by Joe Hart
Gillian shared a look with Birk, whose eyebrows rose slightly. “Can you tell us how you’ve been feeling lately?” she asked.
The glasses folded.
Unfolded.
“Anxious and tired. Haven’t been able to concentrate on work as much as I should. Sometimes I think I fall asleep sitting up or even standing because I come awake all of a sudden and there’s a little break from where I was a second before.” A nervous laugh emerged, and he wiped his lip again. “Does that make any sense?”
She smiled again. “I’m sure it will soon. Are there any other symptoms?”
Kenison blinked rapidly. “Things are missing.”
“What things?”
“Things I should remember. They’re small, mostly inconsequential. Like what color my house is back home. I know my address, and I know how many rooms there are and what they look like, but the color.” He shook his head. “It’s not there. I don’t know if it’s blue or yellow or red.” All at once the shimmering in his eyes spilled over, and he was crying, had been trying to keep from doing so since they’d first started talking, Gillian realized. “It shouldn’t bother me, right? But that’s not everything. My mother passed away five years ago. I lived with her, took care of her up until the end.” Kenison spoke through his teeth as if it was painful to utter the words. “I can’t picture her face. I’m not sure I could tell you if it was her if you showed me a picture.” His voice broke on the last word, and he wept openly.
Gillian stood, crossed to the nearest wall, and grasped several handfuls of paper towels from a dispenser there. On her way back, she glanced at Carson and Ander, their expressions unreadable. Orrin’s face was creased as if he was deep in thought. Gillian handed Kenison the towels, and he blotted his face with them.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s terrifying. To not remember.”
In that instant he could’ve been a little boy, not a middle-aged man. Could have been someone’s scared child.
“It’s okay to be frightened, but we’re going to figure out what the problem is. Okay?”
He blew his nose quietly and nodded. “I get angry sometimes too.”
“Angry?”
“When the memories aren’t there. It’s like looking for your glasses when they should be in their case where you put them and they aren’t. That’s why I carry them like this. Used to lose them all the time. I try to remember something that won’t come, and sometimes the anger shows up in its place. It’s like someone else is mad, not me, someone outside.”
Gillian felt her scalp prickle. “Anger is a common reaction when a person isn’t able to recall something. That seems normal to me.”
He dabbed at his eyes again, nodding slightly.
“If you’re ready, we’ll begin the procedure now,” she said, moving to the table near the equipment, the instruments laid out in neat rows. She grasped a small syringe filled with a numbing agent.
“You won’t be putting me under, right?” Kenison looked from her to Ander and back again. “They told me I’d be awake.”
“No, there won’t be any anesthesia. Do you have a problem with going under?”
Kenison swallowed and repositioned himself in the chair. “I’ve been having dreams,” he said. “Nightmares. Haven’t been sleeping a lot.”
“Do you mind telling us what they’re about?”
He shook his head. “Something . . . something like a hole, but it isn’t a hole. It’s a gap that I’m at the edge of, and I . . .” His voice trailed off.
“It’s okay.”
“I look down and it’s endless. There’s nothing there. It goes on forever. And I wake up as I fall in.” A glimmer of sweat shone on his upper lip, and he wiped it away.
Gillian rolled the syringe around in her fingers, trying to steady her hands. “We won’t put you out. Just a small shot to numb the area where we have to insert the port.”
Kenison relaxed slightly and leaned back in the chair, exposing the crown of his balding skull to her. Birk handed her a lidocaine swab. She sterilized a small area on the top of Kenison’s scalp before applying the swab. After waiting a few seconds, she slid the syringe at an angle into the numbed skin and depressed the plunger.
“Will this hurt?” Kenison asked as she turned back to the table and grasped the small surgical drill prefitted with the cranial port.
“You shouldn’t feel a thing. If you think you need a sedative, just say—”
“No. No, I’ll be fine.”
Taking a deep breath, Gillian placed the drill against Kenison’s skull. She shared a fleeting look with Birk before pressing the trigger.
The drill whined, its shrillness filling the room, and she caught a whiff of heated bone. The bit sunk eagerly into his head, and the port spun once before releasing from the drill.
It was done.
“There,” she said, ignoring the two steps Carson had taken toward her when she began drilling. She nodded to Birk, who attached a tube and neural monitor line to the port before injecting a dose of luciferin into Kenison’s skull. He readjusted himself in the seat. “Feeling okay?” Gillian asked.
“Yeah. My head got cold. Tingly.”
“That’s the luciferin compound. Tell me if the sensation becomes too much. We have to wait a few minutes, so just try to relax.”
She glanced at Carson, who had turned and was discussing something with Ander and Orrin near the door.
Birk settled onto a stool before the multitude of screens and began recording Kenison’s vitals. “Everything appears normal so far, Doctor. Blood pressure and heart rate are slightly elevated.” He shot her a look and said in a near whisper, “Though mine would be too if I were the first human trial.”
“All the compounds are organic,” she replied, skirting him to get a better view of the displays. “The worst we’re risking is infection at the injection site.”
