I rub my face and try to figure out how Jamie could have gotten his brain damaged without anyone noticing. Plus, this doesn’t explain why he started off with heightened emotion and then flipped over to none at all.
An errant impulse has been tugging at me. I want to check on all those messages I’m missing. Busy mode is an effort to hold off messages until I can focus on them, but right now, I’m more bothered by being out of communication. I’m not at work today, so I might as well release the floodgates again.
< Text mode. >
| Text mode confirmed. |
I go ahead and scan through the old messages and give my Navi instructions. I group-reply to half a dozen messages that Jamie slept peacefully and is better today. I’m not ready to tell them the truth yet… although, technically, I do think a flat affect is better than outright psychosis. Then I delete about half the remaining messages, make a couple of one-time payments, and unsubscribe from a couple of newsletters.
Then a headline in my news feed catches my attention: “Atlanta Police Shoot 3 Suspects to Death in 72 Hours.” I select the story.
Atlanta Police Shoot 3 Suspects to Death in 72 Hours
Area Assaults, Homicides Up 120%
According to an unnamed source within the Atlanta Police Department, police have shot and killed a record 3 suspected violent offenders in the past 72 hours. The shootings, for which no official statements have so far been made, coincide with an unprecedented 120% increase in violent crimes such as assaults and homicides in the Atlanta metro area. Our source, who is a law enforcement officer, states that the uptick in crime is primarily in “unmanageable perpetrators such as what we’d typically see in PCP drug users.” He could not comment as to whether those sorts of suspects are the same as those shot by police in recent days.
Police Commissioner Robert Nguyen was not immediately available for comment.
I rub my face with my hands. I just realized that Jamie is one of the lucky ones. He got brought to the hospital before he got shot by the cops.
I’m chilled by the realization that they’re shooting people who have neurological disorders. Not that this sort of thing doesn’t happen normally—anyone who attacks a cop is going to get shot, regardless of whether it’s a medical problem, a drug problem, or a judgment problem—but my God… And then my vision focuses in on the unexpected name of Mila Bremer in my notifications panel.
I stare for a moment, reading and rereading the name and the single line next to it: “How is your brother doing?”
Not shot by the cops, I want to say. So at least there’s that.
I heave a sigh.
I don’t know how I feel about Mila contacting me.
I don’t know how I should feel about Mila contacting me.
I remember how I found her forlornly standing there staring at my writhing, screaming brother yesterday and then how she said “Okay” and walked out when I said she could go. I remember the awkward-doesn’t-even-start-to-cover-it dinner in which she was all but monosyllabic. But she did give me a ride to the hospital when there was nothing else in the world more important to me. And there’s still a chance that she has some sort of neuro disorder of her own, which means I shouldn’t take any of it personally.
And she had to have looked up my email address somehow. I didn’t give it to her.
I decide that I owe her cordiality, at least.
< He’s improving, thank you. Thank you for the ride yesterday. It meant a lot to me. >
There. Done. And done with all the outstanding messages. Not that that ever lasts more than a nanosecond.
I dive back in to my research.
| Call from Family. |
< Ignore. Navi, Info-me about diseases affecting the amygdalae. >
I read about Urbach-Wiethe syndrome, Kluver-Bucy syndrome, and herpes simplex encephalitis. UW is a slow-onset degenerative illness—definitely not what’s happening here. KB can happen as a result of the herpes simplex encephalitis or after a stroke. I blink a few times, wondering whether Jamie could have had a stroke overnight. I’m sure someone would’ve noticed.
KB has a lot of other bizarre contributing factors, none of which seem relevant to Jamie. The encephalitis, though… I don’t know much about that. I scan the information and compare the symptomology with Jamie’s file. He has psychiatric symptoms, obviously, but that’s it—that we know of. His records don’t mention fever, seizures, vomiting, or focal weakness, and they would have. He might not self-report headache or memory loss. Still, though, with no other matching symptoms, this one seems unlikely.
Mila’s name in my notification panel draws my eye.
| Mila: What’s wrong with him? |
Okay. I hadn’t expected that.
I wonder how disturbed she might have been by seeing him in that state. I think about it for a moment and realize that while I may be jaded about seeing people in that state, other people might get freaked out about it. Mila seems like a calm person, though.
< It was psychosis. Now it’s a flat affect and memory deficits. Functional M-MRIs show too much activity in the amygdalae. >
I get up and pad to the kitchen with Tobi behind me. I glare at my cold, inanimate coffeepot and take a caffeine pill. It’s a poor freaking substitute, but I am going to need caffeine to get through this week.
