Sidekick

by Auralee Wallace

  I tried to ignore the face staring down on me as I walked over the wet sidewalk, but it wouldn’t let up, so I stopped and gave it the finger.

  It wasn’t hard to figure out where to go next. An enormous stage, better suited for a rock concert, was set up in the middle of the square. Happy upbeat music blared from loudspeakers while reporters filled the rows of seats set up in front of the stage. I scanned the crowd for Pierce. I didn’t want to run into him. Instinctually, I knew if he discovered my true identity, we’d be over. And I wasn’t ready for that.

  I huddled in behind a group of people, standing well enough back from the chairs to go unnoticed, and waited.

  After a few minutes, the music suddenly stopped, and the loud buzz of the crowd died down.

  A number of people made their way up to the stage. Leading the pack was a tall man in a suit. I thought he might be the mayor. Behind him followed a bunch of other suits and suit-ettes.

  No father.

  My heart hammered in my chest.

  I should go. What did I really need to see him for? An explanation? How do you explain evil?

  I turned on my heel with my shopping bags.

  “Welcome everyone,” a voice boomed out over the loud speaker.

  I stopped. I had walked all this way. I turned to see the mayor at the podium.

  “I have called this press conference today to inform the city of an application from St. James Industries. Please see your press kits for a copy of this proposal.”

  I looked to the reporters. They were all opening the same booklet. I needed to get my hands on one of those. I shuffled over to the back row and looked over the shoulder of a woman in news-anchory red trench coat. Almost immediately, she looked up at me with a clear you’re in my personal space look. I flashed my toothiest smile. I didn’t work. I only caught the words neurological implant before she slammed her kit shut. Some people.

  “Before we begin, I would like to make it clear the city has in no way committed to go forward with any proposed action as of yet. I have invited Mr. Atticus St. James here today to explain the proposal and to answer any questions you may have. Following his presentation, City Council will schedule a number of Town Hall meetings to obtain feedback from our citizens and hear any concerns. So with no further ado, I would like to introduce Atticus St. James.”

  A smattering of awkward applause broke out. Most of the reporters probably thought my father was an evil corporate overlord, like Pierce. Too much money. Too much influence. I used to think they were completely unfair.

  I knew better now.

  My father suddenly appeared from behind a curtain. He strode across the stage with his trademark casual confidence and disarming smile. Nervous energy ran thickly through my veins. He looked good. He always looked good in a middle-aged Ken doll kind of way. For a second, I felt my eyes sting with tears, but they calmed down after I threatened to claw them out.

  “Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen.”

  I mimicked his words under my breath, sticking my tongue out at the end. The reporter in the red coat looked back at me.

  I raised my eyebrows and mouthed, What? She looked away.

  My mood was becoming fouler by the second.

  I should have gone home to my bed by the toilet.

  “As the honourable mayor stated, I have come to you today with a proposal for the city, but I would like to make it clear—what we have developed is so much more than just another business proposal.” He walked away from the podium towards the audience.

  “As many of you know, St. James Industries has always been the leader in the field of biotechnology. Over the past few years, we have focused our resources on one of the last frontiers known to humankind, the human brain.”

  A rumble went through the crowd.

  My father chuckled, managing not to sound condescending, and he put up his hands in a universal gesture of peace. “I know this sounds frightening, that is, the idea of mixing technology with the human brain, so before we go any further, I would like to introduce you to someone who has benefited from this technology—someone who is dearer to me than life itself…my daughter, Jenny.”

  My knees almost gave way. I hadn’t prepared for this possibility.

  Jenny appeared from behind the same curtain my father had in her state-of-the-art wheelchair. This time I couldn’t stop the tears from coming to my eyes, but a smile also spread across my face. It felt like a lifetime since I had seen her.

  Cameras snapped all around me. I cringed. People would look at the pictures of Jenny with her tilted head and hunched left shoulder and only see someone with a disability. They wouldn’t look beyond the slack expression on her face.

  They’d miss all her beauty.

  “I have brought Jenny here to demonstrate, in part, the technology we have been working on over at St. James industries. As many of you know, recent advances in quantum physics have allowed us to build—without getting too technical—computers that are able to perform feats beyond our wildest expectations.”

  He allowed the audience a moment to let the information sink in.

  Waves of unease washed over me. What had he done to Jenny?

  “As many of you know, my daughter suffers from brain damage resulting from a difficult birth.”

  Familiar guilt socked me in the gut.

  It was my fault. Jenny would be completely normal if it weren’t for me.

  I had been born first. Against doctor’s advice, my mother opted for a natural delivery. Everything was textbook until my shoulders became stuck in the birth canal. It took over thirty-five minutes of pushing to deliver me. I was fine, but during those thirty-five minutes my body had compressed Jenny’s umbilical cord, robbing her of oxygen. Any chance she had of being normal disappeared in that time.

  I knew intellectually it wasn’t my fault, but rational thought doesn’t stand a chance against guilt when you’ve hurt someone you love.

