“How much energy can a brain generate?”
“It depends on how you look at it, and that's the problem that interests me. In terms of electrical energy, the output of the brain is miniscule—a few watts. A very dim light bulb. But that doesn't make much sense if you consider how the brain gives humans the capability to create technology and industry that can move mountains. A person has a brilliant idea, and suddenly a problem is solved; a mountain can be moved, a barrier overcome. The idea creates or saves an enormous amount of time and energy. Yet it was born out of a watt or two. The equation doesn't balance.”
The young scientists appeared to be fascinated. Poe mesmerized me a little bit too. “So you're saying there's some kind of energy, this cognitive energy, which balances the equation.”
Poe nodded. “It's like a potential energy that can be transformed into other forms of energy—solving problems, moving mountains, and so forth. It exists as part of the human nervous system. Maybe other complex nervous systems as well. And if it exists . . .”
We leaned closer.
Poe finished gathering his thoughts. “If it exists, I believe it could be transformed into all kinds of different forms. Radiation, for instance. More precisely, some kind of analogue to electromagnetic radiation. I don't have any proof that such radiation is real, but just because we've never detected it doesn't disqualify it. We didn't know that light is just a sliver of the electromagnetic spectrum until Maxwell proposed his theory and Hertz confirmed it in the late nineteenth century.”
Someone in the back of the room let out a snort. “Now he thinks he's James Clerk Maxwell.”
A remark born of jealousy. I waited for more constructive skepticism. It wasn't long in coming.
“How did the radiation leave a pattern on that chart?” asked someone.
“I don't think it was the radiation as such, I think the pattern came from the absorption of the radiation-like energy into the two hibernator brains. I'm guessing that the absorption and admission of this energy involves a molecular rearrangement of some sort. Pure speculation on my part, but it seems a likely possibility. If the absorption and animation, if you will, rearranged some of the molecules or molecular structures in the brain, it's conceivable that the process slightly altered the brain's magnetic properties. That's often the case when electrically active components change shape or configuration. So I examined the cocoons of the two missing hibernators. Although the output of the monitors weren't continuously recorded, I discovered a sensor that records some of the cocoon's internal voltages.”
“That's the chart you were looking at?” I asked.
Poe nodded. “The changing magnetic fields associated—hypothetically associated, I should say—with the absorption could have induced some stray voltages in the machine, which would have resulted in fluctuations in the chart. A short time before the escape of the two hibernators was noticed, the cocoon voltages displayed a remarkable series of oscillations. I theorize that they're side effects of the absorption.”
A skeptic's voice rose above the murmur that Poe's statement created. “If what you're saying is true, then neuroscientists have misunderstood the brain for a long time. Neuroscientists believe consciousness is the result of certain electrochemical activities and patterns in the brain. Not some kind of molecular rearrangement.”
“I'm not equating molecular arrangement with consciousness. I'm merely suggesting that it's part of the process—which, by the way, remains shrouded in mystery. Electrochemical activity is critical in the generation of conscious thoughts, but it might not be solely responsible for it. Specific configuration of the brain's structure may also be necessary. And when the molecules change configuration or geometry, cognitive energy may be emitted or absorbed.”
The skeptics began to lose patience. “And how does this cognitive energy propagate? Perhaps you'd like to resurrect the old idea of a luminiferous ether. Except instead of light, it carries thoughts. Maybe a cogniferous ether.”
A few derisive snorts came from the back of the room.
Poe didn't get angry. “Catchy term—mind if I use it?”
I marveled at Poe's serenity in the face of aggressive, even taunting critics. Like Clarissa, he didn't fit into the mold either.
As I stared at him, Poe suddenly looked at me. “And that's my theory, Mr. Mathers, as to how those two hibernators woke up and sneaked out of here, perhaps taking the guard and orderly to help cover their tracks, without your omnipresent sensors detecting any sort of intrusion.”
* * * *
I spent the rest of the day sifting through tons of data at the mobile command post in the supersonic transport, sitting in a secure area at the airfield. At first I limited the search area to a radius of fifty miles centering on the hospital and did a random spot check. Which turned up nothing.
Poe's theory bothered me. What if those things—the hibernators—had some kind of strange intelligence inside them?
Bizarre, puzzling, almost unbelievable. Cognitive energy? Intelligent radiation? Sounded like bafflegab to me. But Poe seemed to believe it. If true, it was a security agent's nightmare, one of the worst possible scenarios. You didn't have a good chance of success when chasing someone, or something, whose behavioral tendencies were complete mysteries.
I expanded the search to include some of the largest Midwestern cities. A possible target turned up in Chicago—a series of broad-spectrum cams picked up the face of a man early this morning that might be the male hibernator. Image analysis algorithms gave a seventy percent probability of a match. The analysis programs returned a similar probability for the images of a woman taken by a river cam in St. Louis. I called the boss, who issued an emergency alert in those cities. Agents would flood the streets, and the surveillance team would scrutinize every byte of data.
