Of Half a Mind Read online

  Then, he had skimmed a few pages, soon realizing that it wasn’t an evolution of the device. It was a revolution. It was more than he had ever imagined, more than he had ever dreamed even under its liberating forces. His imaginings paled in comparison to what he found in black and white on its pages.

  So enthralled did he become that 15 minutes to skim a few pages turned into 27 hours of continuous study. He had poured through the text and diagrams, the lists and tables, the figures and graphs so many times that much of it was now indelibly etched on his brain. When exhaustion finally overtook him, the Experimenter had eaten rapidly, then slept four fitful, dreamless hours until waking moments ago.

  He took up the pages again, but this time to start planning for development. It was a matter of only an hour, but the answer it gave him was distressing. Using every waking minute, every shred of his mental and physical ability, it would be Monday before he could have the upgrades fabricated. It would be over 74 hours. It would be 266,476 seconds before he could take his first steps into this new reality. And every one of those seconds would be a stab to the heart of his mental being.

  He steeled himself and took the first step in this long journey, but before the first hour had elapsed, a shortcut appeared on the periphery of his consciousness. He stopped and examined the option more closely. It wasn’t a replacement. No, eventually, the upgrades had to be built to specifications. But while the final components were being constructed to the highest standards, the current device could be modified quickly. Those changes would be enough for the Experimenter to send Subject 3 on the first forays into this new, uncharted territory.

  He began working feverishly, as he modified the metal disks that drove the signal into the brain. Additional disks required new wiring, so he designed the modified cables in his thoughts. But as that mental blueprint came into focus, his body had finished only the second of 30 new disks.

  “Faster, damn it,” he said, glowering at his work. But it was no use. Each time he pushed his hands to match the speed in his head, they faltered, then failed him.

  He trapped his hands under his arms, forcing the shaking to subside. He went back to construction, directing his mind to circle back. There was no shortcut for the disks, but their connections didn’t have to be part of a redesigned cable. He could wire them individually. It would be messy, but it would work.

  The hours continued, the Experimenter berating his body, while his mind created workarounds for its shortcomings. In the end, he completed his new configuration in less than six hours, exactly as he had forecast.

  He entered the residence, flipping on the overhead light that illuminated the cages. Subject 3 sat up, then collapsed back on the mat.

  “Water,” he pleaded so softly the Experimenter had to strain to hear.

  He grabbed a couple of water bottles and tossed them inside. Then, he retrieved two sandwiches from a refrigerator and tossed them in as well. Subject 3 attacked the sustenance, greedy gulps of fluid interspersed with gagging bites of sandwich.

  The Experimenter went back to his work area and retrieved his notebook. His last visit to the residence had been just before he went to see Worthington. That was almost 49 hours ago. Unless the man was weakened by other health issues, he wouldn’t be that close to death. But if the Experimenter hadn’t identified a shortcut and had continued to work on the 74-hour, full-scale rebuild….

  Earlier, he had decided to add water and feeding tubes to the experimental setup. Then, during programmed pauses with the Blocker, subjects could feed themselves. And since he was letting the software control the equipment, soon he’d be able to hook up a subject and leave him there for hours, maybe days. The automation could handle everything, until they reached a point where they were breaking new ground. The Experimenter wanted to be present when that happened. He made a note in his book, completion of the task now assured.

  He returned to the residence. Subject 3 was on his knees, hugging the toilet as he retched.

  “Eat more slowly.”

  The man turned and glowered at him, but said nothing.

  When the gagging stopped and the man sat back on the mat, the Experimenter placed a cookie and a small container of orange juice inside the cage. The subject seized the drink, then carefully opened it as if it held liquid gold. He drank it in two long gulps, not spilling a drop. He reached for the cookie, but before his hand got there, he redirected it to the floor to steady himself. Then, he collapsed slowly onto its surface.

  “I should have warned you to eat the cookie first,” the Experimenter said to himself, smiling.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Subject 3 woke to find himself bound to the wheelchair in the experimental chamber, a weight on his head, one foot slightly cooler from the water surrounding it. “No,” he sobbed. “You gonna kill me.”

  “Not today,” said the Experimenter. He retreated to his work area, closing the soundproof door that was again about to earn its keep.

  Concerned that the drug-laced juice had not completely left his system, the Experimenter used the keyboard to queue a familiar task – a simple mental manipulation that the man had already mastered. The Experimenter drummed his fingers on the desktop, watching as Subject 3 responded to each example perfectly. He stood, walked to his sleeping area, returned, and sat again. “I’m wasting time,” he grumbled.

  He grabbed the keyboard and terminated the exercise. He looked through the mirror, smiling as his eyes gazed upon the temporary masterpiece crowning the man’s head. “Time to put the new design to work.”

  He checked his notebook, then selected the first of the three activities that used the Blocker’s advanced features. The green, session-running light came on. New electronic messages, unlike anything delivered by the original device were now being driven deep into Subject 3’s cortex.

  The Experimenter got up from his desk and walked over to the one-way mirror. He placed his hands on the surface, a habit he had tried to break but couldn’t. At the moment, he didn’t care. “Oh, to be inside his head.”