  “Jenny has never been able to speak. Her only form of communication has been through computer. Right Jenny?”

  Right, Dad.

  The echo of Jenny’s computerized voice filled the square.

  “That is, Jenny has never been able to speak…until now.” My father removed the microphone from the dais and positioned it by Jenny’s lips.

  “Right, Dad.”

  The words hit me like lightning. It was my voice. My voice coming from Jenny…

  The crowd erupted in applause. I was right there with them. I couldn’t help it. Jenny was speaking! She was actually speaking!

  My father waited for the applause to die down. “As you can imagine this has been the most fulfilling work of my life. We have been able to stimulate parts of the brain that have atrophied—pumping blood into areas that have died. This research is still in its infancy, but, as you can see, I am so confident in this technology, I allowed my team to use it on my own flesh and blood.”

  He paused to smile at my sister. She smiled back. I wished I could slap him.

  “What you have witnessed is only the beginning. We are much further along in other areas of treatment. It is one of those areas that brings me here today.” He turned again to look at my sister. “Thank you Jenny.”

  Ah, there was the father I knew. He was done with her. She could go.

  But she didn’t…at least not right away.

  For a moment, she didn’t move. Her eyes scanned the crowd.

  She was looking for me.

  It took everything I had not to call out.

  Finally, she gave up. I was too far way, too hidden in the crowd, for her to see.

  She drove off stage.

  Emotions tore me apart. My cynical side focused on the horrible act my father had just committed. He had used Jenny to warm up this crowd, to entice them into trusting him. Sure, he had said the technology used on Jenny was different from the technology he was trying to sell to the city today, but it was a sleight of hand move. Look at the girl in the wheelchair over here so that you don’t see
me destroying your city over there. It was disgusting.

  But did any of that matter right now?

  The part of me that loved my sister—a much larger part of me—didn’t give a damn about my father’s ulterior motives.

  He had healed Jenny. Something I could never do.

  “Before I begin, allow me to say that we are aware, I’m sorry, I am aware,” he said putting his hand on his chest, “that this technology holds tremendous ethical implications, implications that have been weighed heavily. I ask to you consider what I am offering the city with this in mind.”

  My father picked up a remote and pointed it to a large screen behind him. A number of statistics lit up. Crime rates.

  “I could go over our rising crime rates in great deal, but I don’t need to. Every citizen in our fair city knows we have a problem without the help of numbers.”

  He clicked the screen again. An unflattering picture of the Sultana came up. She looked harder than she did in real life, almost ugly…but just as crazy. The Photoshop boys must have gotten to it.

  “We are facing a new kind of criminal.”

  He clicked the slide again. A picture of Ryder appeared. Someone had taken the grainy photo from a distance. She was standing in an alley, engulfed by buildings. Everything about it made her look small, insignificant.

  “Superheroes are not enough anymore,” he said sadly shaking his head. “And our prisons are overflowing, costing taxpayers millions of dollars. Something needs to change. We need to tackle this problem in a new way. St. James Industries has the answer.”

  A rumble went through the crowd once again. My father pointed the remote back at the screen. This time a close up of a computer chip appeared.

  “May I present to you what some are calling the latest advance in behavior adaptation.”

  The crowd rumbled louder.

  “I call it the cure for crime.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Everyone, everyone please. There will be time for all of your questions at the end of the presentation.”

  The crowd was on its feet, shouting, but my father had his game face on. His smile revealed none of the contempt I knew he felt.

  Once the reporters realized he wouldn’t give them anything without it being on his terms, they sat back in their seats.

  “I can appreciate your excitement. I assure you, I feel the same way.”

  He clicked the screen again and a picture of a highlighted brain appeared. It probably meant nothing to most of the people here, but I had to hand it him, it looked awfully scientific…reassuringly so.

  “Let me begin by telling you what this technology is not,” my father said calmly.

  Just once, I would love to hear a microphone screech when he spoke, but it was probably too afraid.

  “This is not one of those barbaric mind-altering procedures from the past. This is not a lobotomy. This is not electro-convulsive shock therapy. Nor is this some antipsychotic drug that deadens a person to a stupor. No. This is the most sophisticated piece of technology the world has ever seen,” he said, the intensity of his voice growing.

  “The closest thing I can compare this implant to is perhaps an antidepressant, but even that label doesn’t do it justice. In the world of medicine, there are multitudes of drugs that can alter the mood of someone suffering from mental illness. However, it is a game of roulette. A drug that works for one patient may not work for another. Doctors are experimenting with the chemistry of people’s brains without being able to guarantee the result, and I have yet to even mention the side effects. Too many young people have taken their own lives because of these medications.”

  My father paused, I guessed in what was supposed to be reflection. Like he had ever spent a second thinking about the suffering of others. He had probably hired an empathy coach to help write this speech.

  “I have a better way,” he said sagely. “With this chip we can program the neurotransmitters of the brain to stay at optimal levels for individual patients. I am talking about the benefits of antidepressants without the side effects, administered with precision never thought possible.”