In the evening I received a priority-coded message from the laboratory back at Bethesda, Maryland. I'd insisted on taking DNA samples of every person who had handled the hibernators or visited the basement, including the researchers and physicians—no exceptions. Call it paranoia if you must, but I didn't want to take any chances. Bethesda checked to see if any of the DNA sequences contained the same genetic alterations as the hibernators. If two hibernators could wake up and walk around as if they belonged here, why not others? But the report came back negative—no matches.
But a nagging feeling continued to gnaw at me. Who or what were these hibernators? Where did they come from? From space, as Poe Weffle believed? Were the bodies convenient receptacles for this hypothetical cognitive energy? But why would it—they?—come here? And had they come before? The empty spaces in the cave suggested they had.
Whoever or whatever these things turned out to be, this might not have been their first visit. It had been planned and set up nicely—bodies squirreled away in a desolate area, waiting for something. This kind of situation may have occurred repeatedly.
The thought sent a shiver down my spine. How many of those things were loose? And what were they doing?
And how deeply had they penetrated the government?
Who could tell how highly, if at all, they'd infiltrated the decision-making processes in this country, and other countries? I didn't even know who my boss was.
One look at the hospital cafeteria's offerings sent me scrambling back to the diner across the street. But my appetite had abandoned me anyway.
About eight o'clock I found myself outside the small office that the hospital had provided Poe Weffle. He sat behind his desk, poring over some data. Glancing up, he saw me loitering at the door. “Any news?” he asked.
I shook my head. I wasn't ready to trust Poe yet, so I didn't mention the possible sightings in Chicago and St. Louis.
“I perceive,” said Poe, “my theory troubles you.” He waved his hand, inviting me into his office. I sat down in a rickety chair beside the desk. “If it's any consolation, most of the scientific community entertain serious doubts, to put it mildly.”
“These aliens—they're para
sites?”
“Hypothetical aliens. And I'm not sure how I'd classify them. But if they're real, they would seem to require a corporeal habitat every once in a while. Parasites, however, may or may not be the right description.”
“Even if your theories are wrong, we know they can hibernate.”
“The bodies, you mean. The bodies could be human, perhaps cloned and modified—”
“I don't think so. If they were cloned, the originals would be in the databases.”
Poe leaned back in his chair. “I guess you're right. I hadn't thought of that.”
“Can they . . .” I found it difficult to put my question into words. Poe waited patiently. “Can they infect humans? I mean, unmodified humans?”
Poe shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. And once again, the term you use is value-laden. I'm not sure ‘infection’ is a good description. And, may I remind you once again, all of this is hypothetical. I've outlined a scenario, my hypothesis, which is only supported by my interpretation of a lot of squiggly lines on a voltage chart in the two cocoons.”
“Which don't appear in the other cocoons.”
Poe nodded. “Correct. A point in my favor. But going beyond this scenario into specifics of who or what these beings are, and their various properties, would be conjecture at this point.” He tapped a thin read-write screen on his desk. “And things are more complicated than I had originally believed. These patterns in the charts—they're amazingly complex. I've even detected patterns nestled within patterns. Almost like fractals. There's a great deal of substructure in these waveforms.”
“Which means?”
“That's just it, Marlon. I've no idea.”
It sounded like Poe was beginning to doubt his own theory. I wasn't sure if that made me feel better or not. I shifted gears and asked him about Clarissa. The question threw him for a moment. He obviously hadn't been doing much thinking about her.
“What do I know about Clarissa?” He paused. “Nothing, really. I'd never heard of her before I got here, but that's no surprise—she hasn't published much. I assume she was invited to study this phenomenon because she's bright, it's related to her specialty, and she was nearby.”
“Do you like her?”
A fleeting grin passed over Poe's face. “I presume you're wondering if I resent her because she's become one of my more vocal critics. I'm not annoyed at all. In fact she performs a valuable service. All my critics do, and I assure you that Clarissa hasn't been the only one—and not nearly the most acerbic.”
“A valuable service?”
“If I can answer the objections of my staunchest critics, I'm much more confident in my ideas. Theories are sometimes like children to their originators. If you come up with an original idea, you're usually too involved, too close to evaluate it properly.”
“But what if they never accept your answers, even after you've become convinced you're right?”
“Then that's their problem. Truth isn't affected by how many people believe it.”
I thought his reply was too glib. “But your scientific reputation and funding opportunities depend on what your colleagues think of you.”
“To a certain extent. But once you're right about a few things, and you prove it to the satisfaction of the majority of open-minded people, you don't have to worry.” Poe flashed another quick smile. “You can be an enfant terrible and still have a successful career, as long as you don't go too far over the top.”
“And your wife?”
Another question that threw Poe. As I intended. He recovered quickly, only a trace of irritation in his voice.
“You've heard about her, I gather. She's not over the top—she's not a scientist, either. I frankly admit that I don't believe in much of what she says. I mean I trust her, she's sincere, but I don't think her interpretation of certain things is a correct description of reality. But I love her anyway. Does that make any sense? I suppose it doesn't, at least to some people, but it's true nonetheless.”
