Afterimage

by Roderick Geiger

  “That’s a good monkey,” he said. “Do you know what kind of monkey it is?”

  “Gorilla,” Tyler said.

  “We have some monkeys here, some chimpanzees.”

  “Wow,” Tyler said. “Can I see them?”

  Chalmais glanced at Warren for approval, then smiled. “Of course you can. Gloria, take our young artist down to animalkeeping.” Then in a whisper: “and don’t let him out of your sight.”

  Gloria led the boy to the far end of the atrium where she inserted a card into a wall-mounted slot, unlocking the door and opening the motorized drapes. They disappeared inside.

  “Does the humidity in here bother you?” Chalmais asked.

  “Not at all,” Warren said. They sat. “I understand there was an explosion here yesterday.”

  “A controlled explosion, yes. We’re very excited about the progress of the work. Dr. Vrynos and his independent team managed to simulate a miniature version of what they believe happened in the Manzanita mishap.”

  “Really. What caused it?”

  Chalmais managed a good-natured chuckle. “I’m afraid I’m not a scientist, Warren. I wouldn’t be qualified to explain it. There’s a lot of data yet to process. They tell me they’ll have a preliminary report available early next week.”

  “They’ll be running more tests, more simulated explosions?”

  Chalmais wrinkled his eyebrows. “Warren, you’ve seen the extraordinary fire and explosion suppression measures we’ve taken here. There’s absolutely no danger from these experiments, but that doesn’t sell newspapers, does it?”

  Warren shook his head.

  “There’s so much at stake here, Warren. The MRI is the most important medical diagnostic tool ever invented. Wouldn’t it be a disaster to deprive doctors and patients of that tool just to sell a few newspapers?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well that’s exactly what will happen.” Chalmais pointed toward the lobby. “If those reporters out there get the chance, they’ll panic the herd, then your agency or some other public agency will be forced to overreact and stop Dr. Vrynos’ research.”

  Warren had to suppress a smile. Panic the herd? What an image! Like wolves running alongside a herd of elk. The first one to panic the herd gets the Pulitzer! He thought of Ilene, who could have panicked the herd but didn’t. She hadn’t broken her promise. Did I?

  “People’s brain tumors or liver cancers will go undiagnosed,” Chalmais was saying. “People will die.” He paused and his expression turned upbeat. “It’s amazing how far we’ve come in so short a time. I’m sure we’re very close to an answer. What a shame it would be to throw it all away now.”

  “I take it then you’ll be conducting more tests here.”

  “The independent team will, yes,” Chalmais corrected.” Dr. Vrynos has scheduled another test for this evening.”

  Bingo! “You’ll have to let us observe that test,” Warren said. He girded for the protracted list of excuses, of flamboyant explanations as to why this was simply not possible.

  “Yes, of course, just you, right? We have limited space in the lab.” The skilled public relations man had learned long ago that dealing with government officials was much like prizefighting: always keep your opponent in front of you. And never take on more than one at a time.

  Day 6

  Monday

  Lab Two,

  Gyttings-Lindstrom Research Unit,

  Eugene, Oregon

  The osteosarcoma in Fredrika’s leg had not been discovered in time to make amputation feasible. Secondary growths in her ribs and skull had metastasized to her lungs. Chimpanzees stricken with this condition in the wild were sometimes known to throw themselves off cliffs or tall trees to relieve the agony. But thanks to the miracle of pain medication, the 11-year-old female now lay peacefully on the patient table, poised at the opening of the G-L 6, a donut-shaped, wide-bore MRI.

  The other chimpanzee, Clark, a healthy three-year-old purchased from a private collector in Florida, lay peacefully beside the female, squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder, each placed face-up on it’s own patient table, precisely restrained with multiple-point straps across the forehead, chin, neck, chest, wrists and legs. Each was partially shaven, plastered with electrode patches and IV’d through the leg on a muscle-relaxer and tranquilizer drip.

  As the two animals rolled into the MRI opening, their lower craniums came into line with the laser positioning guides. On the screen, the first batch image assembled with both brains visible, two brains which appeared virtually identical, but of course were not. And it was the subtle differences between the two brains which made the three dimensional alignment such a laborious process. Moving a few millimeters at a time, Galtrup and Sara worked the joysticks, moving first one chimp, then the other, then moving the images electronically by altering the gradient coil field, then moving each chimp again, and after each movement, waiting several seconds for the computer to re-batch and display the freshened image.

  Gill took some of this time to record in his voice-recognition log:

  “Our rat experiment last week was a carbon-copy of a Deverson test with the simple objective of confirming that the procedure would in fact cause the rat to disappear. This, we believe, would be a significant step towards understanding what happened to Constance McCormack. Unfortunately, our test rat’s DNA was found in the lab after the rat experiment, whereas no DNA from McCormack was ever found in the Manzanita MRI clinic. It is clear from this fact alone that we have not yet accomplished duplication of the ‘Manzanita Effect.’

  “Today, in this second experiment, we have several new objectives:

  “First, we have streamlined the technology by reducing the number of extraneous sensors and probes which Deverson used in his experiments. Gone is the X-ray spectrometer, the microgram scale under the subject, the proximity detectors, the rows of laser diodes, the infrared cameras, the CT scan head. Setting up and calibrating all these devices was tedious and, we now believe, superfluous to our primary goal. Our immediate charge is simply to cause the subject driver, in this case the chimpanzee called Frederika, to disappear without any trace of residual DNA.

