Skull Session

by Daniel Hecht

  "On the right side, now, you've got a normal human being at maximum exertion. Heart rate increases to 184 per minute, breathing increases proportionately. Blood flow has skyrocketed to four times resting rate—to 24,000 milliliters per minute. But what's really fascinating is where the blood is going. The heart muscle is receiving four times what it was at rest, 1,000 milliliters. The organs are receiving far less than they were at rest—only 600, about a fifth. But the muscles have gone from 650 to 20,900 milliliters."

  The Jack on the right side of the screen, pulsating with motion, was almost painful to watch.

  "But blood flow is only part of it. I can graphically illustrate the level of glucose or oxygen consumption at different levels of exertion. Also the levels and locations of adenosine triphosphate, creatine phosphate, glycogen—each of the major 'fuels,' you might say, of muscular exertion. And then I can project what Jack's body would have to do if it were to go hyperkinetic or hyperdynamic. To throw a 200-pound sofa across the room requires specific brain and body chemistry. I program this system to show me what that activity level would look like in a variety of ways."

  Stropes had gotten himself worked up as he spoke, moving around in his chair, gesturing dramatically. Paul couldn't help catching some of his excitement. "So have you got a program of Jack in a hyper mode?" he asked.

  "I do. It's not a pretty sight, if you find regular Jack a little nerve-racking, but it's instructive. Here." Stropes entered several commands, and again the screen unified so that there was only one Jack on it. "Here we go. Heart rate 260. Breathing rate 140. Blood flow twice the normal maximum at 50,000 rriilliliters. Internal organs receiving the barest maintenance flow, about 300, skin losing a httle. Heart muscle gaining big. And muscles exploding with blood, oxygen, glycogen, ATP, getting 45,000 milliliters. I can calculate the power and speed of every muscle, every limb. The figures are staggering. But those are the figures you'd need to have the strength and speed indicated by hundreds of well-documented reports."

  The Jack on the screen was a seething blur of crimson as he ran on the flowing treadmill of the computer desert. There was a desperate, tormented quality to his motion. Frenetic. Hysterical. The endless empty plane of Jack's universe poured away behind him as he struggled, going nowhere. It was as if he were striving to break out of the screen, out of the confines of his digital self, into a more real world. Paul had to look away.

  "Somethin', ain't it?" Stropes hit another key and Hyper Jack started doing jumping jacks with a hideous, fanatical intensity. "I can show you what he'd look hke in other activities, lifting something heavy, throwing things—"

  "No. No thanks." Paul shook his head. "I get the picture." He found his own pulse racing, his breath hard to catch. Why was Hyper Jack so disturbing? There was something about his isolation on that geometric desert under that empty computer sky, the futility of his simulated exertions. Jack looked hke he had terminal Rimbaud's disease, Paul thought, was flailing to get out of his bleak world. A tic built in him. He started to reach out, twist the invisible doorknob, then suppressed it, only to be surprised by a facial tic that tugged his cheek uncomfortably.

  Stropes was looking at him with concern, and Paul struggled to clear his head. "Is this possible? Wouldn't his heart fail? Could the circulatory system really handle that much blood flow?"

  "Those are just the questions I've had to ask. The answer is a provisional yes—under very rare, very particular circumstances. Let me show you one more Hyper Jack—that'll help me explain." Again he worked the keyboard with practiced strokes. In place of the full figure of Jack, the screen filled with a close-up of Jack's head, a hollow shape created by a three-dimensional grid of neon-blue lines. "Here's Jack's head. Now I'll fill in his brain. I gather you're fairly familiar with the anatomy of the brain?"

  "I've done a bit of reading."

  "Okay. So we've got the main structures: in green here the brain stem, in purple the cerebellum, in blue the cerebrum, and so on. One of my primary concerns is the HPA axis."

  "The hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis. Fight or flight."

