Between Two Minds: Revelation

by D C Wright-Hammer

  I was about to press the call button when I heard the balcony door slide open behind me.

  “Mind if I join you?” Jim had a beer bottle in his hand and another under his arm as he came out of the apartment.

  “Sure.” I masked my disappointment and put my phone away. Part of me was hoping that Jim and I would have a chance to talk anyway.

  He sat down, cracked open a Bobby Brüce, and handed it to me. “It didn’t surprise me when your mother said you got a new body.” He took a big swig of his beer and swallowed hard. “You were always a fighter, and it made lying to you so hard. I knew that one day you’d figure everything out. To be honest, that was a big reason why I left. I didn’t want to be around when the truth came out.”

  I sipped my beer, straining to remember anything about him. The events that came to mind were completely devoid of emotion. It bothered me because I wasn’t exactly sure why that was the case. Perhaps everything that had happened with the Padre put things into perspective. While my childhood was a lie, it wasn’t all that bad. So, another part of me feared that it was something else. Something unknown. Regardless, the consolation was that I would meet Jim for the first time all over again.

  “What have you been doing all these years?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “After leaving, I couldn’t shake the feeling of abandoning you, and to some degree, Stacy. It made living life difficult. I burned through my savings, self-medicating my depression in various ways. Alcohol. Gambling. Other things I’d rather not discuss. Believe it or not, the big wakeup call was when the National Postal Service went under after years of operating in the red. I lost my letter carrier position for good and found myself at a crossroad. I could continue down the destructive path or try to do better. I realized what had made me happiest in life—being with your mother and taking care of you. So, I took all the odd jobs I could find to help pay for night courses to get my degree in social work. For nearly a decade, I’ve been working with low income families, and particularly ones with disabled children.”

  Of course, that’s what he’s doing! I smiled involuntarily and let out a soft snicker. “That’s impressive, Jim.”

  He nodded. “Thanks. What about you, Ryan?”

  Another sip, and the dam of emotions broke. “It still stings, thinking about when I was younger. Worst of all, the memories I do have of you are not good. I blamed you for everything—leaving me, leaving Mom, tearing our family apart. I was as sad, angry, and depressed as a six-year-old could be.” I took a deep breath. “But ironically, it made me tough. If there was any kind of silver lining to the whole thing, I dedicated myself to becoming as independent as possible with my disabilities. That tenacity is why I wasn’t content in an auto-chair. Once I heard about mind migrations, I was obsessed. While it’s been a long and winding road, here I am. I couldn’t be happier.”

  He smiled and took another drink.

  “But I am sorry Mom put you in such a bad spot. That truth was difficult to swallow. The only way I held it together was knowing just how hard she’d had it at my birth. In that sense, it was tough for me to blame her. She’s always been strong in her own way, and I can’t argue that she raised me well. I just wish you could have been part of it.”

  “Me too, Ryan.” He sighed. “Me too.”

  We sat enjoying the ambience of the city as we finished our drinks. In reflecting on our conversation, a burning feeling emerged in my mind. There was something about his past that interested me, and I couldn’t stop myself from prying. “What do you know about PO boxes?”

  A puzzled look came over his face, but he answered anyway. “Well…after NPS went under, PO boxes got sold to the highest bidding private mail delivery company. Apparently, most of the handoffs were messy, and mail delivery was interrupted to a lot of them. Some even discontinued service altogether. Most senders stopped accepting them as legitimate addresses.” He shrugged. “Why do you ask?”

  I controlled my response. “Oh, no reason. I just heard about them on a documentary. When you said NPS, it made me think of them.” The lies were continuing to tell themselves. Worse yet, there wasn’t any guilt that followed this last one. I was happy that he was playing along.

  “The history of the NPS is pretty interesting…” Jim went on and on about his mail delivery career and the politics that were inevitably present.

  I feigned interest to be nice but was reaching my breaking point after about five minutes.

  Luckily, Mom intervened when she opened the balcony door. “Jim, we should be heading out, so Ryan and Helen can get some rest.”

  Standing up, Jim and I looked each other in the eye and shook hands again. “Thanks for the talk, Ryan. Hopefully, next time, it’s planned, and we can really enjoy ourselves.”

  I gave a frowning grin back. “Thank you, Jim. I do as well.”

  He went inside, and Mom lingered with an anxious expression. “So?”

  I tilted my head. “So, what?”

  “How did it go?!”

  I nodded and grinned. “It was fine, Mom. Thanks.”

  “You know I’ll always be sorry, right, Ryan?”

  I nodded again but didn’t say anything else.

  “Well, I’ll let Helen and you get on with your night. We can talk later, after you’ve had a chance to process everything. I love you.” We hugged tightly.

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  She left the balcony and closed the door behind her. I took a deep breath while taking one last look at the city. I turned around to call it a night, but as I took my first step, both of my legs went numb and locked up. I was overcome with fear as palpable memories of my paralysis flashed in my mind. I blinked rapidly, trying to understand what was happening, but with my final blink, everything went black.