“But how do we know it will work?” he continued in a hushed voice. “What if this is just a shot at night?”
“Shot in the dark,” she corrected automatically. Carson looked at her before Ander said something, drawing his attention away. “Because we all remember.”
Several minutes later, they loaded the dosage of luciferase, and Gillian took her seat once again beside Kenison. “Still doing okay?”
“Sure.”
“Good. All right, Dr. Kenison. In a few seconds, I’m going to ask you something, and I don’t want it to upset you. I’m going to ask you to think of the happiest memory you can.” The biologist blinked rapidly before squeezing his eyes shut. “When I tell you, I want you to focus on it and imagine that you’re there again. Can you do that?” Kenison nodded but didn’t open his eyes.
She pointed at Birk, who touched one of the screens.
The luciferase slid through the tube, disappearing into the port. She could see Kenison’s neurons lighting up already on the display tilted in her direction. An incredible urge to simply watch the reaction overcame her, to see the intimate lightning of another human being’s essence. The awe of it nearly matched that of seeing Mars up close for the first time. And now she was witnessing not just millions of cells firing, but billions.
She tore her gaze away from the screen and focused again on Kenison. “Doctor, do you have your memory?”
“Yes,” he whispered. A tear leaked from the corner of his right eye.
“Good. Hold on to it.”
The compound flooded Kenison’s hippocampal region, the entire area erupting in daggers of light.
It was working.
The neural flashes intensified. The movements became faster than she could track, coalescing into a supernova that consumed the rest of his brain.
Gillian tried to breathe, but her lungs were paralyzed. She stared at Kenison, but he gave no indication of the firestorm rolling through his mind.
Gradually the neurons darkened, flares caused by the compounds coming less and less.
She looked to Birk. His jaw hung slightly open, and when he met
her gaze, his eyes were wet.
He nodded. “It worked.”
Gillian nearly leaped from her seat, pure elation flowing through her. There had been some doubt, a lot if she was honest with herself, concerning the transition between animal trials and human testing. But now they had proof, concrete evidence that the theories and research were sound. And if it worked on Kenison, it would work on Carrie.
She touched Kenison’s hand, and he looked around, swiping one palm across his cheek. “Did I pass out?” he asked.
“No. You did great. We’re done.”
“Everything was so vibrant. Like a dream but . . .” He shook his head. “It was beyond real, like reliving it all over again.” A small smile crept onto his face. “It was beautiful.”
“I’m glad.”
“How long will it take for the results?”
Gillian moved behind him and began unhooking the monitor wire and tubing from the port. “Not more than a day. We’ll let you know as soon as we’re finished.” She used a pair of forceps to twist the port gently from his head and placed a suture pad over the small hole. “That should heal pretty quickly,” she said, helping Kenison to his feet. “Keep the bandage on for twelve hours, and don’t let your head get wet for two days.”
“Won’t be a problem, doesn’t rain here much.”
Gillian laughed, and Kenison smiled again.
“Thank you, Doctor.” Kenison nodded, sobering. He lingered before her, hands holding his glasses shaking slightly.
“Are you sure you feel okay?” Gillian asked. His color had drained in the last few seconds.
Kenison licked his lips, tilting his head as if he’d heard a sound he couldn’t identify, and she wondered if he might be on the verge of passing out. “There’s something wrong with them,” he said quietly.
Gillian threw a glance over his shoulder at the three men by the door. They were in conversation again, not looking their way. “Who?” she asked, matching the biologist’s volume.
Kenison leaned forward so suddenly, she nearly shrank back. His lips moved, and she read the word more than heard it.
“Everyone.”
TWENTY-NINE
Gillian watched Kenison move toward the exit.
Her mind freewheeled, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Ander shook hands with Kenison as he neared the door, murmuring something the biologist frowned at. Gillian strained to hear what he was saying but was distracted as Carson approached the work space with Orrin close behind.
“It worked,” Carson said.
“It did,” she said, trying to gather her wits.
“You weren’t sure it would, were you?”
“No. There aren’t any sureties when dealing with the human mind.”
“Isn’t that the truth.”
Orrin made his way around the table to stand behind Birk. “So you mapped every neuron?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the screen.
“Looks that way,” she replied, watching Ander pat Kenison on the shoulder before the biologist left the room.
“And this will tell you if shifting is the cause?”
“The scan will tell us if any of the neurons are damaged in any way and where they’re located in the brain.”
“I didn’t mention it before, but this is an amazing breakthrough,” Ander said as he stepped up beside Carson and began studying the screen’s readouts.
“Coming from the man who invented teleportation, I’ll take that as a compliment,” Gillian said.
A flicker of amusement passed over the old man’s face. “I didn’t invent it. Only perfected the concept.”
“I don’t know if I’d call it perfect,” Orrin said. Ander gazed at his son, his expression darkening.
Carson coughed into his hand. “You said the results will take twenty-four hours?”
“Somewhere around there, I’m guessing. At least that’s what our estimate was initially,” Gillian said.