  "Exacdy. The basic process of alarm looks hke this. This red, walnut-shaped thing is the hypothalamus. When the senses tell it that there's a threat or a source of challenge or stress, a cascade of neurochemical processes begins. First, an electrical signal is sent to the hypothalamus, which squirts out CRF—corticotropin-releasing factor. This travels straight to the pituitary gland, often called the master gland because it tells the other glands what to do." On the screen, a series of tiny, brilliant white dots left the hypothalamus and traveled forward in Jack's cranium to a peanut-size gland. "The CRF kicks in the pituitary, which secretes ACTH, adrenocorticotropic hormone, into the bloodstream. Within a second, this reaches the adrenal glands, which pump out cortisol. Cortisol converts norepinephrine into epinephrine, and the body enters its fight-or-flight response.

  "It's a very ancient survival mechanism that kicks the organism into overdrive. The heart pumps much harder and faster, the lungs take in more oxygen, the liver releases more sugar, the muscles become more active, the pupils dilate, the body begins to sweat."

  "But everything you've described is the normal process ofarousal," Paul said. He tapped the monitor, where Jack was becoming stimulated by the digital chemicals in his bloodstream. "What happens in the hyper mode?"

  "Okay. We know the level of arousal is dependent upon the intensity of the threat or challenge input that's given. Obviously, if kitty knocks a flowerpot off the window still, your heart beats a bit faster. If three large guys come at you with lead pipes, your body really gets cranked. So if you've gone into hyper mode and you're peeling back steel plate with your bare hands, it's going to require a measurable amount of strength. I've calculated backward from what Jack's muscles and lungs and heart have to do to make him hyper, and calculated the level of excitement of each part of the HPA axis. What I've found is that a normal brain can't do it—can't produce the intensity of electrical stimulus and the quantity of arousal chemicals needed. But let's assume a few minor, entirely possible, deviations from normal anatomy. First, let's add a variant of epilepsy that, triggered by emotional stress, shoots a drastically increased electrical charge to the HPA axis in the brain. Second, slightly change the size and shape of the HPA components and the glycogen storage capacity of the liver. The necessary combination of factors would occur only very rarely in any given human population. Probably, as Wilkes said, the needed variations in brain activity and structure are inherited."

  "Ah," Paul said.

  "Now, even the normal HPA axis is in many ways an independent, almost enclosed, mechanism. Its parts are closely linked, have dedicated blood supply, and so on. In the hyperdynamic individual—in my opinion—the hypothalamus and crew act even more as an independent entity. It's like a separate, very primitive but very vital being that lives within us. For some period of time, however long it remains aroused, it's in total control."

  Paul felt vaguely sickened by this.

  Stropes stood up and paced to the window, where he stared out at the courtyard briefly. "Of course, the fight-or-flight aspect of it is only one angle. As complex as it is, in some ways it's the easiest aspect of the phenomenon to deal with. In my letter, did I mention the US Army Intelligence research on HHK/HHD?"

  "You said you'd tried to look into it but got nowhere. Concerns for secrecy."

  Stropes nodded again, a mild frown on his brow, and returned to his chair. "Actually, it's not quite that simple. I don't know much about their science, but I know they're doing something, and that they keep their antennae up for data on the subject."

  "How do you know?"

  "I was very discreetly asked to come work for them. I declined. Made it clear my priorities didn't include helping to create invincible killers." Stropes's brown eyes met Paul's, apparently saw the agreement there. "The little I know I got when I met a biochemist who was connected with the project, at a convention in LA. This was in the hotel bar. Even drunk,
he was pretty close-mouthed, but he told me a little. It was typical military stuff, very heavy-handed: all chemically induced fight-or- flight, designed to induce mortal fear. Some interesting physiological results, apparently, but the drug couldn't be used as a tactical tool because the soldiers they tested the drug on indiscriminately attacked any source of fear or anxiety. Including each other."

  "Sounds grisly."

  "Oh, they ripped each other to shreds—literally disemboweled each other with their bare hands. You can see why I say screw the AI and CIA. Also, compared to the incidents I catalog and Wilkes talked about, the HHK/HHD their subjects displayed was fairly low-level. I believe that the army didn't know that specific neuroanatomical characteristics give some individuals greater potentials than others. You can't turn just anybody into a human juggernaut. Plus, I'm convinced there are other factors too, more difficult to explain."

