Between Two Minds: Revelation

by D C Wright-Hammer

  What if the scan harms him? What if I put the final nail in his coffin?

  Martin shook his head, remembering that the troop’s survival rate was already very low. If this experiment would provide any meaningful data on treating head trauma moving forward, the man’s death would not be in vain. Nothing could have prepared Martin for what he was about to experience after pressing Enter.

  Hello, Dr. Martin. Project Patriots, Troops, Soldiers Debriefed initiated. Gathering brain activity.

  The computer displayed an hour glass as it attempted to process the input from the helmet. It had taken longer than usual, and Martin feared it would time out. Just when Martin was ready to concede, a new line appeared on the monitor.

  Converting brain activity to data.

  Letters began to stream across the screen as the computer’s robotic voice spoke the fragmented thoughts it detected in the man’s mind. What Dr. Martin had heard made him tremble.

  “John. Enemy grenade. John no. John no hear me. Dive in front of John. Pain. Home. Miss Janie. Adam. Catherine. Hate enemy. Hate war. Scared of dying.”

  The entire line repeated over and over.

  Martin’s eyes had already ached from the previous fit of crying, but that had did stop the bawling that followed. In his sorrow, he thought he had wasted his time gathering the thoughts of the wounded man. Of course, the man’s thoughts would be primitive and emotional. What the hell had Dr. Martin expected?

  Martin closed Project PTSD, and he was prompted with a message.

  Would you like to save this mind file?

  Martin had previously added the ability to save mind files, so his program would recognize the soldiers’ minds moving forward. He took another deep breath and clicked “No.” He sighed as he prepared to take the helmet off his patient. Just as he reached for it, another bizarre thought took hold of Martin. One of his colleague’s pet projects came to mind. He’d only had to think about it for a few moments, and he’d become possessed. He wasted no time re-opening Project PTSD in Graphical Workplace, the software development suite the military used. He began rapidly typing line after line of code, modifying the program.

  Half an hour in, and he was exhausted. His hands ached. But running the application through the compiler had brought back positive results. He darted into the next tent to obtain a couple cables and a soldering gun, then raced back to carefully remove the helmet from his patient. He connected another cable to the helmet and plugged it into the computer. He placed the helmet back on the man and turned to the computer.

  Martin typed the command to launch the new program and anxiously awaited the results of his borderline outrageous plan.

  Hello, Dr. Adams. Project Light House initiated. Please enter a message.

  Martin realized he knew very little about his patient, but even with limited knowledge, he felt like he could compose an effective message even if it wasn’t exactly true.

  John is safe. You are safe.

  Martin clicked Submit and the busy indicator appeared, communicating that the request was in process. It took nearly a minute before anything happened.

  Message submission successful.

  Dr. Martin exhaled hard as he peered over at his patient. The man’s eyes fluttered under the lids and he started to quiver again, but much less violently than before. Martin had the intention of holding him once more when the mild tremor subsided, and a calming stillness came over the injured man.

  Martin was taken aback when he glanced at the man’s face. Had he not known better, he’d have thought he detected the slightest grin. Then, from behind, the computer began uttering the most amazing thing Martin had ever heard during the war.

  John is safe. I am safe.

  Again, the computer repeated the line over and over. The ideas seemed to have taken over the troop’s thoughts. A small commotion came from the medical equipment behind Martin, and he turned around to discover that the man’s vital signs had bottomed out. Alarmed, he dashed over to look into the matter. Before he made any changes, the number began recovering. Very rapidly, the man’s condition improved significantly, and more tears poured from Dr. Martin’s face. He didn’t care that he had just become the first person in history to accomplish bidirectional communication between a human mind and a computer. All he cared about was that he had meaningfully bettered the chances of one man’s survival.

