From their heated, excited chatter—full of medical jargon beyond Painter’s comprehension—they had come to some conclusions, though not necessarily a consensus.
“Neuromodulation of that scale without glial cell support?” Lisa said with a shake of her head. “The stimulation of the nucleus basalis, of course, makes sense.”
“Does it?” Painter asked, drawing their attention.
Lisa seemed to finally see Painter and Kat. Her shoulders relaxed, and her hands left her pockets. A whispery smile feathered her features as her gaze met his. One of her hands trailed across Painter’s shoulders as she passed and took one of the seats.
Malcolm took the last remaining seat. “How’s the child doing?”
“Asleep for the moment,” Kat said.
“So what have we learned?” Painter asked.
“That we’re moving through a landscape both new and old,” Malcolm answered cryptically. He slipped on a pair of glasses, tinged slightly blue for reading computer screens with less eyestrain. He settled them in place and opened a laptop he’d carried under one arm. “We’ve compiled the MRI scans of the child and my analysis of the skull. Both devices are the same, though the child’s is more sophisticated.”
“What are they?” Kat asked.
“For the most part, they’re TMS generators,” Malcolm answered.
“Transcranial magnetic stimulators,” Lisa elaborated, though that didn’t help much.
Painter shared a confused expression with Kat. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?” he asked. “And use small words.”
Malcolm tapped the side of his head with a pen. “Then we’ll start here. The human brain. Composed of thirty billion neurons. Each neuron communicates to its neighbors via multiple synapses. Creating roughly one million billion synaptic connections. These connections, in turn, create a very large number of neural circuits. And by large, I mean in the order of ten followed by a million zeros.”
“A million zeros?” Painter said.
Malcolm looked over the edge of his glasses at Painter. “To give you some scale. The total number of atoms in the entire universe is only ten followed by eighty zeros.”
At Painter’s shocked reaction, Malcolm nodded. “So there’s a vast amount of computing power locked in our skulls that we’re only beginning to comprehend. We’ve just been scratching the surface.” He pointed toward the window. “Someone out there has been delving much deeper.”
“What do you mean?” Kat asked, her expression showing worry for the girl.
“With our current technology, we’ve been making tentative strides into this new frontier. Like sending probes into space, we’ve been slipping electrodes into brains. All input into the brain is via electrical impulses. We don’t see with our eyes. We see with our brains. It’s why cochlear implants work to return hearing to the deaf. The implant turns sounds into electrical impulses, which are passed to the brain via a microelectrode inserted into the auditory nerve. Over time, the cortex learns to reinterpret this new signal, and like learning a new language, the deaf begin to hear.”
Malcolm waved to his laptop. “The human brain—being electrical, being malleable to new signals—has an innate ability to connect to machines. In some regards, that makes us perfect natural-born cyborgs.”
Painter frowned. “Where are you going with all this?”
Lisa placed a hand atop his. “We’re already there. The division between man and machine is already blurred. We now have microelectrodes so small that they can be inserted into individual neurons. At Brown University in 2006, they inserted a microchip into a paralyzed man’s brain, linked by a hundred of these microelectrodes. Within four days of practicing, the man—through his thoughts alone—could move a computer cursor on a screen, open e-mail, control a television, and move a robotic arm. That’s how far we’ve breeched the frontier.”
Painter glanced to the window. “And someone’s gone farther than that?”
Both Lisa and Malcolm nodded.
“The device?” Painter asked.
“A step above anything we’ve seen. It has nanofilament electrodes so tiny that it’s hard to say where the device ends and the child’s brain begins. But the basic function is well known. From studies done at Harvard University on rats, we know that TMS devices promote the growth of neurons—though, oddly, only in areas involved with learning and memory. We still don’t understand why. But what we do know is that magnetic stimulation can also turn on and off these neurons like a switch. Children are especially pliable in this manner.”
“So if I understand this all correctly, someone has wired such a device to the child, stimulated nerve growth in a specific area, and now controls its functioning like a switch.”
“Generally speaking, yes,” Malcolm said. “They’ve tapped deep into that vast neural network I described. Only with the magnetic-stimulation of new neurons, they’ve expanded that network even farther. And if I’m right, I’d say they’ve focused that expansion in a very narrow area.”
“What makes you say that?”
“There’s a law in neurology. Hebb’s law. That basically states nerves that fire together, wire together. By stimulating one site in the brain, they are reinforcing it harder and harder.”
“But to what end?” Painter asked.
Malcolm shared a worried glance with Lisa. He wanted her to explain.
She sighed. “I spoke to the psychologist, Zach Larson, who examined the girl when she was first brought in. From her nonresponsiveness, repetitive behavior, and sensitivity to stimulation, Zach is certain the girl is autistic. And from the behavior you described at the safe house, probably an autistic savant.”
Painter had read Larson’s report, too. It had been put together quickly, but it had been thorough. He had run a small battery of psychological tests, including a genetic study for some of the typical markers for autism. The last was still pending.
