chair was fairly comfortable; I rigged up a footrest so I could stretch out a bit and fell asleep in the chair. I had a dream, definitely symbolic, of us caught in a bramble bush maze with its prickly thorns. I was following Brenda, but she kept running her arms across the bushes and cutting them, but unlike my close encounters, she wasn’t bleeding from her prick wounds, and we just couldn’t find our way out. I woke up; it must’ve been about four o’clock in the morning, but Brenda was already up and packing our bags.

  I watched her for a moment from the darkened corner of the room. She seemed to be in a panic, her movements frantic and disconnected.

  “Slow down, Brenda.”

  She turned and glared at me. “Slow down? Get the fuck up and get in gear, we’re heading out … now.”

  She had already packed a bag for me, and given her frantic state I just changed clothes and didn’t shower. When we got downstairs, I talked with the desk clerk, not wanting to expose him to her condition, and we hurried across the street to the parking lot. We hadn’t exchanged a cordial word since I had woken up, and I figured quickly getting her out of town and on the road might be the best temporary relief. Well, once we were down the hill and heading south toward Prescott, she finally perked up.

  “Sorry, Alan, had a rough night and I’m feeling pretty freaked out.”

  No kidding, I said to myself, but decided to mollify her. “It’s okay … Jean. I told you this would bring up repressed feelings.”

  She glared at me. “Well, thanks the fuck for the warning. How about next time saying, ‘This treatment could lead to a psychotic episode.’”

  “Is that how you feel?” I asked.

  She just shook her head. “Sorry, didn’t mean to snap at you. No. But I’m not doing well.”

  We stopped in Prescott at a hydrogen station and while she used the ladies room, I recharged the fuel cells and called Musgrave. He was sleeping, but like a typical soldier was clear and operational on a moment’s notice. I told him we were coming in, about two hours from his mall office. Given the severity of her reaction, he directed me to an air force base northwest of town with better facilities. He said that he and his team would meet us there.

  Jean got back while I was finishing up with Musgrave; I pointed at the phone, but she shook her head and got back into the car. I suggested we stop and get a bite to eat, which might make her feel better. She decided on an all-night fast-food place on the commercial strip with a drive-through. We got sausage and egg sandwiches, coffee and were back on the road, eating along the way. I tried to engage her in a conversation, but her thinking was pretty disjoined and only made her condition more obvious to both of us. So we drove in silence. About an hour out from Phoenix, she told me to pull off the road. Jean swung open the door and ran into the desert, where she threw up her breakfast. I rummaged through our bags, found a towel, and walked out to her with a bottle of water.

  She wiped her mouth, chugged the bottle of water straight down and we headed back to the car. I wish I could have hugged her, or reassured her with any kind of physical contact, but given my own charge, it might have just overload her circuits. When we arrived at the base gate, the guard gave us directions to the hospital building. Musgrave met us at the front door, his hair and clothes a little disheveled. Jean tried to play down her condition, but I could see from the expression on his face that he was as concerned about her as I was, or was it about a possible failed mission on his part?

  Chapter Ten

  28.

  The base hospital had a neurosurgeon ready to extract Jean’s processor, and she was rushed away with a full contingent of nurses and orderlies in blue-and-wine-colored scrubs. I stood still for a moment and exhaled a deep sigh of concern. I wondered if she would recover, or ever be herself again. I had limited experience with extractions and replacements, and the manufacturers didn’t exactly publicize that contingency.

  “Let’s go to the cafeteria and get something to eat and let you come down from this adrenaline rush,” Musgrave suggested. I suspected he needed a break as well.

  “Yeah, let’s do that.” I followed Musgrave through a maze of hallways with their gray walls, to the hospital’s cafeteria. “Looks like you’re familiar with the base,” I said as we walked inside, grabbed metal trays and stood in line.

  “Well, Phoenix and the surrounding area have been used for the … testing of various technologies over the years, and I have been here before, but this is a first.”

  It was breakfast time and we were served a fairly good meal of eggs, substitute bacon, toast and fruit, and mugs of coffee. We found a window table at the back end of the cafeteria with a view of the desert, if somewhat blurred by the ionic force-field fence. We ate in silence for a minute. Finally, Musgrave sat back in his metal chair. “So, Alan, how would you describe Jean’s reaction to the healing?”