  "Like the range of triggering phenomena," Paul suggested. "Most of the examples you've cited seem to have an almost, I guess you'd have to call it altruistic emotional trigger. People acting out of concern for the well-being of others—their kids or spouses."

  "Exactly!" Stropes's face came alive again, and he looked at Paul piercingly. "You've put your finger on one of the most important points I've been dealing with—what I call the altruistic paradigm. The most powerful examples of HHK/HHD stem from an altruistic or protective impulse. That, or a related emotion, the frustration of the protective impulse—the grief or anger resultant from deep loss."

  "So competitive impulses or rage aren't adequate triggers?"

  "Oh, sure. You can get extremely violent behaviors from those. But the real thing? Sustained, let's face it, superpowers? No. Not just from an aggressive or hostile impulse."

  "Why would that be?"

  "This gave me a hard time at first too. It may be that the ultimate HHK/HHD response is triggered not only in the old 'reptile' brain, but also needs the boost of powerful, 'mammalian' emotional responses—parental protectiveness, sibling or spousal bonding, and so on. I believe it may require the involvement of those parts of the brain relating to social or familial instincts—the more of the central nervous system that's 'on line,' the more powerful the response. This might explain why women are seized with HHK/HHD more often than men, at least according to the reports in my files. I have to admit to a bias in favor of the altruistic hypothesis, perhaps because it affirms my hope that, at bottom, humans are good. That our good instincts are ultimately more powerful than our—I was going to say 'evil,' but that's hardly a scientific term, is it?—than our more selfish or aggressive ones."

  Paul was thinking about Highwood. The damage would have required many hours, longer than any mortal panic could be sustained. Nor was it believable that ripping up the house could have come from an altruistic impulse. So that left catharsis. Maybe. But for what emotion? None of it quite fit.

  A thought occurred to him: "But what about the examples you gave of the berserkers? Weren't they aggressors? How did they achieve states of HHK/HHD?"

  Stropes glanced with irritation at his desk telephone, which had begun to flash demandingly. "Good point. The deliberate arousal of HK/HD poses problems for the altruistic paradigm. It may be that berserkers can best be described as deliberately putting themselves in a situation where mortal desperation is likely to occur. Fear of the enemy, or grief over the death of friends and relatives in the battle. Conceivably the response could be cultivated. Also, it may be that the level achieved by the berserker was only a small percentage of real capacity. For all their ferocity, their displays of strength can't compare with, say, a 107-pound housewife picking up and throwing a burning gas range through the wall ofa house to save her kids."

  Paul digested this briefly. "Another question: injury. You don't mention wounds to the person demonstrating HHK/HHD. You've sold me that people can have the strength to run through a wall, bend steel, lift a burning stove. But wouldn't they be hurt? No cuts, bruises, burns, bone injury?"

  Stropes sighed. "This is the area that's given me the hardest time with my colleagues. Damage to skin, flesh, or bone doesn't seem to happen to a person in the HHK/HHD state. Frankly, I can't explain it." He scowled and went on in a quiet, urgent voice, as if afraid he'd be overheard. "Why? How? There's precedent for the idea of invulnerability—fire walking, yogis sitting on nails, people eating glass, enduring incredible voltages of electricity. But I'm having a hard enough time convincing the skeptics as it is. I've got a tidy theory that gently stretches our sense of what's real, playing by all the biochemical and anatomical rules. These areas—we'd have to change our fundamental ideas about the laws of nature. I'm not up for that fight."

  Stropes checked his watch. "I have one other thought that might bear upon the berserker riddle. It may be a conditioned response—that is, maybe going hyperdynamic and hyperkineticjeek good. Maybe it could become a 'high.' Literally, an addiction."

  "A high? I'd think that the trauma required for the trigger would constitute a form of negative conditioning!"

