by Cody Sisco
“Getting better.”
“That’s good,” she said. “Let’s do those tests now.”
She helped him clamber down from his bed. He shooed away the wheelchair when she offered it. Eventually, though, he yielded to her firm, unswerving persistence and sat in it. She pushed him through the halls unhurriedly.
“Tell me about your family,” she said. “They’re legendary here.”
“I don’t know many stories.”
“What about Florence? She’s your great-granma, right? I’ve never met her myself. The whole town talks about her. She’s a treasure, our oldest resident. Also, Charlene, her caretaker, helps out at the clinic a few days a week when she’s not calling on Florence.”
“I should go see her when I get out. It’s been—I’ve been busy.”
“I’d say, ‘Never be too busy for family,’ but that would make me a hypocrite.”
“Spaulding mentioned your fiancé,” Victor said as casually as he could.
“Torsten Lund. He’s a city council member, and he’s running for a seat in the national legislature.”
They emerged into daylight as they exited the main building. She pushed him along several switchbacked inclines up a landscaped slope.
“Let me give you the campus tour.”
He chose not to remind her that his family owned everything in front of them.
BioScan New Venice consisted of a handful of buildings arrayed on the southwestern face of Cemetery Hill directly across from the entertainment district at the southern entrance to the Petit Canal. It had long served as a treatment center for cuts, breaks, pains, strains, and pathologies in New Venice and the surrounding communities, but it would soon become far more important, Alia noted with pride. Farther up the hill, a flat area had been scraped into the hillside where the research towers would rise.
They reached a two-story building shaded by tall elm trees. Alia took Victor through a set of double doors, down a hallway, and into a room holding three machines: Cogitron Exeluses, curving plastic boxes each the size of a large garden shed. A patient berth protruded like a tongue from the center of each one.
She said, “Welcome to NANA, our Neurology and Neuropathology Annex. First we’ll run baseline scans. Then we’ll scan you again while we ask you a set of questions to test your memory, logic, muscle control, imagination, and other functions.”
Victor climbed on top of the slab and lay back. The machine’s tongue retracted, and Victor entered the mouth of the Cogitron Exelus. It thrummed to life around him as giant magnets began exciting particles in Victor’s brain and taking readings to map the structure and firing patterns of his neurons.
A small speaker set near his ear carried Alia’s voice as she explained the calibration and imaging procedure, though in much less detail than the manuals he’d studied. In a few moments, they moved on to the diagnostic phase. She provided a series of commands and statements: imagine a flock of geese flying in the sky, list the prime numbers in sequence up to fifty, recall what you were doing on your most recent birthday, think of a time and place when you were most happy, recall the events of the last twenty-four hours, and so on for many minutes.
Eventually, Alia expressed satisfaction at the amount of data she had collected and released Victor from the machine. They sat together in front of large screens that showed the patterns of Victor’s brain in slow-motion three-dimensional color frames—his neurograms. He called out timestamps while she cross-referenced the questions that she’d asked. They annotated the feed, adding observations based on the different concentrations of oxygen and other compounds that signaled intense neural activity during and following each question and response.
“Do you have any copies of your neurograms?” Alia asked. “We could compare the patterns and see if you’ve been affected by the concussion.”
“They’re not available.”
She turned her chair toward him. “What do you mean?”
“They’re gone. I lost a data egg full of them.” She looked at him for a moment, then turned to the screens. Victor asked, “How do you know so much about MRS?”
“I accessed all the files, but… I expected there to be more research, more data.”
“From what I’ve been told,” Victor said, “there was a comprehensive research program in SeCa after Carmichael, but it was quashed sometime before I was diagnosed. The research my grandfather continued afterward was probably skirting the rules, but he was on the Commission so he got away with it.”
“I see. Scientists everywhere are always running up against politics. It’s too bad.”
Victor studied the display carefully, advancing and reversing the feed, and cross-referencing the audio log of her questions. He pointed to very subtle surges of color in the ventrolateral prefrontal cortex, an area of the brain involved in top-down control of emotions. “Fascinating,” he said, mainly to himself, “a lot’s going on there.”
