Of Half a Mind

by Bruce M Perrin

  With the accumulating evidence of Taylor’s cold-blooded inhumanity, Sue was released on Friday on her own recognizance. I called as soon as I heard, learning that her family had been with her most of the week. For that, I was grateful. I offered to come by, but she declined. She also wouldn’t hear a word of sympathy for her loss, although we talked for over an hour about…well, nothing really. The weather, the coming fall, people at work, Nicole. Sue wasn’t herself, but even over the phone, I could tell she was fighting back.

  After that, the flow of public information dried up. For about a week, reporters spent their waking hours locating experts to bolster one or another of the competing theories about Taylor’s mental state. Then, two weeks after the blast, the FBI rocked a city that was just starting to relax by releasing a major announcement. Graves containing at least four bodies and several documents had been found below the basement floor of the Taylor & Associates building. The body count was growing.

  Somewhat in the shadow of that story, the FBI also released a statement saying that the symbols that were painted on the half-standing wall, which had led many to suspect terrorism, turned out to be nothing; they were not even in any language. At first, I wondered why anyone trying to create a diversion would have been so careless. After all, it would be a simple matter to find an appropriate saying on the Internet. But after the authorities had spent two weeks trying to decode the gibberish, I understood.

  Partly because of business and partly because misery loves company, I also kept in contact with Jon Huston at WHT. His misery was different from mine, as mine came from the death of a friend and the destruction of the life of another. But Huston’s loss of years of intense, scientific focus and endless hours of sacrifice was also a bitter pill. It was clear, he’d never see the Blocker again.

  Huston also tried to shoulder the blame for the blow to neuroscience. It was, after all, his lab that had let the technology get out of control. But the public and the profession blamed Worthington, as the authorities held that he had conspired with Taylor. His death was a falling out among thieves. Only a few – my team, Huston, and Scott – believed otherwise.

  Again, the news outlets went quiet, this time for almost a month.

  When the word came, I had missed it, but Huston sent me an email with a link. I nearly fell out of my chair when I read the story on the other end. After ‘extensive testing,’ the FBI declared that the Neural Activity Blocker was a hoax. It had no real effect on thought or brain waves, and only delivered general stimulation much the same as a couple of cups of coffee.

  I called Huston, planning on telling him that if we bottled this electronic brew, I was certain we could take over the coffee-drinking world. But when we were connected, he said, “I take it that you haven’t been visited yet?”

  “Visited? What do you mean?”

  “Well,” he said slowly, “someone will be dropping by your office soon. When they do, you’ll understand why I can’t talk. In fact, I have to go now, because my company’s still here.”

  It was a strange and somewhat unsettling conversation, but I didn’t have to wait long for an explanation. Within the hour, Ken, a representative from our Law Department, and an FBI agent showed up at my door. The agent asked me to sign a document saying I would never disclose any information about the electronics or software used in the Neural Activity Blocker. It was a strange request, following on the heels of an announcement that the Blocker was a hoax. But a look at the three faces across the desk from me told me that pointing out that contradiction was a waste of my time. I signed.

  If the document was an attempt to keep the technology out of public view, which was the only rational explanation I could see, it had no chance of success. Several other labs were not far behind Worthington and quarantining his hardware and the related research was not going to change that. And if mind-to-mind interfaces were the next wave in social media, as many have speculated, today’s computer cameras would soon be supplemented by tomorrow’s TMS coils. Who would want to talk or trade video, if you could share thoughts? Who, that is, other than perhaps Sue, Nicole, and I?

  The following Monday, Ken told me the FBI had requested more of my time and I was to meet them on Tuesday, back downtown. He had no other details, except that Nicole, Huston, and Sue had also been summoned. They were rounding up all the usual suspects.

  The mystery of these meetings was also short-lived, however. Within the first five minutes, it was clear they were concerned about the third section of the device specifications, which dealt with the capability to upload and overlay a person’s memories with new ones. Their questions focused on who had read Section 3 and how thoroughly. They already had my status report from that week, so I verified its contents. It identified Nicole as the only reviewer, but also stated that she had just started to study its contents.

  I wondered if Nicole had found time to return to Section 3 and study it detail with everything else that happened in those final days. But I knew I’d never ask. The promise to never discuss the technology was one I intended to keep.

  Shortly after that meeting, Sue was acquitted in the shooting death of Taylor. I never heard the official reason, but I suspected the city, the nation, and perhaps the world would have revolted had she been brought up on charges related to killing a demented, mass murderer in the moments after her husband’s death. Personally, I thought she should have been given a medal, but no one asked me.

  Sue quit Ruger-Phillips and moved back home to Oregon. I never saw her after that fateful day at the airport, although we talked on the phone often. I only hoped she would find peace and happiness back with her family, because she deserved it.

  I turned from my office window and dropped into my chair, my head sinking into my hands. The hour of the last meeting on the Neural Activity Blocker was nearly upon me. In moments, Nicole would arrive, we’d sign the forms, and that would be it.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  “Hi, Sam.” Nicole’s voice was soft and I felt a chill run down my back despite the fact I was expecting her. I raised my head. She was standing in the doorway. Here was a person who embodied everything I sought in a woman – direct, smart, incredibly cute…and probably out of my reach.

