Mind's Eye

by Douglas E. Richards

  Bits of wreckage had eventually been found washed up to shore, which were identified as belonging to the ship, but the bulk of the vessel was never found. Given the depth of the trench, finding the wreckage was a daunting task. It had been a huge story for weeks, as weeping relatives were interviewed, scientists speculated that it must have encountered a hundred-foot rogue wave, and cable specials were launched speculating about the ship’s final hours.

  “The Scripps Explorer?” repeated Altschuler, blinking in confusion.

  “Yes. I think Kelvin arranged to kidnap the Explorer’s crew and passengers, and then scuttled the ship. Using this guy John as the hired muscle. I think he’s been using the passengers as human guinea pigs to perfect Theia technology.”

  Fyfe paused. “And then killing them,” he finished chillingly.

  21

  Altschuler reeled backwards as though from a physical blow. The world seemed to spin around him.

  Did Fyfe know what he was saying? If this were true, it was a massacre on a historic scale.

  Perpetrated by Kelvin Gray? How could it be?

  Gray may have been annoying in some of his business decisions, and didn’t treat Altschuler the way his title and contributions would dictate, but he was a great scientist and a great man. Thoughtful. Generous. Compassionate. Altschuler had seen him scoop up a spider and gently place it outside rather than kill it.

  To have been part of this atrocity, to have experimented on and murdered scores of people in cold blood, he would have to be on par with the most heinous psychopaths in history. But even as Altschuler thought this, he realized that many of these famous psychopaths had managed to fool others equally well. They had appeared equally kind. They were equally persuasive and charming.

  Somehow, he knew it was true. In some purposely ignored recess of his consciousness, he had known for some time. Not the specifics. Not the heinous nature of the crime. No one could have guessed Gray would go this far. It was unthinkable.

  But the part about experimenting on human subjects?

  How else to explain the superhuman insights Gray kept bringing to the table, seemingly from out of nowhere. Altschuler realized that Gray hadn’t fooled him. Altschuler had allowed himself to be fooled. He had been complicit, not asking any questions, even of himself. He had turned a blind eye, refusing to allow even a hint of suspicion to mar the bliss of his denial.

  But even had he allowed himself to come to the obvious conclusion, he would never have guessed this. Perhaps some human experimentation with ridiculously well-paid subjects, sworn to secrecy.

  But he should have guessed. Even this. Because the only way to get results this spectacular, this quickly, was to have total disregard for the gray matter of an actual human being. To cut a swath of destruction through a brain, eliminating what didn’t work and finding and refining what did. To risk killing scores of subjects. Treading lightly, slowly, carefully—even with human subjects—wouldn’t do it.

  “Are you still there?” said Fyfe.

  “I am,” said Altschuler woodenly.

  “You have to admit, it explains a lot. I’ve been thrilled by your progress. But in my experience, if you roll snake eyes eight or nine times in a row, it’s time to question if the dice are loaded.”

  Altschuler nodded, disgusted with himself. Even Fyfe had finally refused to turn a blind eye to what was going on, despite all he had to gain by their progress. And venture capitalists weren’t exactly known for their ethics. So what did that say about Alex Altschuler?

  “If what you suspect is true,” said Altschuler, “it would definitely explain a lot. Kelvin’s insights were too good to be true.” He paused. “So why are you calling me and not the authorities? And how can you be sure I wasn’t a part of this from the beginning?” he added, his mouth suddenly as dry as the Sahara.

  “Let me answer your second question first. Your name came up in Kelvin’s conversation. He and the man he was speaking with, John, had seen no indication you suspected anything. I didn’t hear the other end of the line, but my guess is this John was surprised at this. Kelvin actually quoted Upton Sinclair to help explain it.”

  “Upton Sinclair?”

  “Yes. The quote is something like, ‘It’s difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends on his not understanding it.’”

  Altschuler grimaced. Sinclair had hit the nail on the head in his case. Altschuler’s livelihood, and one breakthrough after another, had depended on him not suspecting anything, so his consciousness had obliged. Altschuler took a moment to reflect on how surreal it was for one psychopath to be quoting Upton Sinclair to the other. But there was no rule that said just because you had no conscience, you couldn’t still be well-read and cerebral.

  “As to your first question,” continued Fyfe. “Why am I not going to the authorities? I only have suppositions at this point. I didn’t record the conversation, and even if I had, I did a lot of reconstructive surgery, Googling, and applying inductive reasoning to draw the conclusions I have. We need to gather more foolproof evidence. We need to make sure this monster doesn’t slip the net.”

  Altschuler knew that Fyfe hadn’t used the pronoun we by accident. “What is it that you want me to do?”

  “We need to get a confession from Kelvin. As it is, we could never get a search and seizure warrant for his home and office. And we need to know everything. Theia Labs needs to know. We can’t wait months to understand every last detail of what happened while Kelvin’s high-priced lawyers are playing games tying up the system. We need to have everything out in the open from the start. To make sure Kelvin is sent to the chair, and to make sure we know the exact score from day one.”

  “I don’t disagree. But given what he’s done, I don’t think he’s the confessing type.”