The light from the screens flickered on Alia’s hand as she pointed out several areas of Victor’s brain with subdued activity. “That’s unusual. I would have expected stronger blood flow.”
“What do you think it means?”
“There may be some effect from the concussion evident in several distinct neural subsystems, including”—she pointed to several areas on the screen—“the cerebral cortex, the limbic lobe, and the basal ganglia.”
He highlighted another sequence where clouds of light swirled like eddies in a stream and rechecked what questions she’d asked him. “What does it mean that this region lit up when you asked me to imagine standing on my tiptoes?”
She looked closely at the image. “That area involves spatial-temporal reasoning. Distances. Motion and speeds. Intervals of time.”
“But look here,” he said, pointing to another area. “And here. These regions went dark. This is visual, kinesthetic, and here, mathematical reasoning. Is that right? You would expect some activity between all of these locations at the same time, but these are delayed and then”—he advanced the series a few more frames—“Boom! The spatial-temporal area lights up like a sparkler.”
“Hmm. The timing is strange. Let’s take a look at the other questions that would impact these areas.”
They cross-referenced the question set and pulled up feeds of Victor’s brain activity for several seconds before and after each relevant question to look for patterns.
“It’s not very clear what’s going on,” Alia worried. “I don’t have even the beginnings of a hypothesis.” She tapped her fingers on the point of her chin. “There’s some congruence in these regions, but it’s not consistent across all of the regions each time. We’ll need—”
“A larger data set,” Victor interrupted. “We should have been brainscanning me all along.”
“The machines only arrived—”
“Do you remember the data egg I mentioned before?”
Alia nodded.
“It contains my neurograms from before. If I could find it and get it open, we’d be able to compare it to these readings.”
“Hopefully, it’ll turn up. In the meantime, I’ll track down more questions related to spatial-temporal reasoning, motion detection, and some of these other areas. We can run you through the machine again tomorrow.”
“Okay. I assume you’ll want to keep me in bed for the next day or so.” He meant it innocently, but when she looked at him strangely his face reddened.
Wryly, she said, “You’ll enjoy a couple days in our care. Victor, this has been instructive. I look forward to working on your brain again soon.”
That evening he searched through every room, cupboard, and box in the clinic where his data egg might have ended up. He also searched the ambulance while two paramedics watched him clambering around inside. He found nothing.
Back in his room, he downed two fumewort tinctures, a vial of bitter grass tincture, and the pain medication and sedatives a nurse had dispensed with his dinner.
He dreamed he was trapped in a pitc
h black room. He stretched out his arms and felt the walls curving around him. Then he was jostled as a giant hand shook the room and a voice screamed at him to give up his secrets. It would have been amusing—he realized it was a dream, bitter grass helped in that regard—but someone was with him in the egg, a dangerous presence, breathing, stalking him, moving closer in the dark, preparing to strike: the Man from Nightmareland.
11
To everyone’s surprise, a cult of nostalgia never formed around the ruins of the United States of America. The nations of the American Union were too busy moving on and fighting to secure the benefits of Repartition. Perhaps some of the elder generation looked back and wondered if we’d lost something in the process. But the young accepted the new state of affairs despite diminished horizons.
—Robbie Eastmore’s A Study of Alternate Histories
13 May 1991
New Venice, The Louisiana Territories
The soft, gray cocoon of Victor’s morning slumber was interrupted by a crescendo of knocking, accomplishing what shafts of sunlight, birds chirping, and street traffic could not: Victor escaped the binding fibers of sleep.
A voice he didn’t recognize called through the door, “Mr. Eastmore, there’s someone here to see you.”
“I’m awake. Give me a minute.” He could hear murmurs on the other side of the door, but it was too early and Victor’s mind was too foggy to speculate about who it might be. He rolled over the bed railing and stood groggily for a moment, yawning and shaking the sleep out of his head.