He’d also included fact sheets on the subject of autistic savants, those rare individuals who—though compromised by their disorder—have amazing islands of talent. A skill that is deep and narrow. Painter remembered the character played by Dustin Hoffman in the movie Rain Man. His ability was to do lightning calculations. But this was only one of the savant talents on Larson’s list. Others included calendar calculations, memorization skills, musical talent, mechanical and spatial skills, exquisite discrimination of smell, taste, or hearing, and also art.
Painter pictured the drawing of the Taj Mahal. It had been sketched in minutes, handsomely drawn to scale, with perfectly balanced perspective. The girl was certainly talented.
But was it more than that?
The last on Larson’s list of savant talents was a rare and controversial report of some autistic savants who displayed extrasensory skills.
Painter could not dismiss that the girl’s drawings had led the Gypsies unerringly to their safe house. He recalled the earlier discussion with Elizabeth, about her father’s work on intuition and instinct, about his connection with a deep-black government project involved in remote viewing.
Lisa continued, “We think the device is meant to stimulate that area of the brain where the savant talent lies. It’s known that most savant talent arises from the right side of the brain, the same side where the device is attached on both the skull and the girl. Even using today’s technology, it would not take much effort to localize the region regulating this talent. And once found, the magnetic stimulation could both amplify that area and control it.”
Painter stood with dawning horror. If Lisa and Malcolm were correct, someone was harnessing this child’s abilities. He crossed toward the window.
Who did this to the girl?
Kat had joined Painter and pointed through the window. “She’s awake.”
And she was drawing again.
The girl had found a notepad and black felt pen on the bedside table. She scratched across it, not quite as frantically as before, but she was still bent with concentration over the page.
Kat headed to the door. Painter followed.
The girl did not acknowledge them, but as they stepped through, both pad and pen dropped to her bedsheet. She went back to rocking.
Kat stared down at the artwork, then fell back a step with a small gasp. Painter understood her reaction. There was no mistaking what was drawn in ink and paper, a portrait.
It was her husband, Monk.
11:04 A.M.
Southern Ural Mountains
Russian Federation
Monk helped Pyotr along a fallen log that forded a deep stream, churning over jumbled rocks. Moss grew heavy on the log, along with a few fat white mushrooms. The entire place smelled damp.
Kiska was already on the other side, standing with Marta, holding the old chimpanzee’s paw. Monk wanted to be across the next rise and into the neighboring valley. Hopping off the log, he stared behind him. They were crossing a dense birch forest, whose white-barked trunks looked like dried bone. The green foliage was already flamed in patches.
Monk picked one of the red leaves, rubbing it between his fingers. Still soft, not dried out. Early fall. But the changing leaves promised a cold night among the low mountains here. But at least there should be no snow. He dropped the crushed leaf.
How did he know all this?
He shook his head. Such answers would have to wait. Still, he found it disturbing how quickly he was growing accustomed to the disconnect between his lack of memory and his knowledge of the world. Then again, they were being hunted. They had to move quietly, sound carried far in the mountains. Through whispers and hand signals, they communicated.
Monk searched the far side of the stream. They had been on the run for the past three hours. He had set a hard pace, trying to put as much distance between them and where they’d exited the subterranean world. He didn’t know how long it would take for the hunters to realize the escapees had abandoned the cavern and to pick up their trail out here.
Monk waited at the stream’s edge.
Where was Konstantin?
As if beckoned by his thought, the taller boy came dancing down the far slope, as lithe and firm footed as a young buck. His face, though, was a mask of fear as he ambled, arms out, across the slippery log.
“I did it!” he said. Wheezing heavily, he jumped and landed next to Monk. “I took your hospital nightshirt and dragged it to the stream in the other valley.”
“And you threw it in the water?”
“Past that beaver dam. Like you said.”
Monk nodded. His hospital nightshirt had been soiled with blood and sweat. One of the kids had stolen it from his room after he’d changed. It was smart thinking. If they’d left the shirt, his captors would have known he’d changed.
It also came in handy in laying a false trail. He had further soiled the shirt by wiping sweat from his brow and underarms. He had done the same with the kids and the chimpanzee, too. The riper garment should leave a stronger trail, a false trail. Hopefully the scent would send the hunters searching in the wrong direction.
“Help me with this,” Monk said to Konstantin and leaned down to the log they’d used to cross.
Together, the two got the log rocking, but they still couldn’t dislodge it. Monk then felt a huff at his cheek. He turned to see Marta shouldering into the log. With a single heave, the chimpanzee rolled the fallen log into the stream. She was strong. The log fell with a heavy splash, then bobbed and teetered down the waterway. Monk watched it float away. The more ways they could break their trail, all the better.
Satisfied, Monk headed out.
Konstantin kept up, but Kiska and Pyotr struggled. The way was steep. Monk and Marta both helped the smaller children, hauling them up the harder patches. Finally, they reached the top of the rise. Ahead, more hills spread in all directions, mostly wooded with a few open meadows. Off to the left, not too far away, a wide patch of silver marked a large lake.
Monk stepped in that direction. With a lake like that, there should be people, someone who could help them.