  “No. That’s where you come in. You, working with a specialist I’ve worked with on occasion. A man who is a combination private investigator and bodyguard, with an office in San Francisco. A man with impeccable credentials and exceptional reliability. He works alone, but if necessary, he can also field and manage a team of fellow professionals very quickly. His name is Ed Cowan. He’s the very best. Ex-Army ranger. Very smart. Very fearless.”

  That makes one of us, thought Altschuler, swallowing hard.

  “I need you to go to Kelvin’s house—tonight—wearing a bug. It will be very tiny, don’t worry. And Ed Cowan will be listening in nearby, which means that you can’t be in better hands. Anyway, I want you to tell Kelvin you’ve figured it all out. That you overheard one of his conversations, like I did. And you want in.”

  “I want in?” repeated Altschuler in dismay.

  “If you confront him, you’ll get nowhere. Worse, you’ll tip him off and he’ll destroy all evidence. But by telling him you want in, you’re using the carrot and the stick strategy. If he could get you involved, he’d have total control over you. He’d own you. And the project would benefit from your genius applied at the source. That’s the carrot. If he plays dumb, he has to know you won’t buy it, and you might turn him in. That’s the stick. The combination can’t help but work. He’ll welcome you in. Believe me, he’s dying to tell someone like you what’s really going on. This will work. Trust me. I’m sure of it.”

  Fyfe said it with such absolute conviction Altschuler almost took it as a fact. Almost. Fyfe hadn’t gotten to where he was by letting any uncertainty enter his rhetoric when he was trying to be persuasive. But Altschuler hadn’t gotten to where he was by letting anyone else’s passion stop him from using his own considerable analytical ability.

  “You can’t be sure of how he’ll react,” said Altschuler. “And we both know it. So what if you’re wrong? What if Kelvin decides to kill me? After all, he’s already responsible for multiple murders. What’s one more?”

  “He won’t. Trust me. He may be a ruthless psychopath, but he’s also brilliant. He’ll do what’s in his best interest. And if he does threaten you, then show him the bug. Tell him that Ed Co
wan is outside and that if anything happens to you, the same will happen to him in short order.”

  “I don’t know . . .” said Altschuler.

  “You can do this, Alex. You have to do this. I’m not pointing fingers, but you should have caught on before anyone. And you didn’t. And people have died. You’re going to do this for several reasons. First and foremost, because you know it’s the best way to be sure Kelvin pays for what he did, and the world knows him for the monster he is. But also for yourself. This is the chance of a lifetime for you. If you do this, I’ll install you as CEO of Theia Labs.”

  Fyfe paused. “Now I know what you’re thinking. Yes, when this comes out it will be the shitstorm of the century. It will dominate the international news for seemingly forever. But everyone will know you weren’t involved. And the smoke will clear. And when it does, Theia will still have the intellectual property gained from Kelvin’s atrocities.”

  “But the IP couldn’t be more poisoned,” said Altschuler. “The whole thing immediately brings to mind the sick medical experiments conducted by the Nazis in World War II.”

  “I know that! I don’t want to be associated with what Gray did any more than you do! But what would you recommend? That we pretend these advances weren’t made?” asked Fyfe in exasperation. “If Adolf Hitler cured cancer, would we refuse to use the cure?”

  Altschuler sighed deeply. “I don’t know,” he whispered stubbornly.

  “Of course we’d still use the cure,” insisted Fyfe. “And you know it. And it would be the right thing to do. Well, it’s the same with this. And the public will come around to appreciate that. Not immediately, but they will. And if we tie the system into the input coming in through the eyes, rather than cyberspace, we could well have the cure for blindness on our hands. And deafness. You think that won’t ultimately be embraced, despite being tainted?

  “And this is only the beginning,” added Fyfe. “Theia Labs will survive, and will soon thrive. Trust me, when the smoke clears, we’ll be in a position to break Facebook’s record as fastest to reach a hundred billion dollar market capitalization. And you’ll be CEO, with tens of billions of dollars of stock.”

  Altschuler realized that Fyfe was using his favorite strategy, the carrot and the stick, to persuade him. But he had to admit, it was effective. Combining the stick of guilt with the carrot of becoming CEO of the next Facebook or Apple, along with the certainty of untold wealth, was as persuasive as it got.

  “I know I’m asking a lot, Alex,” continued Fyfe. “And I know it’s scary. But I need your help. Are you in?”

  Altschuler swallowed hard and nodded, only remembering Fyfe couldn’t see him several seconds later. “I’m in,” he whispered finally.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” said Fyfe. “Ed Cowan is at Theia Labs’ outer door right now. Let him in. And let’s nail this murderous bastard tonight.”

  22

  Colonel Justin Girdler had made finding Nick Hall his top priority. After reading the e-mail message Hall had supposedly sent three times, and learning why its status had been changed, he had set wheels in motion and then had locked himself in his office, turned off Maggie, and spent hour after hour just pondering the implications of what Hall’s message, if true, really meant. This he followed with several more hours of discussion with his second-in-command, Major Mike Campbell, and he believed they were very much on the same page.

  The colonel still had no guarantee the message was real, but given the implications, he’d be a fool not to prepare as though it was.