When Victor opened the door, he found an oversized hulk of a man looming in the hallway. It was Tosh.
Trouble, Victor thought. From the moment he’d run into Tosh’s gas traps at Oak Knoll Hospital, the man had caused Victor nothing but trouble. For some reason, Jefferson had put his trust into a violent, unpredictable bully, saying Tosh would look out for Victor. Was it “looking out” to force Victor to have sex with a prostitute to try to open the data egg? Was it “looking out” to steal the piece of Jefferson’s tongue from Ozie and turn it over to the King of Las Vegas? Was it “looking out” to try to persuade Victor to kill Karine?
“No,” Victor said. He blinked, surprised he’d spoken aloud.
Tosh smiled, flashing his teeth, making Victor’s stomach clench. Trouble was here. Victor took in a deep breath. Tosh had introduced himself back in Oakland as Táshah, the Caddo word for wolf. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, certainly.
“Looking good, Vic. More like Jeff every day.”
Tosh’s angular, high-cheekboned face looked rougher than Victor remembered, though his gaze was piercing as always. He wore a green canvas jacket, a white V-neck shirt, and tight black pants tucked into buckled-up shin-high boots. A shopping bag sat on the floor next to him.
“What are you doing here?” Victor asked.
“Nobody passes through New Venice by accident.” Tosh seemed to scrutinize Victor as if he were a damaged credenza at an estate sale. “Feeling all right?”
Understanding flooded Victor’s brain. “You took the data egg!” he said. “You gave me a concussion!”
Tosh grabbed Victor by the shoulder and leaned in, lowering his voice. “You should have told me the data egg opened. Put something on, and let’s go someplace to talk.” He gestured to the shopping bag, which was full of clothes.
Victor traded his hospital gown for the outfit Tosh had brought him. Tosh tugged on Victor’s arm. “Outside.”
At the end of the hallway, Alia stood at the nurse’s station, using a type-pad. “Victor, where are you going?”
“He’s checking out,” Tosh said.
“Who are you?”
“This is Tosh,” Victor said. “We’ve got to go. I’ll explain later.”
Alia looked alarmed. “I don’t think you should be up and around like this, and you certainly shouldn’t leave.”
“We’ll take that under advisement,” Tosh said, clearly implying no such thing. “We’re going now,” Tosh said. His grip on Victor’s arm tightened painfully.
“I’ll come back for the tests,” Victor said. “I promise. There’s no harm in me leaving.”
“I can’t stop you, and I’m too busy to argue,” Alia said sadly. “Enjoy your jailbreak.”
Tosh led Victor silently through town to a footpath bordering bird-flocked marshes along a quiet stretch of the Passage. Under the sun’s glare, the buzz of insects whirred around them. Tosh stopped at a bench and sat down. Victor’s stomach churned from hunger and anxiety. He stood awkwardly, not sure what to do. After a moment, Tosh told him to sit, and Victor obeyed.
Victor said, “Do what you came here to do, and let’s get it over with.”
Tosh swept his hand in front of him, as if the grasses, the water, and the blue sky were somehow going to speak for him. The occasional tourist paddleboat scooted along below them. They overlooked the Circle Route, which brought tourists from the opening of the Grand Canal, downstream along the curve of the Passage, and along the entertainment district before heading up the Petit Canal and back into town.
“What do you hope to accomplish with your life, Victor?”
It wasn’t a comfortable question, and Victor felt he was being challenged in a game he hadn’t agreed to play. Expectations were low for someone with MRS—the condition was degenerative, or so it had been thought. When Victor had told Dr. Tammet that he wanted to be an astronaut and go live on the moon, she had frowned and lectured Victor about setting reasonable goals: perhaps Victor might one day live on his own, in his own apartment, and hold down a job part-time.
The one thing he really wanted from life was a cure to his condition, but Tosh didn’t deserve that kind of intimate honesty.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Victor said.
“Well, what do you want in life? Be honest. What drives you?”