  “Initially, as we walked back from the church, she seemed fine. Maybe just a little unfocused, kind of soft around the edges.”

  “Definitely not her,” M
usgrave added.

  “Well, not enough to be alarmed. I suggested we stop by the café for a quick bite and a chat, but she wanted to get back to the room for a nap, or to go to bed early.”

  Musgrave nodded. “Then?”

  “I stepped out on the patio for a long while, came back in when I heard her thrashing about and crying out, but it was just a bad dream, or so I figured and I just let her sleep it off.” Musgrave flashed me a more critical look. “Then, I woke up with her in a full-blown panic attack packing our bags and acting crazy.”

  Musgrave sat forward and took another bite of his scrambled eggs, while he apparently considered this description. “So, what do you think happened?” he finally asked.

  “Well, according to Fria, the healing energy will affect neural processors, slow down the neuron firing-rates and make other adjustments to allow greater integration of … feelings, I assume, and heightened intuition.”

  Musgrave stared at me for a long moment. “Or, allow repressed ones to overwhelm the conscious mind.”

  “I don’t think that’s entirely the case,” I added. “The way she talks, about it has its own … mind or intent, and works with each individual in different ways and must compensate.”

  “So, she’s not directing it, is that what I’m getting from you?” he asked me rather skeptically.

  “I wouldn’t assume any malicious intent on her part. I think Jean was a little too tightly wound, and had a bad reaction.”

  “At some point, whatever happens here, I need you to explore this concept with Fria … that is, what percentage of the population might react this way.”

  I had to laugh. “Tom, if I can call you that.” Musgrave nodded his head. “She’s not a sociologist; she’s a healer who exposes people to a certain kind of energy and allows them to … dance with it.”

  Musgrave snickered. “Let’s not put that description in any of our reports.” He took a sip of coffee. “But, Fria’s healed thousands over the years, and she has lots of students out there giving her feedback. Let’s see if we can’t get some raw data on it, even if it’s anecdotal.”

  I nodded my head.

  At that point Captain Turner, the neurosurgeon, still in his blue operating scrubs, stuck his head into the cafeteria, spotted us and walked over. He was a small man with small hands, which I would think was an asset in his line of work. Turner sat down at the aisle end of the table to face both of us.

  “So, how’s it coming, Captain?” Musgrave asked.

  He shook his head and we were both immediately alarmed. Musgrave ran his hand through his gray-streaked hair. I leaned forward as if to hear him better, but it was just nerves on my part.

  “Not well,” Turner said. An orderly, who had followed him inside, brought over steaming mugs of coffee. He took a long sip.

  “Spit it out, Captain,” Musgrave ordered—apparently he outranked the officer.

  “Before an extraction, not that I’ve done many, the protocol is to run a few tests to gauge how my patient will react to having their neural processor removed and having ‘downtime.’ It takes several hours to grow a new one, and we can’t start until we’ve harvested brain cells after the extraction.”

  Musgrave nodded his head impatiently.

  “The results of my examination were so negative that, in my opinion, she might not survive the replacement ordeal mentally intact.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The processor’s analytical functioning seems to be all that’s standing between her and lots of repressed emotions that could cause suicidal ideation, in my opinion.”

  “Really?” Musgrave said in astonishment. Since we were test subjects, in a manner of speaking, this didn’t bode well for our little venture. “So what’re our options?”

  “I’ve heavily sedated her, and suggest that you fly her back to New York and have a full team of neurosurgeons do the operation in a more sophisticated setting. They’re much better equipped to handle difficult replacements and the psychological downside.”

  Musgrave considered this option for a long moment. “Okay, Doc. That’s what we’ll do. Whatley is a valuable asset, and we don’t want to lose her.”

  The doctor nodded his head.

  “Captain, get her ready for transport now. I’ll make the arrangements.”

  Captain Turner set down his cup; I thought he was going to salute, but he stood up and hurried off with his orderly.

  Musgrave turned to me. “Alan, you’re coming with us. If you need to call the hotel in Jerome and give them a heads-up on your delayed return, do so.”

  “Wouldn’t it just be better for me to return and tell them Brenda had a … death in the family or something?”

  Musgrave shook his head. “No. Even if she recovers, it’s likely that Jean won’t be returning with you to Jerome anytime soon, and we have to make other arrangements.”