To me it made sense. I thought about my own situation. I'd been wanting to ask Sara to marry me for more than a year, but I kept putting it off. Sara knew me as someone else, a fictional person—an identity corroborated by my employer. At the end of my contract the government was supposed to make that identity permanent if I requested it. Then I could become Arlen Reyers, freelance consultant. For real.
But I wondered what Sara would say if she knew who I really was.
Which raised another point. Who, exactly, was I?
It gets to you after a while—all the snooping, the lies, the deception. You don't know who you are anymore. Sometimes you don't even know if you're real. You don't know if anything is real. Everything begins to have a fragile, tissuey feel to it; a good tug and everything you thought you knew falls apart.
Maybe that's why I was taking Poe's theories so seriously. They intrigued me in a fundamental way, a level deep below the surface.
One thing I knew for sure: I had to get out of this business.
My comm beeped in that funny way—three short beeps followed by three long and then three more short—which indicated an emergency. I said goodbye to Poe and hurried into a private consultation room to take the call.
The news was good. The local police had found the missing guard and orderly, alive and well.
* * * *
By early next morning our people had gained custody of the two suspects. To avoid complications, we removed them from the county jail and took them to an office building where the government rented some space.
When I walked in, four tall, broad-shouldered men were standing over the two suspects. Tied up in office chairs with the casters pulled off, the guard and orderly were looking up and protesting their innocence. The room was small and windowless; the air was stale, and there was an overpowering aroma of fear emanating from the two suspects.
I told the interrogators to wait outside until I needed them. They glared at the suspects as they stepped out. When the door closed, I smiled, sat at the edge of a fold-up table in front of the chairs, and said, “So what's the story?”
I'd already heard their story but I wanted it first-hand.
The face of Sheldan, the old guard, was ashen, but he seemed the more composed of the two. Trey, the young orderly, looked scared to death.
“The man overpowered me,” said the guard. “He was strong and fast. But he let me go. I promised him . . . I promised I wouldn't interfere.”
“Wouldn't interfere with what?”
“What they had to do,” said the orderly.
His relatively steady voice surprised me. The fearful look hadn't left his eyes but he seemed calm.
“And what was that?”
Both the orderly and the guard shook their heads. They claimed to have no idea.
I prompted the rest of the story out of them, and what they told me matched what they'd told the cops. The two hibernators treated them well, said they would be amply rewarded if the hibernators “succeeded.” The nature of the operation wasn't divulged, but the tech-savvy orderly helped the hibernators to escape the hospital without triggering any hospital alarms. He also educated them about government sensors, although after a quick round of questioning I concluded that Mr. Trey didn't know as much as he thought he did about the latest government surveillance techniques.
Yet the hibernators had so far done a good job of hiding. We still hadn't found them. And the reports of Trey and Sheldan indicated that the hibernators had awoken on their own—as Poe hypothesized.
The hibernators had locked up the guard and orderly in a little-used warehouse not too far from the hospital. They left them plenty of food and water, some readers—one-way, which couldn't be used to contact anyone—a monitor tied into the television feeds, two mattresses and blankets, and a portable toilet with an air scrubber. Couldn't ask for anything more. When the cops found them there was plenty of food and water remaining; either the hibernators were being generous or they expected the guard and orderly to be coop
ed up for much longer. But a warehouse inspector found them when he discovered a lock on the room that shouldn't have been there, and the sound of a television set coming from within. He expected to find some illegals hiding there.
Sheldan and Trey told officers that the hibernators spoke unaccented English and seemed normal in every way except one.
“They were so damn persuasive,” repeated Frank Sheldan. He stared at me with his old, tired eyes. “I mean it, mister. If you could have talked to them you'd say the same thing. They said they weren't going to hurt anybody, they said they never hurt anybody. They were in some kind of trouble. Big trouble. I don't what, and I don't know who they are, but I knew they weren't lying.”
And I knew the guard wasn't lying. I concluded that both of the suspects had told all they knew, as truthfully as they could. I couldn't authorize the release of the suspects but I told the interrogators to find something else to do.
My report to the boss was discouraging. If the hibernators could get help as easily elsewhere as they did at the hospital, they would be extremely difficult to find. However, if you believed they meant no harm, there might be no reason to become alarmed.
The boss refused to look on the bright side. That's not what you did when you worked in security.
“I didn't say I believed they mean no harm,” I said. “It's just a possibility.”
“A possibility we shall dismiss until proven otherwise.” The boss's voice came from an overhead lighting fixture in the break room of the office building. Some people might find that amusing. I bet the people who worked here wouldn't.
“Lean on Poe,” ordered the boss.
“I'm leaning.”
“Lean harder. We need a better idea what we're dealing with. And another thing. Don't make trouble for Clarissa Jardin.”
So she was a Fed, as I suspected. Whoever was monitoring me or had been reading the transcripts of my conversations must have noticed that I'd tripped her up.
Analog SFF, March 2012 Page 13