I head toward the shower.
| Before you shower, you should go for a run. |
| You have requested reminders to jog before breakfast. |
< No. Leave me alone. >
| Exercise boosts mood, improves sleep, and helps resist stress. |
< Navi, leave me alone. I am not going for a freaking jog this morning. >
| If you do it, you will be glad you did later. |
I stop walking halfway down the hallway and put my hands over my ears, as if it’ll help. It won’t. I know I’ve already lost. I’m going to go freaking jogging.
I lose this fight on all my days off. I don’t know why I continue resisting. Aren’t people supposed to develop a hardwired habit after thirty days of repetition? It’s been months for me, and I still want to take a jog right off an overpass when I get the reminder.
I go get dressed in my running suit and put the leash on Tobi, who rewards me with bounding excitement, and we head out.
As we run along the path my Navi has set for me, following the directions in my display, I turn off busy mode and send a message to my Collective. It takes me a few tries to figure out how to phrase it.
< For those who don’t know, my youngest brother Jamie is in my hospital—Grady Hospital—with some kind of neuro disorder. No, he’s not in my wing, but the other one. Prognosis is somewhat uncertain right now. There’s a new disorder of some kind going around, and he seems to be part of it. But don’t panic. No reason to think there’s anything contagious going around. Anyway, I’m worried about him, but hopefully he’ll be all right soon. >
I post it and wait only seconds before the supportive messages start to come in from my Collective, making me smile despite all the stress. It’s good to know that people care. I soon post a clarification.
< He can’t receive messages right now due to his fragile mental state. But if you send them to me, I’ll read them to him next time I see him. >
That results in a few more messages specifically for Jamie, which also makes me feel good.
Along with the other responses comes another message from Mila.
<< What’s causing it? >>
< I’m not sure. There are theories. Maybe environmental, maybe a disease. Someone proposed that it could be the Navis, but that doesn’t make sense. >
Her response comes surprisingly quickly this time.
<< Why doesn’t that make sense? >>
< Because Navis don’t interface with the amygdalae. >
I remind myself that she doesn’t have a Navi. She’s probably never heard the spiel that everybody gets right before the implant process.
< I know you don’t have one, but trust me.
The CPU and the SRUs—Send/Receive Units—make sure no signals go anywhere else in the brain. It’s hardwired to be impossible. >
<< No, it isn’t. >>
I wrinkle my forehead and think for a moment.
< What do you mean, no, it isn’t? >
<< It’s not hardwired. >>
I count slowly to ten—or at least try. I get to three.
< Why are you saying that? Everyone knows that they’re hardwired. >
<< Everyone is wrong. >>
I stop running long enough to shriek in frustration. Tobi cowers, since he usually only hears that sound when I catch him chewing up another pair of my shoes. I pet him reassuringly and compose a remarkably (I think) patient reply.
< Could you please explain in detail, because I don’t know what you’re talking about, and it’s important to me, and I would very much like to understand what you’re saying. >
But I can’t help the follow-up.
< And how would you know, since you don’t even have a Navi? >
I sit and wait for a moment. No reply.
<< Heart rate dropping below maximally beneficial level. >>
I groan and push off again. For a moment, I feel and enjoy the sensation of the warm summer air against my sweaty skin and the piston-like pumping of my legs propelling me along. That lasts about three seconds, and then I’m scanning updates from my Collective. Cute puppy videos, silly optical illusions, cupcake recipes—anything distracting is fine by me right now.
<< Speaking of cupcakes, there is a Red Velvet bakery on the corner one block away. They are offering a 25 percent-off coupon for only the next ten minutes. >>
< Shut up, Navi. >
God, I’d love a cupcake from Red Velvet right now.
Finally, the email comes in. It’s quite long, and I convert it to text on a semi-opaque background so I can scan it quickly. I can still see the sidewalk behind the text, so I don’t have to worry about accidentally jogging off into the street. Besides, my Navi would warn me if there were any obstacles or dangers ahead.
When Navis were first released, there were numerous security holes which occasioned numerous lawsuits, as you may recall. As the software became more sophisticated and the risks decreased, attorneys for the manufacturers argued that these devices were “secure” to the point that they could begin to defeat claims for negligence, and some part of that discussion caused the non-tech-savvy judges to misinterpret them as saying that the security was “hard-wired.”
This was to the advantage of the companies, so they never clarified. It was written that way into the legislation and into judicial opinions and then into news stories, and so it became common parlance. Those who deal with Navi security know better.
The reality is that Navis are extremely secure for a consumer device but still hackable. Successful hacking happens, albeit rarely. The manufacturers settle the lawsuits out of court in exchange for non-disclosure agreements.
The electrical impulses that travel the nerves are managed by the SRUs, as you said, to ensure that they are confined to the auditory and visual nerves. But the SRUs can be reprogrammed to fail to do their job or to do it differently. Impulses can go anywhere in the brain if they are so directed.