  Sounded good. I was still waiting for the evil.

  “Let me share with you my personal philosophy. People are not born evil. As I am sure any mother can tell you when she holds her baby for the first time, there is nothing in that tiny child but possibility. But sometimes things do go wrong. Nature is not perfect. Just like there can be deformities in the body as you have seen with my darling daughter—”

  I nearly screamed.

  “—there can also be deformities in the mind. Neurotransmitters can become unbalanced. Certain areas of the brain can become over-active, others under. These imbalances can result in violent, aggressive behavior.”

  Father, heal thyself, I scoffed in my head and maybe a little out-loud. The reporter in the red jacket was looking funny at me again.

  “But, let me say once more, what if we could correct these imbalances? What if we could fulfill every mother’s dream for her child? What would that mean for society?”

  His amplified words hung in the air. The following silence was suffocating.

  He clicked the remote again, and new, mathematical-looking numbers came up.

  “This city, this city that I love, is being crippled. Crippled by debt. Crippled by a lack of resources. Crippled by violence. But what if…what if we thought of these perpetrators of crime not as criminals, but as people, people suffering from medical conditions that are beyond their control? Asking someone with a malfunctioning brain to function normally is like asking someone with a broken leg to go for a run. It simply cannot be done….until now.”

  Murmurings started again. The reporters were ready to explode.

  “Now, I could go through the detailed scientific research that has taken place over the last ten years, but that information is more than covered in your publicity kits. The purpose of this press conference is simply to open up the minds of the fair citizens of this city to the possibilities.”

  Well, that was nicely glossed over.

  “Imagine a city without crime. A city without jails. A city without families torn apart by the disease of criminality. That is a city in which I want to live. More importantly that is a city in which I want my daughter to live.”

  Daughter. Singular.

  It wasn’t like I cared. Why would I care if the person I hated most in the world didn’t acknowledge my existence? If I had a therapist, I wouldn’t even bring it up…much.

  “If you allow us to implant this technology into the current prison population, I can give you that city.”

  And there it was. Brain implants for criminals. I’m glad I didn’t have to write a jingle to sell it.

  “Now, I will be more than happy to take your questions.”

  A tidal wave of reporters surged to their feet.

  After a moment of chaos, my father managed to single one out.

  “Mr. St. James, given the seemingly remarkable success you have had with your daughter, why wouldn’t you focus your efforts on curing similar types of congenital disorders instead of focusing your efforts on criminals?”

  Yeah. Good question.

  “Yes, excellent question. First, let me assure you, given how personal an issue this is, I have not abandoned those areas of congenital research. In fact, I have hired hundreds of scientists who are coming up with new applications to help people like my Jenny. But I also feel an obligation to focus the bulk of my team’s efforts where they can do the most good.”

  I rolled my eyes…violently.

  “Yes, you,” my father said pointing at another reporter.

  “What kind of clinical trials have you run on this implant?” a rather snarky-looking man asked. “How can you be sure this is safe? Just because they’re criminals doesn’t mean they’re your own personal guinea pigs.”

  “I agree with you wholeheartedly. If you refer to your press kit, you will see that we have gone above and beyond federal regulat
ions to ensure that this technology is safe. And I do take some exception to the term criminal. People are more than their crimes, especially when they are suffering from a medical condition which, I believe, they are.”

  Righteous indignation. He was actually going for righteous indignation. The hypocrisy of it all was going to make me punch something. Instead, I kicked Red Jacket’s chair without even realizing it. She whirled around. I jumped back and tried to look focused on something no one else could see in the sky.

  Suddenly I heard a familiar voice, a voice that sent warm tingles to my nether regions.

  “Mr. St. James, what do you have to say about the reports of this technology being tested on sweatshop workers in your Third World factories?”

  There he was—all six plus feet of Pierce—a glowing beacon in the crowd of reporters. Most of the female reporters, and some of the male, were making the same open-mouthed expression of appreciation I was. If I could have, I would have slapped them all. Mine. Mine. Mine.

  “And which paper do you work for son?”

  “The World Chronicles,” Pierce said.

  My father gave him a pitying smile. “Oh I see. Perhaps you should file that story alongside the latest alien abduction of Elvis.”

  Oh, if only I could fly. I would have zoomed over this crowd and smacked the smug look right off his face.

  “How do you answer the rumors that these workers have exhibited zombie-like behavior?” Pierce replied, so handsomely undaunted.

  “My dear boy, I don’t answer to rumors, especially not when there is real work to be done.”

  For everyone else that settled it, but the exchange had triggered a memory in me. I recollected a conversation I had overheard my father having with one of his senior executives—something about paying off medical officials to silence reports of hospitalizations in some factory in Thailand.

  At that moment, I noticed Red Jacket with her hand up.

  Now was my chance.

  I hurried over and whispered into her made for TV hair, “Forget your question. Ask this.”