  With great effort, I forced my eyes open and my fear increased exponentially. I was moving, but I had no control over what I was doing. I watched helplessly as I wandered across the balcony to the planter. I witnessed myself pulling out the old paper and dusting it off, so I could hold it in the light and read it again.

  Finally, I spoke against my own will. “If you’re out there, I will find you.”

  Chapter 6:

  Better Safe than Sorry

  “If you’re out there, I will find you.” Dr. Thompson slipped off his thick glasses and his eyes darted back and forth as he examined the output from the host match program.

  Dr. Campbell stood by with the same scowl she’d had since arriving at the lab three hours prior. Being alone with Thompson in the small research lab didn’t help.

  As an act of rebellion, she persisted with questions she knew he would not answer directly. “Are you going to tell me why you’re rushing the man and woman through an unproven procedure? And who’s the third candidate?”

  “Don’t worry, Dr. Campbell. It will all become clear soon enough.” He moved in front of her and began manipulating the output on the computer console.

  Campbell was glaring at the screen and getting even more confused by his search parameters. “Wait. Why are you including your name in the query? And why are you searching for live hosts? You can’t migrate a mind into a brain that already has one!”

  “I told you, Dr. Campbell. It’ll all make sense in due time.”

  Campbell’s frustration was reaching its limits. “Listen. Transferring into live subjects wasn’t even considered in the trials because of the ethical implications. We’re not mad scientists trying to cram as many minds as we can into one brain. I refuse to jeopardize human lives unnecessarily.”

  The optimistic expression on Thompson’s face melted away as he turned to her. “I’m disappointed in you. You have the ability to make history, a miraculous scientific breakthrough, and you’re balking at a few casualties? Were you so concerned when you ran your experiments on live rats? You don’t get to suddenly take the moral high ground.”

 
Campbell was unmoved by his condescending tone. “That’s bullshit! I’m not working with any human subjects against their will. You might as well stop running your search now because you’re going to be down one scientist if this is your plan.”

  Ding!

  Looking back at the screen, an uneasy elation came over Thompson. “There! Our hosts!”

  Subject 1: 88% match.

  Subject 2: 93% match.

  Subject 3: 91% match.

  He grabbed the walkie-talkie from his waistband and held it to his mouth, pushing the button.

  Campbell attempted to interrupt. “Did you hear me?! I won’t do your evil bidding!”

  Thompson calmly took his finger off the button and put the walkie-talkie back on his waist. He stepped to Campbell, and with a flick of his wrist, grabbed her by the hair. She cried out as he got unnervingly close to her face. “You listen to me, you little bitch. You’re going to do exactly as I say or there will be consequences.”

  He pushed her to the floor, and she whimpered. Thompson composed himself and radioed the findings to his colleagues as Martin entered the room.

  “What the hell? Dr. Campbell, are you alright?” He ran to her and knelt on the ground.

  Thompson nodded at them. “She’ll be fine. Get on the same page. We’ve got work to do.” He left the room.

  Martin helped Campbell to her feet. “What did he do to you?”

  She clutched her head with one hand and pointed at the computer screen with the other. “Nothing compared to what he plans to do to the people on that list.”

  Following her finger, Martin was immediately concerned. “Oh, no. But we’ve never—”

  Campbell let loose a sarcastic laugh, interrupting Martin. She couldn’t even look at him as she tried to connect the dots. “I should have known.”

  Martin was more than bewildered. “Known what?”

  She began talking unnecessarily loudly. “This whole damn project was a lie! Nobody gives that kind of funding to ‘move science forward.’ This wasn’t medical research. It was a backup plan.”

  “What are you talking about?” Martin shook his head.

  She turned to him. Her demented look dissipated and was instantly replaced with fierce anger. “Tell me the Goddamn truth. Did you know it all along?! Is that why you gave me this damn project?! Is that why you’ve been sleeping with me? To butter me up for this ridiculous bullshit?”

  Martin was appalled by the very notion, and it was apparent in his impassioned response. “Hell no! I have no idea who these people are or what they’re doing. I’m being honest. I love you, J—”

  “We’ve got a problem!” Cindy walked into the room with desperation on her face.

  Campbell snapped out of her ire and turned to the assistant. “What is it?”

  “The woman. She’s…not a normal specimen.”

  Martin chimed in. “Oh?”

  Cindy shuddered. “She doesn’t have arms.”

  The doctors winced as they tried to process how that would influence the procedure. But then a morbid question came to Campbell’s mind. “Did they—”

  “No.” Cindy waved her off. “Based on the tissue composition, it appears she was born that way.”

  Her comment brought relief to the two doctors for just a moment before the grave nature of their circumstances came rushing back.

  Campbell was befuddled as she turned to Martin. “How will that impact the—” She shook her head hard. “What the hell am I saying? We’re screwed, aren’t we? I’m so used to ideal working conditions. What he’s asking for seems ludicrous!”