And I program Navis for a living.
I trip over something—maybe my own feet—catch myself, and stop running, bending forward with my hands on my knees as I catch my breath and try to reconcile myself to this new information that the implant I put in my brain isn’t secure. I suddenly have the disconcerting feeling that there are eyes and ears inside my head, listening to every word, watching every action I take.
I mean, besides the eyes and ears I put there myself.
I feel queasy.
I have the instinctual desire to rip the implant out of my head here and now. Of course, that’s impossible to do on the spot. Each of the nine pieces are nestled into my brain tissue, humming along, integrated. But I’ve heard of people having them removed. It’s not supposed to be difficult. It can be done through the tear ducts once the installation nanobots are directed to break down the components. I start to wonder how much it costs, how much it hurts, and how quickly I can schedule it.
Then good old rational thinking kicks in to protect me. Sure, Navis may not be safe, but everybody has one. They can’t be that bad. Mila said hacking was rare. And I’ve never known a single person to have a problem with their Navi.
Unless UOAD turns out to be a problem.
I tell my Navi I’m going home early. I’ve passed the fifteen-minute minimum I originally imposed on the programming, so it obediently routes me back toward home, and I start jogging along again, Tobi still trotting by my side.
I realize that I wouldn’t even know how to get home right now without my Navi. I look around. There’s a skyscraper on my left, a mid-rise apartment building and a strip mall on my right. Some restaurants, a salon. I don’t recognize a single landmark. Why would I? I always have my Navi to orient me, to tell me whether there’s anything important for me to look at. And I don’t drive myself—my smartcar drives me. I’ve hardly ever made note of my surroundings since I was a teenager, since I got my new best friend installed.
How in the world does Mila even program Navis if she doesn’t have one? She can’t test them.
Then I remember what she told me before—unit coding. Each piece of software is programmed in isolation. As long as it produces the right outputs, the overall application will do what the end user needs it to do.
The bouncing is making my stomach feel even worse, but it’ll take forever to walk home, so I keep running.
I tell myself that there’s no reason to suspect that it’s the Navis. The CDC is looking for an environmental or disease-based cause. They’ll find something.
I don’t want it to be the Navis.
An hour later, showered and dressed and with two cupcakes from Red Velvet in my belly, I turn Tobi over to Mrs. Jones, take the light rail to finally pick up my smartcar from the body shop, and then head to the hospital to see Jamie. In his current state, it probably doesn’t matter to him whether I’m there or not, but I want to see him. Medical charts never tell you what an in-person visit does.
On the way, I feel the familiar heart palpitations and tightness in my chest and realize that giving up coffee wasn’t enough—at least not while all of this is going on. I ask my Navi for a suggestion for anxiety, and it reminds me that meditation is a good, science-based intervention, proven more effective than drugs.
< Navi, silence everything and give me a calming meditation. In fact, always remind me to do this when I head into work. Starting as soon as I check my messages in the morning and stopping when I get to work. >
<< Preferences updated. >>
<< What image would you like for the meditation? >>
Hmm…
< The beach. >
My vision and hearing are blotted out entirely, replaced by a video. Waves wash up peacefully, and palm trees sway in a gentle wind. Gulls sound out.
Tension drains from my body. All that’s missing is the smell of the salt water, but I can imagine it easily enough.
I make it about eight seconds before I’m itching to check my message feed again. I tell myself that the ride to work is only about fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes sounds like a long time right about now.
I try to settle my mind again and look at the scene. The rolling waves are nice. I take long breaths.
Then I can’t stand it anymore.
< OK, Navi, end meditation. >
<< You have not arrived at work. >>
< I know that. How long has it been, though? >
<< Four minutes. >>
< Are you freaking kidding me? >
<< I am not programmed to possess a sense of humor. >>
< Okay, I’ll do three more minutes. >
That sounds heroic to me.
And, in fact, it feels like twenty more minutes before my Navi interrupts me. My vision and hearing slowly re
turn to the usual, and I heave a sigh.
As my smartcar pulls up at work, the crowds and lights out front pull my attention. Four police cars ring the entrance to the hospital, their lights flashing, the cops leaning against their cars and surveying the situation. Three media vans sit on the walkway with reporters in front of lights and cameras. Throngs of people cluster near the reporters or stand around aimlessly.
My heart sinks. I’m pretty sure I know what this is about. I ping the charge nurse anyway.
< What’s going on at Grady? What’s with the cops and media? >
I don’t get an answer right away. I imagine she’s busy. I join the cluster of people near a reporter and listen in. Soon enough, I hear that it is, in fact, about our favorite amygdalae disease, which has now been renamed to Hyper-Aggression Disorder, or HAD.
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