“Nonsense,” Ander said. “Upload your program into the station’s mainframe. It’s a quantum model. We should have the results back much sooner than a day.”
“How soon?” Birk asked, beginning to type on the keyboard before him.
“A few minutes. Maybe less.”
Birk paused, shaking his head as if he’d been struck before resuming typing. “Okaaaaaay.”
Gillian coiled the monitor cable and tubing into two overlapping circles on the table, Kenison’s last word echoing in her head. “Is there a way to get down to the surface? Without shifting, of course,” she added, seeing the looks Ander and Carson were giving her.
“Why?” Ander asked.
“I’d like to visit the biospheres. Try to rule out any foreign agent that might be causing this. Also, seeing the environment they’re working in might indicate if there’s a psychological aspect we’re missing here.”
“We’ve already run extensive screenings on everyone who’s been to the surface and back,” Ander said. “Physically they’re fine.”
“Psychological screenings too?”
“Dr. Pendrake handled the evaluations until . . . the incident.” Ander paused, a current of anguish running beneath his features. “Other than the symptoms, the crew is mentally sound,” he finished.
“That might be true, but there’s only two things the people who are afflicted have in common: one, they’ve all shifted multiple times, and two, they’ve been to the surface.”
“I’ve done both of those, and I am fine,” Ander said. “Orrin is fine.”
“But the majority isn’t.”
“She’s got a point,” Orrin said. “Besides, two of the crew down there are due for a shift change tomorrow anyway. Right?”
“Yes.” He grimaced. “Carson, what’s your take on this?”
Carson stared at the floor. “I think it’s necessary to explore every option. We’ve come too far, and there’s too much at stake.”
“All right, I’m in the minority here. The lander leaves in the morning. I’ll notify the pilot that you’ll be accompanying the crew down for the change.”
Gillian turned to the closest screen, letting her thoughts spool out as she watched the data compile.
There’s something wrong with them.
What had Ander said to Kenison as he left?
She glanced at the old man and found him studying her as well.
“Wow. That was beyond fast,” Birk said, drawing everyone’s attention. He tapped his keyboard several times and turned the screen for them to see.
The neural topography of Kenison’s brain played in a looping video of bioluminescence at the top right corner. The rest of the display held categories of compiled information in separate rows. Gillian stepped past Carson, squinting at the screen. Her eyes ran down the data in quick ladder steps.
“And?” Orrin asked after a span of thick silence had elapsed.
“Normal,” she said, turning back to the group. “Completely normal. No signs of trauma or neurofibrillary tangles.”
Carson blinked, his gaze turning inward while Ander stepped closer to study the screen himself.
“So that means?” Orrin asked.
“There’s been no physical damage to his neurons,” Birk said. The words sent a spider made of ice skittering down Gillian’s spine.
“None,” Ander said, and it sounded like he was saying “victory.”
Carson crossed his arms, uncrossed them, like Kenison folding his glasses over and over. “And it’s conclusive?”
“This makes an MRI look like an Etch A Sketch,” Gillian said absently. She bit her lip. “It rules out Losian’s for sure.”
“And shifting?”
“Not necessarily.”
“What do you mean?”
She frowned. “There still could be an issue with teleportation we’re not seeing.”
“But there’s no neurological trauma,” Ander broke in. “You said so yourself.”
“I know that. It’s just . . .”
�
��Just what?” Carson asked gently.
She squinted at the readout again but finally shook her head.
Carson watched her for another second before saying, “Since we have some findings on this front, we need to explore other possible causes. Where does that leave us?”
“Perhaps a toxin or foreign agent of some kind like Dr. Ryan mentioned,” Ander said, stepping back from the display. “Something that was missed in the testing.”
Gillian looked down at the coiled, interlocking loops of the monitor lead and tubing. Something in the recesses of her mind turned over in its sleep, the idea not awake yet, not distinct enough to even call an idea. And for some reason she could hear a train, see it passing by on clattering wheels.
“I’d like to test them,” she said, tracing the curve of the monitor wire before looking at Carson.
“Who?” Ander asked.
“The two people most afflicted. I want to meet the man who killed your partner.”
THIRTY
While Ander and Carson conferred at the next table over in low voices, Gillian and Birk reset the equipment.
Every so often she would hear Carson’s voice rise slightly and knew from their past arguments that he was drilling home a point he wouldn’t let go.
“I’m not sure I like the way that man is looking at you, Doctor,” Birk said beside her.
She glanced up and found Orrin gazing at her from the seat he’d taken across the room. There was a languid quality to his eyes, the soft thoughtfulness of an astronomer considering a new light in the sky.
“He’s okay,” she murmured. “Think it’s mostly seeing new people after such a long time.”
Birk grunted.
She watched his hands work with a vial of luciferin. Steady as stone. “I didn’t get a chance to ask, How’re you feeling since waking up?”
He stopped moving as if to take inventory of himself. “Very well, actually. I had a few bouts of vertigo at first but nothing like before.”
“No more sounds or . . . seeing anything?”