  Having deferred to Campbell for the last couple of years, Martin felt something odd. Deep down inside him, a seed of nostalgic confidence was planting itself, and it began to grow. With it came the morose memories of his time in the Middle East. Countless troops were being brought to him with head trauma, and he’d had to do his best to help them. After seeing hundreds of these cases, he’d finally snapped and taken the chance that would ultimately become the genesis of the neural transfer program. He recalled it like it was yesterday.

  Two combat medics had burst through the tent door with their patient on a board. “Sir, we’ve got the cranial bleed, sir!”

  Martin had already been scrubbing up at the sink. “Was he conscious when you found him? How are his vitals?”

  “No. Stable but dropping.”

  “Get him on the table and get him connected.”

  The medics had prepped to move the patient. “One, two, three.”

  After completing Martin’s orders, the medics had disappeared. The doctor quickly dried his hands and snapped on green latex gloves. He eyed the wound and instantly knew the infantryman didn’t have much of a chance. But he’d gone through the protocol as he always did, out loud.

  “Penetrating trauma leading to a seven-centimeter fracture to the upper-right frontal bone. Scorch marks and dirt but no obvious signs of shrapnel. Hemorrhaging from the wound may be a sign of additional intracranial bleeding in other areas. Initial course of action is to clean the area, reduce swelling, and cover the wound.”

  The doctor had meticulously squirted water in and around the injury, clearing the dirt, some burned tissue, and a lot of blood. He gently dried the wound and then headed to the fridge. He grabbed a spray bottle labeled Temper-Close Gel. The product had become vital in the treating of head wounds because it served three important purposes. Upon application, it would begin disinfecting any open wound. Next, it would steadily decrease the temperature of the tissue it touched by one degree Celsius until excess blood stopped flowing to the area. Finally, the gel would harden slightly to cover the wound like artificial skin. He went back to his patient and started the tedious process of applying the gel top down. He sprayed centimeter by centimeter and around to ensure that he’d covered the entire wound.

  “John! Look out!” The patient had screamed, sending Martin stumbling back and then to the ground.

  “John! Look out!”

  Martin had flinched again, and the man had begun to violently flail. He was having a seizure, causing his brain to fire off the last thing it remembered. Martin got up and ran with his instincts. He dove on the man and held him tightly in an attempt to prevent further injury. It seemed to be helping. However, he was not prepared for what would come from desperately hugging the injured man. Martin’s mind began to wander to a place he’d always fended off as outside his area of expertise—his patients’ humanity.

  The dignity of the brave men and women he’d seen had been stripped away the instant their heads were damaged. They’d lose the ability to talk, smile, cry, or simply just be. Their very existence had depended on the ability of others to provide care. Even with that, the injured were seen by many as a series of numbers, symptoms, diagnoses, and prognoses. It had streamlined treatment, and for the caregivers, it had kept morbid thoughts at arm’s length. Martin had been able to further justify this approach because he worked with the unconscious.

  But as he held this wounded man tightly, Martin began to weep ever so softly. Even after the seizure passed, his sobbing had increased in intensity. He’d always thought he’d taken his job to heart, but never realized the well of emotions he’d been holding in until it overflowed in that moment. He felt helpless and wished on everything that there was something more he could do. If he couldn’t optimally treat his patient with surgery or medicine, he thought there might be another way. That had been the moment a lightbulb went on for Martin. He decided to throw out the textbooks on dealing with head trauma and tapped into his other area of expertise.

  Neural data transmission. Project PTSD.

  The project had been spawned five years prior in response to the PTSD epidemic that had always accompanied war and been the military’s public relations black eye for nearly a century.

  The project’s goal was simple. Get the troops o
ut of their own heads, and the nuanced symptoms that each veteran had could be better treated. Martin had developed his solution with mental health specialists in mind and never even fathomed that he might get some use from the data it provided. Suddenly, he questioned all of that.

  With the patient stabilized, Martin made his way to the neighboring tent where a computer station was dedicated to capturing troops’ thoughts as data. It was still in the beta phase with healthy participants, which meant that it would be difficult to even come up with a hypothesis on how it would perform on the injured. Martin hoped it would provide some insight into the mind of his unconscious patient, hopefully providing something that would give the man a fighting chance.

  He’d obtained the helmet that was used on intact heads and quickly deduced that it would need some modifications to safely fit his patient. He hadn’t hesitated to clip off all functionless areas of the helmet, and when he finished, it seemed perfect. It would span the upper neck, up the back of the head, to the tip of the crown, and wrap around the sides.

  He’d shut down the computer terminal and pulled out all the cords that tethered it to that tent. He’d set it up next to the injured soldier and booted up the program. Risking his medical license and possibly more. He had just initiated an experiment on a patient without consent.

  Martin gently attached the helmet and followed the cords back to the machine to verify that everything was in place. He put his hand over the Enter key to begin the scan of the man’s brain, then took a deep breath.