  “Read in another agent as my … new researcher?” I asked in startled disbelief.

  Musgrave thought about this unlikely scenario. “I’m thinking we pull in somebody you’re familiar with and have … some chemistry with.”

  I was puzzled for a moment, and then it dawned on me whom he was suggesting. “But, Emma’s gone underground, and may even be working for the other side, and we might not be able to find her.”

  “Well, that’s what we need you for, Alan,” he spit out impatiently.

  “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “How about the Kitty Kat Club?” he asked.

  I nodded my head. That did make sense.

  “We’ll get K-Industries to repeal their re-enlistment claim, a hike in salary, and no contract. A one-time-only operation.”

  “But Emma never did anything wrong.”

  “See. There’s the chemistry working already.”

  29.

  Halfway through the flight back to New York, I watched Musgrave walking back from the medevac unit at the far end of the plane where they were monitoring Jean. He had two bottles of water with him, handed me one, and sat down next to me.

  “Well, Jean’s signs are steady, and a surgical team is ready at the hospital, once we airlift her there and rush her into surgery.”

  “I assume they’re monitoring her via a remote linkup?”

  Musgrave nodded.

  “Any feedback from them?” I asked.

  “No, this is an … unusual situation, and they don’t want to stick their necks out without a full hands-on work-up.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Musgrave took a sip from his water bottle. “I put an undercover into the Kitty Kat Club a few weeks ago. I’m having her ask about Emma, see if we can’t speed up the search.”

  I found this curious. He was preparing a backup plan before we needed it, or did he anticipate as much? I didn’t ask him either way. “So, I go in, she sits on my lap and passes me the info?” I asked.

  Musgrave laughed. “I should be so lucky; she’s a real looker.” He turned serious. “If she’s not getting anywhere, a paying customer offering a bribe might get better results.”

  “And your girl …”

  “Cover name, Apple.”

  “Would know whose hand to grease?”

  Musgrave shrugged his shoulders. “I would hope so.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?” I asked.

  “Well, there’s always Ling. We cut a deal with her for a reduced sentence.”

  “As long as she doesn’t get out before we wrap it up.”

  “Agreed.”

  I stared at Musgrave with lots of questions I was reluctant to ask. He must have read my body language.

  “Spit it out, Alan,” he finally said.

  “Well,” I tentatively started, “the more I’m around Fria, the more I’m sensing that she’s who she claims to be: she’s a healer who just channels the energy and lets it take its course.”

  Musgrave considered my statement, no doubt weighing how much he could reveal of their real intentions, or the other agenda I suspected was
in play here. “So you don’t think she has other designs, or one that would require double agent tasking?”

  “Yeah, I just don’t see me getting on the inside and finding anything worth our while,” I said.

  “Ever think that’s what she wants you to believe?”

  I could see that Musgrave was going to dance around my inquiry, so there wasn’t much else to say. “Well, I guess that’s what I’m there to find out.”

  Musgrave stood up. “Keep on point, Alan. Let us worry about the big the picture.”

  After we landed and Jean was put on a medevac helicopter and flown to the hospital, I was told that my wife was back in town and that I would be staying at a midtown hotel while I conducted my business. Musgrave added that I was not to contact her. At least now I wouldn’t feel guilty when I didn’t.

  I did have one last question for him. “What about Dr. Klaus? Do I schedule an appointment with him while I’m in town?”

  “No. This is a quick in-and-out, and I need you present; Klaus has a way of confusing people, or going too deep.”

  This was a relief, but it also made me wonder about my last phone session with Klaus and his insistence that I keep my self-review between us and not include Musgrave, which seemed odd at the time. I figured it was just a turf war between them, with me caught in the middle.

  At the hotel I took a long nap, then shaved and showered and awaited instructions.

  Musgrave called. “There’s $1,000 in an envelope in the drawer of your nightstand. Get something to eat and head out to the Club afterward. Apple’s working this evening.”

  He hung up before I could ask about Jean’s condition. He was gruff and a little distracted. Apparently my earlier questions or doubts about the mission’s goals had unsettled him, or maybe Jean’s replacement operation hadn’t gone well and he was in a “blue flunk,” to use a retro term. Well, either way my job now was to “keep on point” and just get through this ordeal.