Stolen Thoughts

by Tim Tigner

  “That’s because the U.S. has the world’s best military standing behind its demand. She, on the other hand, just beat our army.”

  “I agree with Walter,” Jim said. “Pixler chose to become a psychic for chrissakes. That makes her Saddam Hussein with nukes, in my book.”

  “Trent?” Colton asked, ever the diplomat.

  “My vote’s with Jim and Walter. Better safe than sorry.”

  “All right, then. Round two it is. Call us when you have good news.”

  7

  The Revelation

  VICKY WOKE UP with a head full of answers, a heart full of hope, and a stomach stuffed with butterflies. She needed to make some major moves, beginning with breaking the last promise she had ever made to her mother. Under the circumstances, however, Vicky knew it was the right thing to do. “Chewie!”

  He came running from the next room over. Basil had given her a suite for security reasons, and had thrown in the connecting room for him. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine. In the mood to talk. Would you make us some coffee?”

  She took a seat overlooking the Bellagio’s famous fountain, and composed her thoughts while Chewie went to work brewing. It was dark out and the top of the hour, so the fountains were doing their illuminated dance—to Andrea Bocelli’s Con Te Partiro, Time to Say Goodbye, of all songs.

  “Whatcha thinking?” he asked, handing her a steaming mug.

  “I need to tell you about my gift.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She took a deep breath. “You know I lost my hearing when I was seventeen?”

  “In an explosion at Caltech,” Chewie said, nodding somberly.

  She nodded. “It killed my father and paralyzed my mother. He was chairman of the Computational and Neural Systems Department, and she was a tenured biology professor. The university was deemed partially liable, since they’d failed to properly secure and maintain the liquid hydrogen tank that exploded. As a result, Caltech agreed to continue paying my parents’ salaries for fifty years. They also leased mom and me an on-campus home/laboratory, agreed to provide my mother with full-time in-home nursing, and waived my tuition.”

  It all sounded so matter of fact, Vicky reflected. So much pain, anguish, and suffering. So many lost opportunities and shattered dreams. Such a complete reversal of circumstance. All neatly presented as a summary of her legal settlement.

  Vicky had never shared more than that. She’d never discussed the traumatic shock of going from being the beloved teenage daughter of two prominent professors to being the half-orphaned deaf caretaker for her paralyzed mother, in the blink of an eye. A mother who couldn’t hug her. A mother who could only communicate one letter at a time. A mother who, despite all that, had managed to give her daughter both hope and purpose by setting her on the path to inventing a new means of human communication. A mother whose own determination to keep her chin up, her nose down, and her focus on progress rather than pity had motivated Vicky’s every move since that fateful day.

  “You lived in a lab?” Chewie asked, snapping Vicky back into the moment.

  “Legally, I still do,” she said with a nod to the absurdity of the revelation. She had kept the discussion of her past to a minimum with Chewie, so he wouldn’t have dots to connect. “The idea was to allow my mother to participate in my life and my research as much as possible. Our research is what I need to tell you about.”

  “Okay,” he said, nervously.

  “I spent the decade following the explosion studying and experimenting with a single, very-specific goal in mind. I wanted to have a normal conversation with my mother.”

  “Because you couldn’t hear?”

  “More because she couldn’t write or speak. She could type letters by directing a cursor over a digital keypad using eye movements, but that’s as tedious as it sounds. Anyway, long story short, I developed a theory and I dedicated my life to proving it. Last September, I was successful.”

  “What theory?” Chewie asked, sliding forward in his chair.

  Vicky slid back to answer. “The human brain can be compared to an automobile engine. To operate properly, both require myriad components, systems, fluids, chemical levels, electrical charges, and so forth, all of which must be aligned and balanced for proper function. You follow?”

  “Sure.”

  “Most brain-related bioengineering research revolves around attempts to decipher and replicate the ‘human engine.’ My peers do that by studying the mind’s equivalent to starters and carburetors and wiring patterns, etcetera, using imaging, analysis, and experimentation. But I took a very different approach. I conducted no analysis of what, why, or how. Rather, I directed all my research and experimentation in a different direction—not at the engine’s components and connections, but at the tailpipe.”

  “The tailpipe?”

  Vicky took a long sip of coffee so Chewie would have a few extra seconds to process. “Thought is not generated at a specific point in the brain. Rather, your mind combines the inputs from multiple regions to produce the output that we experience as a stream of consciousness. That crawler of clear text that pops out of all the biological noise and into our heads.

  “I focused on tuning into the signals being sent between the components, and then combining them as the brain does, thereby recreating the same signal.”

  “Like intercepting letters texted from one part of the brain to another, and then forming those letters into a coherent message?”

  “Something like that.”

  Chewie sprang to his feet. “Wait a minute! You’re telling me that you literally figured out how to read minds?”

  “That’s right.”

  He paced for a minute while trying to swallow that pill, then stopped and twirled to face her. “You, as a scientist, a bioengineering post-doc at the world-renowned California Institute of Technology, developed a system that actually lets you see other people’s thoughts?”

  “I did.”