  After the memory ran its course, Dr. Martin knew exactly what to say to Campbell and the assistant. “They’ve put us in an impossible situation. All those days in class. All the trials and careful controls. None of it means anything right now. No one should second guess how they move forward. All we can do is go with instinct. I can do the talking for a while. There’s a lot to discuss with Dr. Thompson in the lab.”

  Campbell was caught off guard. She had believed Martin was conspiring against her a moment ago, but his honesty was palpable in this moment. Over the last couple of years, she loved that Martin had begun deferring to her because she knew, deep down, she was the better scientist under normal circumstances. But as he became assertive in their time of need, she was gaga over him like the first time they’d met. But the situation still made her feel helpless. “I sure as hell don’t have a plan.”

  Cindy nodded.

  “Great,” Martin motioned, “let’s go.”

  Together, they walked to the neural transfer lab. Down the steps they went to find Dr. Thompson typing at a computer terminal on the lab floor.

  Martin spoke up. “Doctor, if we’re going to complete these three procedures, we’re going to need to…clarify somethings.”

  Dr. Thompson turned with a viciously snarky grin. “Yes. Go on.”

  “First, attempting all three procedures at the same time is not going to work. Each one requires the entire staff’s attention. We need to stagger them. We’ll especially need to focus on the woman without arms since we’ve only run simulations on transferring the minds of individuals with all their limbs.”

  Thompson nodded enthusiastically. “My thoughts exactly, Dr. Martin. The woman, Amanda Robinson, will be the proof of concept. Mr. Guerrero will go next, and I will be last. What else?”

  Martin and Campbell had assumed Thompson was planning his own neural transfer, but hearing him say it nonchalantly was still jarring.

  Martin pressed on. “While we might be able to pull off a miracle and complete the three procedures, that doesn’t allow any time for recovery in the thirty-three-hour window we’re left with. Our human simulations suggest a week to ten days to get back motor functions in the new host.”

  Again, Thompson seemed to be one step ahead of the question. “The auto-vans are prepped for safe transport post-procedure. We have another facility where we will be able to recover on our own timelines. Once we’re all recovered, Ms. Robinson will be brought back to this lab as your trophy for being good little scientists. I’m sure the board members will be delighted, so long as you can repeat the procedure.”

  Martin was leery of moving people so soon after their minds had been transferred, but he didn’t let on. “Finally, how the hell do you propose we get two minds—”

  “—in one brain?” Thompson scoffed. “I would never consider such a foolish thing. You see, doctors.” He looked over at Campbell. “If you haven’t already put two and two together, I’m Dr. Thompson Douglas.”

  The name knocked the wind from Campbell.

  Martin reeled, his thoughts swirling.

  The running joke in the neural transfer arena had it that Dr. T. Douglas was the “Evil Grandfather of Digenetics.” He’d literally written the first book outlining the applications and equipment necessary to download the memories, thoughts, and personality of an individual. He’d been in the process of implementing them when rumors circulated that he’d secretly discovered a related technology that he thought would be even more profitable—neural disposal routines.

&
nbsp; He’d found a theoretical way to completely wipe away people’s minds, leaving them in a vegetative state. As the story went, he’d been covertly contracted with the Department of Corrections and given an assignment to perform benign research on Death Row inmates. He’d reached a point where he thought he could make his secret discovery a reality. Without informing his employers or patient, he’d successfully disposed of the mind of a prisoner.

  Understanding the implications of his breakthrough, he’d gone to great lengths to cover his tracks. It’d been rumored that it had taken the Ethics Committee and the Federal Department of Investigations over two years to figure out exactly what he’d done, at which point, they’d immediately shut down Thompson’s labs and arrested him. Dr. Thompson Douglas had stood trial and a grand jury had found him guilty of voluntary manslaughter, which was surprising since his patient hadn’t technically died. Douglas was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole and remanded to a maximum-security prison. Officials gathered up every last copy of his research and, instead of destroying it, republished the journals omitting even the subtlest hints at neural disposal routines. Douglas gossip had been all the rage in the neural transfer arena. His redacted research had given some credence to the rumors; whole pages of content connecting certain ideas seemed to be missing. The explanation—poor editing.