  But that desire was short-lived, as Subject 3 cringed. The man had little freedom of movement, but the tremor in his legs as he drove against the footrest, the ripple of muscles in his arms and neck as he strained were unmistakable.

  “What the…,” the Experimenter started, only to be interrupted by a spasm that racked Subject 3’s entire body. Veins popped out on his neck and forehead. His face was distorted by…what was this, rage? Fear? The Experimenter wasn’t sure.

  He rushed back to the desk and flicked the switch for the sound system. He flinched, as an animalistic shriek emanated from the speakers. He turned the volume down and grabbed a microphone. “Talk to me, damn it. What do you see?” The only reply was the sound of gagging, as if the man was swallowing his tongue.

  The Experimenter reached for the keyboard. But before his hand arrived, he heard a sickening crack. He stared at the mirror, spellbound. Subject 3 had struggled so savagely against the restraints that he had broken an arm. A shattered bone was sticking through the skin, blood dripping onto the chamber’s floor.

  There was no need to stop the session now; Subject 3 was damaged beyond any use the Experimenter had for him. So, he turned the volume up, hoping to catch a word that might shed some light on the man’s mental anguish. He could make nothing of the choking gasps he heard. He returned to the mirror, pressing his face against its cool surface. It was a matter of only a few more moments before every muscle in the man’s body seized in a final convulsion. Subject 3 was gone.

  “Damn him. Not a clue,” snarled the Experimenter.

  He opened the sound-proof door and started to clean up, then stopped and smiled. “I guess you were right,” he said to the lifeless figure strapped to the chair. “I did kill you today.”

  Saturday, August 15, 1:57 PM

  The sound of a slamming car door caught my attention and I walked to the window of my apartment. Rick Johnson was just coming up the front steps of the building, so I buzzed him in
before he reached the top.

  I left my door ajar, taking a seat on the couch in front of the muted TV. The baseball game didn’t start for another ten minutes, and I didn’t need to hear how the Cardinals were making a late season charge toward the playoffs. That was a story everyone in the city already knew…by heart.

  “Hey, Doc,” Rick said, pushing my door open. Other than the bedroom and bathroom, you could see my entire apartment from the doorway, with a galley kitchen to the left and my living and dining area to the right.

  “Thanks for letting me watch the game here. I can’t see anything on our 24-inch, antique of a TV.” Rick’s wife was having a neighborhood gardening group over and she had banned him to the basement.

  “No problem. Seems the least I could do, after you game me the free tickets last weekend. Want a beer?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  I returned with a couple of bottles, then sat on the other end of the couch.

  “I can lock up, if you need to leave early,” Rick said, as the statistics we didn’t need to hear continued to scroll by on the screen.

  I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “To go on your date with Nicole, of course.” I took the TV off mute, even though the game hadn’t started.

  “I’m just saying, what’s it been? Two weeks?” asked Rick.

  “Nine days.”

  “But who’s counting, right?” replied Rick, grinning. “What’s the holdup?”

  I let out an exasperated snort, then shook my head. “There’s no holdup. You’ve heard what’s been happening on my project, right?”

  Rick laughed. “I’m in the next wing of our building, not the next county. Your technical contact bites off your head, then shows up dead. What’s that got to do with Nicole?”

  Since Rick wasn’t going to give up, I turned the volume down. “I tried.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Rick replied, shaking his head and looking down into his beer. He took a sip.

  “No, she didn’t turn me down. I called Wednesday to ask, but she was busy. And besides, it’s not really a good time to be asking her out.”

  I could feel Rick’s head jerk around to stare at me from the other end of the couch, but I didn’t turn. I didn’t want the lecture. Fortunately, the game started and we drifted into talk of standings and streaks and possible opponents if the Cards made the playoffs.

  Six innings and two beers into the game, Rick asked, “So, why isn’t it a good time?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why isn’t it a good time to ask Nicole out?” I shrugged. Rick nodded at the TV with his head. “We’re in a commercial break and I’m curious.”

  I held out my hands. “It’s like that old saying. Relationships formed under extreme circumstances seldom last.”

  “Never heard it. And besides, since when do you follow old wives’ tales?”

  “There’s research supporting it,” I said without thinking. Unfortunately, I couldn’t renege on an explanation by saying it was the alcohol talking. I’d had this thought earlier in the day before any beer.

  Rick said nothing, but held out a hand as if giving me the floor. “In the studies I’m thinking about, researchers would give people something to get their heart rate and blood pressure up – you know, like a dose of caffeine. Then, these people would do different things, like watch a scary movie. Or one about bullying to make them angry. What the studies found was, even though the changes in the body were the same – the same pounding heart, the same sweaty palms – people thought the reason they were worked up was different. Basically, when the body reacts, the brain looks for a reason, and it’ll take whatever’s handy.”

  Rick stared at me blankly for several moments, scratching his chin. Finally, he said, “So, you’re concerned that Nicole got rattled, her blood pressure went up, and now she thinks she’s attracted to you rather than afraid of a mad man?” Rick started laughing.