  He raised a finger. “And then, instead of collecting a Nobel Prize and billions of dollars in technology licensing fees, you decided to keep your invention secret and work as a psychic?”

  Vicky understood his confusion. She was asking him to accept in an instant a decision she’d struggled with for weeks. “I assure you, that wasn’t my plan. Not that I really had one. During my decade of research, I wasn’t thinking about fame or fortune. I was focused on making a breakthrough that would compensate for my hearing loss—and allow me to converse with my mother.”

  “You really did it?” Chewie repeated, at once excited and incredulous.

  “I really did. And then, during my very first discussion with my mother, she dropped a bomb. She informed me that I could never tell anyone what I’d done.”

  “What?”

  “My reaction exactly. But ultimately, I came to see the wisdom of her revelation. I’ll never forget her words. ‘Imagine what will happen when wives can read their husbands’ minds. When bosses can read their subordinates’ minds. When police officers can intercept everyone’s thoughts. When heads of state can’t keep secrets, and all passwords and personal data are exposed. If your invention proliferates, it will shred society at every level. And when I say shred, I’m not talking metaphorically. The homicide rate will skyrocket and wars will break out all over the world—because of you.’”

  “Wow!” Chewie said, stunned. “That was quite a load she laid on you.”

  “It was crushing, but it beat the alternative.”

  “Surely—”

  Vicky cut him off. “That’s what I said. And mom stopped me in my tracks. ‘There are no buts, dear. I’ve been thinking about this for years, looking for a solution. You know I want you to get credit for your brilliant breakthrough. You know I think you deserve fame and fortune on par with history’s most prominent scientists. But there is no way that can ever be allowed to happen. Mind reading is a plague that cannot be contained once it spreads beyond patient zero.’�
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  Chewie dropped into a chair. “So on the day of your great triumph, the day a decade of blood, sweat, and tears finally paid off, you went from Albert Einstein to Typhoid Mary in the span of a single conversation.”

  Vicky nodded.

  “I can’t imagine what that was like. But your mother must have known that her revelation would destroy you. Surely she gave equal thought to helping you move on? Wait!” he said, cutting her off. “Was Cassandra her idea?”

  “No. She passed before becoming a psychic even occurred to me as an option. And you’re right, she had given my next moves a lot of thought. I’ll never forget those words either. ‘Listen, dear. Ten years ago, when you lost your hearing, the circle of career opportunities open to you shrank significantly. Certain jobs, certain fields, simply require ears. Today, the circle of opportunities open to you expanded even more significantly. It’s now both larger and better. With your invention, you can become the best in the world at any number of professions. But whatever you choose, job one will be ensuring that the secret of your success never gets revealed.’

  “When I asked her what specific jobs she had in mind, my mother said: ‘I don’t know, dear. But imagine the fun we’re going to have figuring that out.’”

  8

  The Confession

  CHEWIE’S MIND was churning so fast he half expected his hair to catch fire. Vicky really could read minds! She had literally cracked the biological code, as a research scientist, and yet she was now choosing to work as a psychic. It was too much to digest in one meal.

  As he rose to refill his coffee—for need of movement rather than caffeine—a corollary thought delivered a wallop. “Have you been reading my mind?”

  “No,” Vicky said with a quick shake of her head. “I don’t use my Pradas in personal situations, tempting though it is at times.”

  “Your Pradas?”

  “I incorporated my invention into my eyeglasses,” she said, tapping the left temple with her index finger.

  “You built them?”

  “Not right away. I did my research on large, sophisticated systems at Caltech. But once I knew exactly what I needed, I ordered custom miniaturized components with the idea of incorporating them into my glasses. There’s a directional antenna, a sensor array, and a microprocessor. The battery and Bluetooth are off the shelf.”

  “And it fits in your glasses?”

  “Why does that surprise you? The watch on your wrist can call Japan, take your pulse, play any song you want to hear, and tell you stock prices.”

  Chewie hadn’t considered that. The technology just seemed too big.

  “The Pradas collect raw data and send it to my phone, which converts it to text,” Vicky continued. “In that regard it works like my speech-to-text app. I can use any connected device to read the thought stream of the person I’m looking at, including my phone, watch, crystal ball, or other screen.

  “But again, I don’t have the glasses turned on when I’m talking to you.”

  “Turn them on. Show me.” Chewie was the last person who should be skeptical, given the client success he’d witnessed. But nonetheless, he felt compelled to experience her power directly.

  “Okay.” Vicky raised her left hand to the temple of her Pradas, as if adjusting them.

  What’s the range of your glasses? He thought.

  “About twelve feet,” she replied as if he’d voiced the words. “I have to keep my head angled directly at the skull of the person I’m reading, although my eyes can wander. Given my hearing condition, it’s natural for my gaze to stray to my phone, where anyone looking will see my speech-to-text app displaying our verbal discussion.”

  Vicky used a phone case that had “PARDON MY WANDERING EYES, I’M DEAF” printed on the back, and habitually held her phone so it was visible. The sign saved her time, aggravation, and—Chewie suspected—the depressing impact of having to constantly explain her condition.