Konstantin grabbed his elbow. “We can’t go that way. Only death lies that way.” His other hand squeezed the badge affixed to his belt, a radiation monitor.
In such verdant surroundings, Monk had forgotten about that danger. He flipped his badge up. Its surface was white, but as the radiation levels rose, it would begin to turn pink, then red, then dark crimson, then black. Sort of like a drugstore pregnancy test—
Photo-flashes of memory cracked across his vision.
—a laughing blue eye, tiny fingernails—
Then nothing again.
His head throbbed. He fingered the tender suture line through his wool cap. Konstantin looked at him with narrow, concerned eyes.
Kiska, who Monk had learned was Konstantin’s sister, hugged her arms around her belly. “I’m hungry,” she whispered, as if fearful of both being heard and of showing weakness.
Konstantin frowned in his sister’s direction, but Monk knew they all should eat to keep their strength up. After their panicked flight, they needed a moment to regroup, to plan some strategy beyond running. Monk stared toward the lake while fingering his badge.
Only death lies that way.
He needed to better understand their situation.
“We’ll find a place to shelter and eat quickly,” Monk said.
He crossed down into the next valley. A series of small ponds cascaded through a set of terraced ledges. The place sparkled with a dozen waterfalls and cataracts. The air smelled loamy and damp. Halfway down, a fern-strewn cliff side had been eroded into a pocket with an overhang. He led the children to it.
They hunkered down and opened packs. Protein bars and bottled water were passed around.
Monk searched his pack. No weapons, but he did find a topographic map. He unfolded it on the ground. The header was in Cyrillic. Konstantin joined him, chewing on a peanut-butter-flavored bar. Monk noted the mountainous landscape was marked with scores of tiny Xs.
“Mines,” Konstantin said. “Uranium mines.” He ran a finger along the Cyrillic header, then waved an arm to encompass the area. “The Southern Ural Mountains. Chelyabinsk district. Center of old weapons factories. Very dangerous.”
The boy tapped all around the map where radiological hazard symbols dotted the terrain. “Many open mines, old radiochemical and plutonium plants. Nuclear waste facilities. All shut down, except for one or two.” He waved to indicate a far distance away.
Monk mumbled with a shake of his head, staring down at all the hazard symbols. “And all I wanted to know was where we were.”
“Very dangerous, da,” Konstantin warned. He pointed an arm in the direction of the large lake, now out of sight. “Lake Karachay. Liquid waste dumping ground for old Mayak atomic complex. You stand one hour by the lake and you will be dead a week later. We must go around.”
Konstantin leaned closer to the map and tapped in the center of a cluster of mines and radiation plants. “We come from here. The Warren. An old underground city—Chelyabinsk 88—where thousands of prisoners were housed who worked the mines. One of many such places.”
Monk pictured the industrial-looking buildings he had seen in the cavern. Obviously someone else had found a new use for the abandoned place.
Konstantin continued, “We must go around Lake Karachay—but not too near.” He glanced up to Monk to make sure he understood. “Which means we must cross the Asanov swamp to reach here.”
The boy held his finger over another mine opening on the far side of the lake.
Monk didn’t understand. Weren’t they seeking to escape, to get to someone who could help them?
“What’s there?” Monk asked, nodding to the mine marker.
“We must stop them.” Konstantin glanced to Pyotr, who cradled with Marta on a bed of moss.
“Stop who?” Monk remembered the young boy’s words to him.
Save us.
Konstantin turned back to Monk. “It is why we brought you here.”
11:30 A.
M.
General-Major Savina Martov glowered at the assembled children. They were in the school’s main auditorium. A photograph of the American glowed from a large LCD screen behind her.
“Has anyone seen this man lurking around early this morning? He may have been wearing a hospital gown.”
The children stared blankly at her from banks of wooden seats. They’d all been rousted early from their dormitories. More than sixty children sat in tiers, designated by the color of their shirts. The white-shirted sat at the back, those who carried the genetic markers but showed little talent. The grays sat in the middle, mildly talented, but not remarkable.
Unlike the ten who shared the front seats.
These last wore uniforms with black shirts. Omega class. Those rare few who displayed astounding talents. The dozen best, selected to serve Savina’s son, Nicolas, in the hard times to come, to be his inner council with Savina as its head.
Nicolas was a sore point for Savina, a disappointment. He’d been born a white shirt. A loss of the genetic dice. Savina had impregnated herself via artificial insemination from one of the first generation. She’d been rash and paid dearly for it. She’d acted before they fully understood the genetics. There had been complications during the birth. She could have no other children. But she had developed a new purpose for Nicolas, one that would bring about true and lasting change. It became her life’s work after Nicolas was born.
And they were so close.
She stared at the row of black shirts.
And the two empty seats in the Omega-class section.
One child had vanished last night.
Pyotr.
His sister had vanished at the same time from a zoo in America. Savina still had heard no update on the girl’s status from Yuri. The man had gone strangely silent, not even responding to a transmitted emergency code.
The Last Oracle: A Sigma Force Novel Page 13