  Martin felt as if he was looking at the Boogeyman. While Douglas’s sentencing had been classified, Martin had been made aware of it through some of his channels. It was unclear how Douglas had escaped prison, but it really didn’t matter in their current situation.

  “So, Dr. Thompson,” Martin said without emotion, “we’ll wipe the hosts’ minds, then.”

  Thompson’s malevolent smile turned much more sinister, and he winked. “You get it, Dr. Martin. You know,” he took a short breath, “you and I are not so different.”

  It was the biggest insult Martin had ever received, but he just nodded and kept his face emotionless.

  Thompson walked across the lab. He picked up a small device, walked it over to the doctors, and held it up. “Once the first host is cooled, I’ll demonstrate how to use my neural disposal device to clean out their cluttered brain. You two will lead the second use with my guidance. By the time it’s my host’s turn, you’ll be experts.”

  Martin and Campbell shuddered at the thought of wiping living human minds, but Martin kept the conversation moving. “Obviously, we’ve yet to use our cryo-lab for humans, so we’re going to want to make sure everything is perfect. We need to start prepping Ms. Robinson soon. Do we have an ETA on when her host will arrive?”

  “Two hours, plus or minus thirty minutes.”

  “Okay,” Martin nodded. “I’ll take one of our assistants and get started with Ms. Robinson. Send down the host when they get here.” Martin turned to Jamal, who looked tired and uneasy.

  “Do you mind helping me?”

  Jamal shrugged, then nodded. “Beats sitting around and waiting like I’ve done the last couple of hours.”

  They headed over to Amanda’s stretcher and unhooked her from the lab equipment keeping her sedated. They were about to move her when Campbell walked over and leaned in.

  “Rex,” she whispered, “did you want me to handle the cryo-freeze?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve got this, Dr. Campbell. This is your lab. You should be here to run it.”

  She frowned, seemingly ready to offer a rebuttal. In the end, her face softened, and she nodded.

  Martin waved Jamal on, and they rolled Amanda to the lift near the lab’s main entrance. They pressed a button and ascended the two meters up to exit the lab, then walked the gurney out into the hall.

  Once out of earshot of the guards, Martin sighed, “I’m really sorry you got mixed up in this, Jamal. I want you to just follow orders, so no one gets hurt.”

  Jamal shook his head. “I don’t blame you, Dr. Martin. I’m just worried about this woman. She already has no arms. What if she doesn’t make it out of the procedure?”

  Martin took a deep breath. “Like I said, just listen to your instructions. We can’t really worry about anything else at this point.”

  He flinched and sighed. “Okay, Dr. Martin.”

  They wound their way through a half-kilometer of hallways, ending up at the cryo-lab door. Martin scanned his badge and put his thumb on the ID reader. A panel of wall slid down and a green button emerged. Martin pressed it hard. The cryo-lab rumbled to life. The floor and walls began to shake as the massive cold air compressors kicked on, producing a ruckus. Through the window, lights could be seen flashing on. Next, the door automatically opened, and they slowly wheeled Amanda in. Martin went over to a panel on the wall and began pressing buttons. More areas of the lab lit up, and a metallic cylinder two meters in diameter rose from the floor. It was already covered in frost.

  Martin communicated the next steps. “Roll her into the prepping station. Get her connected to the lab.”

  Jamal did as he was told, getting the lab in sync with Amanda. IVs would administer stabilizing fluids into her circulatory system, preventing the possibility of hypothermia. Pads around her body would allow Martin to monitor her vitals to ensure she would cool evenly.

  “Everything looks good on my screens. We can move her into position,” Martin said from the console overlooking the chamber.