  But they can’t see your thought-to-text?

  “No. That text can only be seen through a custom polarized filter on my glasses.”

  I always knew you were special, but I didn’t realize that you were Einstein. I’m blown away.

  “I’m not a genius, Chewie. I simply maintained a singular focus for ten years—while surrounded by the brightest minds in the field and benefitting from unlimited access to the best equipment available.”

  Chewie found himself enjoying this novel means of discussing a sensitive topic. By not actually voicing the words, he felt free to be more direct. More honest. He was just thinking, after all. Why become a psychic? What other careers did you consider?

  “Lots of them. Among the more interesting were detective, spy, and negotiator.”

  Yeah! I could see getting excited about those. You could become a real Sherlock Holmes. Or the CIA’s greatest asset. Or the person every CEO would want whispering in her ear. But you didn’t go that way?

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Why not?

  “Lots of reasons. I didn’t want a boss. Someone who would consider me an asset rather than a person, or who would use me like a tool. Potentially for their own benefit rather than the greater good. I also didn’t want my life to revolve around deception. And I didn’t want to live in fear of being found out—thereby unleashing the mind-reading plague.”

  Go on.

  “In those jobs and others like them, people would constantly be asking how I knew what I knew—and I’d never have an adequate answer. I also wouldn’t have a credential or prior experience to justify my expertise. Given that and my personality, I’d have been living in a state of constant anxiety.”

  What about psychiatry?

  “Practicing psychiatry requires a degree and a license. I’d had enough of school. Plus, psychiatrists have the highest suicide rates of any profession. They’re surrounded by mental illness and depression. God bless them, but that’s not for me either.”

  What about becoming a professional poker player? Or chess grand master?

  “I considered those, but not for long. I would have been winning by cheating. That would have been wrong, so I’d never have felt right.”

  Chewie was starting to understand a dilemma he’d never have predicted. The topic was far more complicated than it first appeared. As was the power to read minds. He’d be dwelling on all of this for a long time to come.

  Okay, I’m starting to see why you weren’t drawn to those jobs, but what drew you toward becoming Cassandra?

  “If you ignore the charlatan stigma surrounding the field—which I can do since it genuinely doesn’t apply to me—working as a psychic checks all the boxes. I’m using my special skill to help and entertain people. Like psychiatrists or actors. Plus, I’m my own boss. My clients love me. I’m becoming rich and famous. And, most importantly, I don’t have to deceive anyone. I’m essentially claiming to be a mind reader, and people simply assume there’s trickery involved—because there is with everyone else who calls him or herself a psychic, or mentalist, or magician. So my secret is safe—hidden in plain sight.”

  Huh. Fancy that.

  Chewie was starting to understand her reasoning. He found himself feeling excited by the surprising series of revelations—until a nagging sensation moved from the back to the front of his mind, like a storm front blowing in. Why are you telling me this today?

  9

  The Plan

  VICKY REMOVED HER PRADAS before replying to Chewie’s big question. It wouldn’t be fair to read his mind during the coming discussion. She could have simply hit the power button, but that action would have been invisible, so she set them on the coffee table like courtroom exhibit one.

  “I’m telling you today because I figured out who ordered my assassination.”

  “You did?” Chewie asked, his gaze racing from the glasses to her eyes.

  “Not specifically, but generally, and that’s enough to drive what I have to do next.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Vicky walk
ed to the bed and took a seat. “I just realized that I’ve been working under a false assumption for years. In that regard, I should be grateful for the assassination attempt. It exposed my arrogance and helped me identify a critical error in my thinking.”

  “Arrogant? You? Now I’m totally confused.”

  You and me both, Vicky thought. “I know I’ve thrown a lot at you. Let me back up. Do you understand why I have to keep my invention secret?”

  The question was a warmup, and rhetorical. Chewie had an amazing mind. His grasp of philosophy and technology were both on par with the best professors at Caltech. She’d never enjoyed everyday discussions with anyone so much as she did with him. Add to that his endless enthusiasm and huge heart and Vicky felt privileged to have him as both a business partner and friend. Truth be told, she was hoping for even more.

  Chewie settled in on the opposite corner of the bed before answering. “Basically, because the news that mind reading exists would lead to paranoia. Limited distribution would lead to egregious abuses of power. And widespread availability would lead to rampant crime and violence. In other words, mind reading is a scourge that would destroy the fabric of society.”

  “Wow, well said.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So you agree that my conclusions in that regard are relatively obvious?”

  “I think everyone who’s heard a lover ask, ‘Does this make me look fat?’ understands and appreciates the importance of having a filter between what he thinks and what he says.”

  “Nicely put. Now, given that, let’s loop back to my foundational mistake. Can you guess what it was?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Thank goodness, because I’d have felt pretty stupid if you got it immediately,” Vicky said with a smile, a wink, and complete sincerity. “My mistake was assuming that I was the first to crack the mind-reading code.”

  Chewie blinked a few times while his processor spun, then began thinking out loud. “Everyone who figures it out will think they’re the first, because those who came before kept it secret.”