  My blood pressure shot up and I was certain my brain had found the real reason – annoyance with Rick. But unfortunately, there was also an element of truth in his words. “Look, I just think we need some routine. We need a few days when we don’t need an armed guard to go to work and no one turns up dead.”

  Rick slowly shook his head, grinning at me. “For a smart guy, sometimes you think too much. The time is never right.” He paused a moment, then added, “But you know, this could still work out for you. By the time Nicole realizes she was confused by everything that’s been happening, maybe she’ll find something in you to like? Who knows?” He held out both hands, his eyes wide as if this was the most improbable outcome imaginable.

  I sighed. “Yeah, who knows.”

  The pitcher’s duel we had been watching morphed into a home-run fest in the seventh inning, ending this topic of conversation. It was just as well, as I conceded to myself that Rick was more right than wrong. I just had to make watching my back and checking all the doors and windows my new norm.

  And hopefully, it wouldn’t get worse.

  Tuesday, August 18, 10:44 AM

  It had been a week since Worthington had died. It felt like a month to me, because so far, we had heard nothing from the VA.

  Sue and Nicole had completed their sections of our work-to-date summary by Thursday morning of last week. I reviewed what Nicole had written about the functions that would be enhanced if the Blocker worked. It was well done – concise, clear, and well-qualified. Even my compulsion to cite every ‘unless-this’ or ‘except-for-that’ got little exercise. She knew where we were on thin ice and said as much.

  The latest report on Worthington’s behavior, which now incorporated the women’s notes, was the last piece of our summary, and I delivered the whole to Ken after lunch. He reviewed it immediately, which was fortunate, because at 2:00, the VA requested our input.

  Then, we heard nothing from them on Friday. Monday was the same. So was Tuesday, until Ken called, asking me to step into his office.

  “Morning,” I said as I entered.

  Ken was typing on his computer keyboard. He glanced away from the monitor long enough to gesture to the chair across from him.

  “Morning, Doc. Getting the right words for this email is proving impossible.” He shook his head, scowled, then spoke as he hit a few more keys. “Sometime, I’m going to have to re-read that document you wrote for the VA. Well, that doesn’t work.”

  I narrowed my eyes, trying to separate his reactions into email vs. VA-report relevant. What didn’t work? Was that frown for me or his note?

  Finally, he raised his hands in a show of surrender. “Your description of our status must have had some magic words. The VA added three weeks of labor to the contract with an immediate re-start.”

  “That’s great,” I said and meant it.

  “I haven’t had time to study the additional work,” Ken said, “but it looks like they’re requesting two things. They want a more detailed breakdown of the electronics, once you have the necessary papers. And second, they reviewed the data on the safety of the technology a second time, but they’d like your team’s opinion too – a second, independent psychological assessment. Great job on the interim report.”

  “Thanks, Ken. Most of the credit goes to Nicole – Ms. Veles. She wrote the description of the likely results from using the device, including the possibility it could have some unintended side effects. I think that’s what got the VA interested in more analysis and a quick restart.”

  “Yeah, I remember that section,” Ken said slowly, tapping a couple of fingers on his chin. “With the writeup on Dr. Worthington’s behavior, you painted a picture that’s…well, nothing concrete but a bit disquieting. You think you’ll want some help on the safety analysis?”

  Is that code for get someone with experience?

  I didn’t want that, but I didn’t want to mismanage the effort either. “Can we leave that option open? Once we see what they have, I’ll know better.”

  “Sure. And I’ll pass along your compliment
about Ms. Veles’ work to her management.”

  “Thanks.”

  “OK, review the VA’s new requirements and let me know if there are any issues,” said Ken. “Otherwise, we’ll accept the extensions. Dr. Jon Huston, the other half of the WHT partnership, will be stepping in for the rest of the job. You’ll be meeting him tomorrow at 1:00 PM at his office. I haven’t been able to contact Ms. Veles’ manager yet, so I’m not sure of her availability, but I’ve left a message. Any questions?”

  “None that I can think of,” I replied. I would have been happier if I knew Nicole was available, but since Ken had just found out, the lack of news meant little.

  Ken gave me a copy of the revised requirements, and I left to find Sue so we could start reviewing them. I wanted to be familiar with the new work before we met with Huston. I only hoped that he would prove easier to work with than his partner. But on the positive side, I was virtually certain he couldn’t be worse.

  Tuesday, August 18, 2:54 PM

  “Damn,” the Experimenter muttered to himself, emerging from his session with the Blocker. There were just too many unknowns in the emotional black box that was Subject 3 to deduce why he had died.

  His first thought was that in his haste to test the features in the Advanced Design Document, he had crossed a wire, misplaced a coil, misdirected a signal. He’d even gotten paper to record his mistake, thinking there might be a future application for it. If it could be stopped short of killing, the effect of his error was clearly more motivating than an electric shock. But as he examined each connection and traced each circuit, he found no errors. It was perfect. Yes, it looked a bit like a bird’s nest of wires and disks, but everything started and ended exactly where it should.