  Nicole and I had talked several times in the last three months. At first, we spoke about the investigation. Later, it was just about how things were going because…that’s what friends do. I was nearly certain that was exactly how she saw us – friends. I had asked her out a couple of times and she had politely declined. I had tried to steer the conversation that direction a few others, and she had been called from the phone unexpectedly. If friendship was the extent of our future, I would feel the loss but I had tried.

  “Hi, Nicole. It’s good to see you. Even better that we can finally close out this VA project. I don’t know about you, but I’m anxious for my career to move forward.”

  She smiled, a trace of sadness in her face. “Yeah, I’ll be happy when it’s over too, and I didn’t go through anything as tough as you.”

  I nodded, not wanting to retread painful ground once again. “We have a few forms to sign and Ken’s expecting us. Shall we?” I asked, gesturing toward the door where she stood.

  “Sure,” she replied. She turned and we walked over to Ken’s office, neither of us saying a word.

  The sign-off was quick and painless. Ken did ‘the manager thing,’ telling Nicole how good it was to work with her and Biomedical Engineering Associates and that he hoped we would have other opportunities in the future. I voiced my agreement.

  We left Ken’s office and I walked Nicole to the front of our building. In the reception area, I shook her hand, incrementing my mental counter on handshakes. “Nicole, it was great working with you. But hopefully next time, it’ll be a little more routine.”

  “Yes,” she said. “A little more normalcy would be nice.”

  I expected her to leave, but she didn’t. She glanced over my shoulder at the receptionist sitting there, a slight frown forming on he
r face. “Can we talk a second?”

  “Of course.” Like most of our reception areas, there was a small meeting area in this one – just two partitions in a corner surrounding a table and two chairs. I led Nicole in, sat at one chair, and waved to the second.

  Nicole remained standing, then took a breath, long enough and deep enough that it couldn’t be missed. “Thanks, but I can only stay a minute. My management has my plate full.”

  “Soon, I hope mine will be too.” I stood up, since she wasn’t going to sit.

  She took another breath, looked down at her shoes, then back up at me. “The project is over now, right? I mean, totally and officially?”

  I shrugged. “Signed, sealed, and soon to be delivered. But yeah, your company’s part is officially complete.”

  “Then, I wanted to give you this,” she said. She reached out and handed me her business card.

  “Thanks,” I said, staring at it. “But I have one already. Maybe a couple of them.”

  She reached over and took my hand in hers. The sensation was nothing like a handshake; my whole arm seemed to warm at her touch. She turned my hand over. Written on the back was a phone number. “You might want to try this. After working hours.”

  I stood staring at her, my mind racing through the possible meanings, but always ending up at the same place.

  Finally, I said, “I will. Tonight. For sure.”

  She smiled, the first real smile since she had arrived. Then, she turned and left without another word.

  On the way back to my office, I wondered why she had waited until now to say something. And then when she did, why it was so cryptic? My thoughts came in jumbles about actions and appearances, about being the first to say ‘I like you,’ about what it means to have old-fashioned views on relationships. But I had covered only a few yards of my trip when I decided, I’d probably never understand, but I understood enough.

  The door is still open.

  I glanced at the clock when I entered my office. It was only 10:36, almost eight hours until I could call her. The time couldn’t go fast enough.

  I decided to fill it by repacking and returning the last of Worthington’s notes. Even the authorities had recognized them for what they were – landfill – and had left them in our care. So, I started throwing them into a box, literally. Among the ones in my office were the few remaining folders that passed the bend test – they didn’t contain a disk drive – but they had never been read.

  I opened one folder idly, finding a few comments about the state of his shoes – he needed a new pair – and about getting his lawn mowed. I turned the page. More of the same. I flipped to one more, thinking this would be the last when I found a neatly typed sheet. It was the start of an experimental report.

  R.J. was a 23-year-old paid volunteer who completed 87 hours of training with the Neural Activity Blocker….

  Worthington had used the technology on another individual, and he or she was still out there.

  Acknowledgments

  An abbreviated, initial version of this story was published in 2015 under the title of Half A Mind. Several of the ideas for this remake came from reviews of that book and so, I’d like to recognize everyone who read and provided comments. Your thoughts were helpful. Thank you.

  I’d like to thank Ms. Janet Harrison for reading an earlier version of this manuscript and providing helpful suggestions. My thanks also go out to Dr. Liz Gehr for helping me watch my technical Ps and Qs. Any inaccuracies are mine; hopefully, they’re all intentional to build the fiction.

  Special thanks also go to Ms. Emma Jaye, accomplished author and skilled content editor for many helpful remarks. Finally, thanks go to my talented daughter, Courtney Perrin, for the design and creation of the cover art.

  I hope you enjoyed Of Half A Mind. Thank you for reading it. Authors thrive on feedback, so please consider leaving a review on Goodreads or the website of your favorite bookseller. And if I ever pen a second remake, you will find yourself thanked in its acknowledgments.

  About the Author

  Bruce Perrin has been writing for more than 20 years, although you will find most of that work in professional technical journals or conference proceedings. But after completing a doctorate in Industrial Psychology and a career in psychological R&D, he is now applying his background and fascination with technology and the human mind to writing novels.

  Besides writing, Bruce likes to tinker with home automation and is an avid hiker, logging nearly 2,500 miles each year in the first five years of Fitbit ownership. When he is not on the trails, he lives with his wife in St. Louis, MO.

  Please join him at www.brucemperrin.blogspot.com for a closer look at his writing life, book reviews, and progress on his upcoming novels.