  Jamal pushed the stretcher to the opening of the cryo-chamber and eyed the thermostat on the side. He confirmed it was a perfect four degrees Celsius, then wheeled Amanda in. Martin pressed the button to enclose the chamber. He studied the monitors, ensuring the woman’s vitals stayed level throughout the process.

  With nothing left to do, Jamal stood near the window. He began wringing his hands, eying the chamber and worrying about how the night would turn out.

  Eighty minutes later, the program status flashed green, and at the same time, someone knocked on the cryo-lab door. Martin looked out the window, seeing Thompson’s men with a woman’s body on a stretcher. It was the host, and she, indeed, had arms.

  Martin nodded to Jamal, who stepped to the door and opened it. The men pushed the gurney to the middle of the room.

  Martin nodded to the goons, “Thanks. We’ll take it from here.” He was about to tell Jamal to put the woman through the same process as Amanda when something inside made him pause.

  Martin wandered over to the soon-to-be host and stared. With Dr. Campbell’s latest program, he was quite confident that the neural transfer would be successful. That was why he hadn’t hesitated to prep Amanda. He’d assumed Amanda had been hand-picked because she had no arms and would benefit from the procedure. However, her mind would be going into the woman before him. He had no clue who she was but knew she would be losing everything. Her thoughts, memories, and personality. Her goals and ambitions. Her family and friends. It wasn’t just her mind that was going to be erased, but the very things that made her human.

  Martin was again put in a situation where he just wished there was something more he could do for his patient. He pondered for a moment, and just like in the tent with the injured man, an idea came to him. He wasn’t happy about the idea, but he couldn’t deny it’s necessity.

  “Jamal, I’ll prep the host. You can head back to assist Dr. Campbell.”

  Jamal scowled. “You sure, Dr. Martin?”

  “Yes. I’ll use the intercom to get assistance when I’m ready to wheel back both subjects.”

  “Dr. Martin?” Jamal asked with uncertainty in his voice.

  “Yes, Jamal?”

  “Are we going to make it out of here alive?”

  Martin’s face softened. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Jamal nearly grinned. “Okay.” He shrugged. “I’ll see you later.”

  Dr. Martin waved as Jamal left. Then, Martin was alone in the room, and he spoke directly to the unconscious woman.

  �
�I wish there was more I could do, but…” He sighed. “I’ll keep you safe from them.”

  Chapter 7:

  Family First

  “I’ll keep you safe from them.” The words escaped my mouth as I held Helen on our new couch. She’d expressed fear at the news-holo piece speculating about the war with the Free People’s Republic.

  The anchor continued, “FPR’s ideological reach knows no bounds. Citizens who preach their doctrine often pretend to be for the people, but once you dig a little deeper, you see that they’re just as power hungry as the FPR themselves. And that’s the most frightening thing. Sympathizers could work at your job, go to your fitness center, or even live down the street. Should you hear anyone discussing politics similar to our common enemy, please report it to the authorities as quickly as possible. The entire country is counting on you.”

  Helen tipped her head toward me. “I’m not worried about FPR. I’m worried someone might think I’m a sympathizer.”

  I felt compelled to reassure her, but I needed to know more. “Why is that?”

  Helen looked into my eyes and sighed. “Because of the footage I see. Their kids looked well-fed and happy. I heard they teach them five languages from birth and allow them to choose their occupation when they get old enough to work.”

  I shook my head. “Right, but they put people to work at thirteen. And worse, they also execute people who disagree with them.”

  Helen sighed. She broke free from my arms, stood up, and walked from the living room to the kitchen. I watched her grab a banana and peel it. She began her rebuttal to me with a mouthful. “So do we! I mean, anyone who even suggests better working conditions at large factories is called a terrorist. Some of them have even disappeared. That’s what I’m afraid will happen to me since I don’t really hate FPR like the rest of the country.”

  Helen was very persuasive, but I was getting concerned. “Well, maybe we should just keep those kinds of thoughts to ourselves until the war is over. Maybe that’s the safest thing.”