  "Aha! But I can give you three arguments for the idea of positive conditioning, of HK/HD conditioning. One, there's the satisfaction of catharsis—for those incidents where cathartic release of grief or anger is the trigger. Two, assuming that a form of seizure, an intense electrical burst within the brain, is part of the trigger, some individuals find seizures 'ecstatic' Dostoyevsky wrote volumes about the joy, the ecstasy of his seizures—doesn't sound too bad, right? Third, you've got the huge release of endorphins that must accompany the HHK/HHD state.

  Normal exertion, like jogging, fills your body with endorphins, the natural painkillers your body manufactures whenever it exerts itself or is injured—the runner's high. If you're amplifying your exertion by 300 percent, you're going to get a 300 percent increase of endorphins. You're not going to feel any pain at all while in the state, and you're going to be a very, very happy camper afterward, when you slow down enough to notice. They're chemically very similar to morphine. And just as addictive."

  "So someone could become positively conditioned to enter the HK state. Could someone choose to enter it?"

  "With practice, yes. It would help explain the berserker phenomenon, certainly." Stropes stood up and began to sort through some papers.

  Paul stood too. "Doctor, I know you have to go, but I'd hke to ask you one more question, if I may."

  "As long as I can get upstairs in exactly four minutes, sure."

  "In your reading, in your case studies, have you ever encountered evidence of periodicity of HHK/HHD episodes? Cycles?"

  Stropes laid his perfect hands on his desk and looked at Paul with a new interest in his eyes. "Either you've been doing research, or you know some things you aren't telling me."

  "I don't know anything."

  Stropes looked skeptical. "Wilkes documented several cases of periodic HHK/HHD. Some of the most extreme cases too."

  "But it seems incongruous with the idea of triggering phenomena—the cases you've mentioned to me all seem the result of an unanticipated, shocking event. A sudden emergency."

  "Right. The idea of periodicity bothered me at first, for the same reason. But it's really not so hard to explain. First of all, all seizure activity has cycles of 'kindling' and 'quenching.' So do other neurological disorders, like bipolar disorder. Some HHK/HHD results from profound, long-held emotions, or from trauma that is relived when 'retriggered' by some event. It may also be that, if your body is producing the huge quantity of excitor chemicals needed, the pressure builds until release is inevitable. Whatever the mechanism, there's no question that it can be a periodic phenomenon."

  Stropes gave Paul another penetrating glance, then began stuffing manila folders into a large briefcase. "I know I can't make you tell me," he said quietly. "But I wish you would."

  Paul shook his head. "Sorry. There's nothing to tell."

  "Okay. But if you ever do—" Stropes let it hang, snapped his briefcase shut.

  They went to the door toge
ther, then out into the hall, where they stood side by side at the elevator.

  "I hope you won't mind if I don't see you out," Stropes said. "I've got to see Dr. Assad on the fifth floor. Good-bye—and seriously, please keep in touch."

  Stropes waved and started down the hall. He'd only taken a few steps when he snapped his fingers and spun on his heel to face Paul again. "I just remembered something else I meant to mention. You're from upper Westchester, right?"

  "Born there, but I live in Vermont. As it happens, I've got a job near Golden's Bridge now."

  "That's right—the return address you gave me was in Golden's Bridge. That's what brought it to mind."

  "What's that?" The elevator chimed and its doors slid open, waiting.

  Paul put his hand on the rubber buffer.

  "There's another aficionado up that way. In Lewisboro. Haven't heard from her in a while, but I corresponded with her for several years. Very smart woman, seemed very knowledgeable. I thought maybe you'd like to meet her—a Mrs. Hoffmann. Lewisboro address. Probably in the phone book."

  "Okay," Paul said. "Thanks." He stepped into the elevator, and the doors slid shut noiselessly. "Thanks a lot," he repeated to the empty elevator. He clapped his hands, relieved to let them play the kinetic tune they'd been itching to. "Thanks so very much," he said. He was surprised at how unsurprising Stropes's news was.

  63

  ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, Mo thought cynically, after embarrassing himself with Lia, after closing off the little dream he'd been hving in, he was better focused than he'd been in years. Nothing hke a nice slap in the face to wake you up. He attacked his work with a vengeance, mad at himself and at everything that stood in his way, ripping and bullying and bluffing his way through. Time to wrap this fucker up.