  Before he finally went to sleep after a very long day—or tried to get to sleep in any event—he decided to read Hall’s message one last time.

  He called it up on his TV.

  From: Nick Hall

  Subject: Urgent, life in jeopardy

  I awoke this morning in a locked warehouse without any memory of who I am, hearing voices in my head. I may be insane, in which case I’m only imagining sending this message. If you receive this then I am not insane. A man was here when I awoke, and he left ten minutes later, but I was able to read his mind. Not just read, but fish anything out of it I wanted to. I know how all of this sounds. But bear with me.

  The man was a hired killer named Billie Peterson, who works for a man named John Delamater, whom he’s never met. I may not remember who I am, but I was able to fish out a lot from Peterson’s mind beyond just his name and the name of his boss.

  I’m at a large warehouse outside of Fresno, California. Peterson doesn’t remember the exact address so I can’t get it from his mind, but it’s on Albany Avenue. I stayed in Peterson’s head after he drove off, but lost him when he was about six miles out, so this must be the range of my ESP ability. There seem to be only about fifteen to twenty other people I can pick up within this six-mile radius, so the warehouse is fairly isolated.

  Anyway, Peterson’s boss, John Delamater, is working with someone else—the man who runs the warehouse. Peterson doesn’t know this guy’s name. He only knows that he’s a “big-shot scientist” who purposely vacates the premises during Peterson’s infrequent visits. Peterson was told nothing about what was going on at the warehouse, and managed to learn only that it involved experimenting on humans to perfect some sort of brain technology—technology that would allow people to surf the web with their thoughts.

  He did know my name, however, which is more than I can say. It’s Nick Hall. Apparently, I am the last of twenty-seven men and women who were experimented on, and Peterson got the word to kill me later tonight. He replaced another of Delamater’s men on this duty a month ago, and has killed three others of these mysterious twenty-seven. Peterson wasn’t given any information on who these people are, how they got here, or even their names. He only knew mine because he overheard someone say it, and that I was the last of the “lot.”

  Given I’ve been the last man standing for three weeks now, he assumed I’d been the most promising subject in getting the Internet to work, but had finally been a failure. They’ve been using a drug to force memory loss on their subjects to keep them off-balance and not let them realize what’s going on. Without my ability to read thoughts, this would have worked well, and even with my ability, it’s disorienting and scary not to know anything about yourself or what has been happening.

  Anyway, Peterson and his predecessor incinerate the bodies. After he left, I tried to activate the Internet with my thoughts, and I got it to work. Perfectly. After only ten or fifteen minutes of experimentation, it’s insane how effortlessly I can use it. Either I lied to this scientist when I said it wasn’t working, or the scientist lied to Peterson. I’ve been locating e-mail addresses and sending out this distress call. I know this sounds like the ravings of a lunatic, but it’s not. At least I don’t think it is.

  Peterson will be coming back tonight. He’s planning to lie to me to get me to accompany him to their incinerator, telling me he’s learned who I am and can clear up the mystery of how I happen to be here. But given that I now know what he really intends, and can read his mind every step along the way, I am confident I can escape.

  Anyone who gets this message, please reply. I’ll check this e-mail address often, and I have no doubt I’ll need help once I escape. I know you won’t believe this, but I’m begging you to take just a little time to look into it. Find the warehouse, and this will prove the truth of what I’m telling you.

  Girdler read the message one more time for good measure and then turned off his television and stretched out in bed. He had divorced three years earlier, and while he had been in a few relationships since this time, he was currently sleeping alone, which suited him just fine. He could analyze the psychological aspects of the most devious totalitarian regimes, but women would forever be as inscrutable to him as Sanskrit.

  When he had first read the message that morning, he had been impressed with the sender’s vivid imagination. The idea of ESP working this powerfully, and this flawlessly, was impossible. On the other hand, the military already ha
d teams that could issue simple commands with their thoughts—as long as they were hooked up to special helmets. Industry had made great progress in the past decade driving games and devices with thought in the same way. So perhaps this was less impossible than it might have once been. Still . . .

  When Girdler had finished the message the first time, he had finally decided it was time to find out why the NSA Expert System had reawakened this message from the dead. He learned that when it had first been sent on Thursday, Nessie had automatically searched for correlations across hundreds and thousands of dimensions, which had taken on the order of a second. The computer had discovered that there had been a Nick Hall on board the Scripps Explorer, a ship that had launched with twenty-seven men and women on board, the exact number he had mentioned in his message.

  This information had been dutifully noted, but the identity of the twenty-seven people lost at sea was in the public domain. So given an unauthorized, unknown sender, and the preposterous contents of the message, Nessie had decided some crackpot had used Nick Hall’s name and the number twenty-seven for twisted reasons of his or her own.

  But that had changed when the system learned that Nick Hall’s fingerprints had been discovered at the scene of a double murder in Bakersfield, California. The same Nick Hall who had voyaged on the Explorer, and who was supposed to be resting in peace miles under the ocean.

  Nessie routinely sucked in the contents of all military and law enforcement computers around the country, and if Nessie could have registered surprise, she would have done so when she got around to digesting the news out of Bakersfield.