Figuring out what the hell I am, for starters. “I don’t know,” Victor said. “It doesn’t matter.”
Tosh smiled wolfishly. “Some people don’t have trouble answering that particular question. They say, ‘I want a good job.’ Or ‘I want to start a family.’ Some people set their sights on seemingly impossible goals. They want to travel every continent. They want to run an empire. The point is: you have to identify that one thing that makes your gut burn, that keeps you up at night, and then go after it with everything you’ve got. First you have to choose.”
The words and tone reminded Victor of Granfa Jefferson, but they sounded pompous coming out of Tosh’s mouth.
“Good thing you’re here to help me out,” Victor said.
“You’re up to your eyeballs in trouble, Victor, and you don’t even see it.”
“Uh, I’m well aware there’s a shit storm crapping on me daily. What do you want, Tosh? You already took the data egg.”
Tosh nodded. “That’s true.” He leaned over and patted Victor’s bandaged head. Victor grunted and recoiled. “Why didn’t you tell me it opened?”
“It’s been a rough couple of weeks,” Victor said, lamely. He’d dreamed up a dozen excuses, but they’d vanished. Typical me brain, gone when it’s needed most. “Were you able to listen to Jeff’s message?”
“We’re working on it.”
“You and the King?” Victor asked.
“Here,” Tosh said, “I’ve got something for you.” He pulled out a device from his jacket. It was Victor’s Handy 1000.
Victor took it, eyeing Tosh suspiciously. “Thanks. Do I get the egg back too?”
“Maybe… eventually. Depends on how helpful you are and how helpful Ozie is.”
The colors swirling on Tosh’s face were black, red, and gold—doom, rage, and pride all mixed together. Victor’s stomach flipped.
“You’re going to be very helpful to me, you know why?” Tosh said, taking a small plastic container out of his pocket.
Victor looked at the container with curiosity and a twinge of dread. Maybe it wasn’t anything bad. Maybe it was the piece of Granfa Jeffers
on’s tongue Tosh had stolen from Ozie.
Tosh pointed at the Handy 1000. “Does that thing read fingerprints?” At Victor’s slow nod, he continued, “Go ahead and bring up the program.”
Victor did as he was told with a growing ball of fear in his stomach. He opened the container.
Inside was a black-skinned severed finger. It had been scrubbed clean of blood and looked thoroughly dry, like an artifact in a museum. Tosh snatched the finger and scanned the tip against Victor’s device.
The screen read: Osirus Abraham Smythe.
Ozie.
“Shocks,” Victor whispered. The sight of bone and flesh at the cut end made Victor’s eyes water. He imagined Ozie, screaming in pain, while Tosh pressed a glinting cleaver down through the bone, snapping with a sickening thunk, parting Ozie’s finger from his hand.
Victor set the container down on the bench, leaned over, and puked in the grass. His head throbbed, and his body felt filled with buoyant gas. He stood up, doubled over, and dry heaved.
Tosh said, “The King of Las Vegas does not tolerate people who don’t get the job done. Now, both you and your friend are going to be 100 percent cooperative, or you’re going to find yourselves less than 100 percent. Understand?” Tosh pointed Ozie’s severed finger at Victor, jabbing it toward him.
Victor blinked. The world seemed to be receding, leaving him to rattle in a hollow shell. He wandered away, following the path, barely feeling the ground beneath his feet. He looked up, expecting to see that he was rising toward the sun, face sweating in the blazing heat. Dizziness swayed him from left to right and back again.
Why not run? What’s the worst he could do to me? Throw me in a canal again?
The image of Ozie’s finger rose in front his eyes, and his stomach spasmed, but this time he breathed deep and didn’t vomit. The path led to a street that descended to lower ground. He caught glimpses of the Grand Canal between some houses to his left.
Tosh caught up to Victor as he was crossing a bridge. The man wrapped his arm around Victor’s shoulders and held him steady. They faced a railing and the water below. Victor thought about wrestling away from Tosh and jumping in, feeling the cold mucky water on his skin.