  “Second, we need some experience with the wide-bore MRI, a configuration that had not yet been developed during Deverson’s lifetime. Compared with the more common tunnel-type MRIs, this new machine’s horizontal scan platform measures 81 cm across, broad enough for our two, near-human subjects.

  “Third, we are very interested in investigating Deverson’s so-called ‘Muffler Effect.’ Today we will be aligning Fredrika’s cranium with her ‘passenger’ subject, Clark, so that both primate’s anterior temporal lobes fall within the same MRI scan. Deverson’s last surviving notes told of a string of successes in this area - minimal explosions that did negligible and non-lethal damage to his passenger subjects. He also cautioned that extreme alignment accuracy is crucial. Also, all his tests used pairs of rats. Since we have been put under intense pressure by Gyttings-Lindstrom management to move the experiments forward and find some answers, we will be using chimps instead of rats, hopeful of achieving similar results.

  “I go on record at this time as being opposed to this accelerated test schedule. I would prefer erring in favor of caution; to run several more foundation experiments before this tandem test. I have been advised by company officials that this fast-track schedule is not negotiable, that it will proceed with or without my direction. I believe my absence, while serving no positive purpose, would increase the risk of injury or death to staff and others, so I have agreed to proceed…under protest.”

  True to his word, Chalmais stayed in the back of the room and observed, making no comments. He was speechless for a time, finally whispering into his headset mic: “I feel like I’m about to be blasted off to another planet,” Gyttings, on his ranch 1700 miles away, was watching a three-camera feed and experiencing similar anticipation, though far more comfortably.

  “Even if they’re the same species,” Gill added
to his log after 25 minutes of fine-tuning the alignment, “each individual’s thalamus region, each cerebrum is different in a thousand subtle ways. We must automate this alignment procedure before the next test.” He shut off the recorder.

  At that point Fredrika started to fidget. “I’m going to increase her dosage,” Lomax said. “But that poor animal - she’s been on a tranq cocktail for over 10 hours - she’s about had it.”

  Gill checked the bitmaps, the tiny registration lines, the glowing, multi-colored cranial slices. “Alright, doctor,” he mumbled. “Suction.” Fredrika’s body quickly drained of blood, the clear tube running red for a few seconds, then clear.

  “She’s down,’ Lomax said as Fredrika’s body stopped shivering. “Zero blood pressure.” Over the next minute she gave a few slight spasms, then fell still. Research suggested that an animal with this size cranium would reach core failure in 18 to 20 minutes. As the seconds ticked by, there began in the gallery a din of murmurs and quiet conversation, the observers milling about, trickling toward the hallway. These were important people, people with appointments to reschedule, memos to write, bathrooms to visit. It was as if the show had gone into intermission. Halftime at the basketball playoffs.

  Warren remained mesmerized by the Core Failure monitor, fascinated by the numbers, which changed frequently and sometimes radically. At plus seven minutes the monitor displayed 29%, which meant the animal’s brain was 29% alive and therefore 71% dead. Warren wondered what it might be like to be 71% dead.

  “I have to go to the bathroom, Daddy,” Tyler yawned, bored. Luckily the restroom was only 20 feet from where they were sitting, in the hallway right around the corner. Warren took him to the john, passing in the hall several execs trying to find cellphone signals.

  “Are you OK in there buddy,” Warren asked through the door. “I’m gonna go back in. Tyler. Hurry up.”

  Warren sat back down and anxiously checked the CF monitor, which now read 12%. At that moment some of Frederika’s brainwave readings spiked, a surge of activity.

  Tyler, having acquired a working knowledge of the research area during his tour, had slipped out of the bathroom and into the unlocked Lab Two. There were no surveillance cameras in the hallway and the Bridge monitors did not cover the lab door so the boy was not immediately visible crouching beneath the window. The first thing he noticed was how different the place looked and sounded then what he’d seen on the TV screens. The big machine, where the monkeys were trapped, hummed loudly, making a knocking sound like his mom’s car. It sounded wrong. He approached the two chimps and said their names. “Clark?” How could they be asleep with all this noise? He wanted it to stop.

  “Clark? Are you OK? Fred? Get up!” the boy said.

  Adel heard it first. “What’s he doing,” she said, jolting upright.

  Lomax pointed to the top of the boy’s head as it emerged into their field of view. “Who the hell is that?”

  “Tyler!” Warren shouted, lurching to his feet.

  “Will, power down,” Gill commanded, trying to sound calm and in control.

  Galtrup had already lunged for the emergency relay, a lighted rocker switch which simultaneously cut power to the MRI main magnet and its gradient and radio frequency coils.

  Sara turned forbiddingly and said: “We just went zero,” pointing at the ‘0%’ reading on the Core Failure monitor.

  “Power’s off,” Galtrup said. A slight rumbling sound commenced, distant, The Bridge silent, everyone holding their breath, straining to listen. “Uh oh,” Galtrup whispered.

  Adel spoke up: “I need to talk to the boy.” Then nearly shouted: “Now!”

  Sara flipped switches on her console. “Okay, you’re patched. Talk!”

  “Hide your eyes, son!” Adel said it as a command, as firmly and loudly as she could without sounding panicked.

  Suddenly a wave of white light blasted through the dark-tinted window, washing all the monitors. “Turn away from the light, Tyler. Tuck your head in your arms. Protect your eyes.”

  Although obedience was not one of Tyler’s strong suits, there was something in her voice, which told him this was not a good time to be stubborn. He dropped and rolled.

  On the Bridge they heard a sound like a gust of wind, then a strange reverberation which passed through the room, seemed to pass through each of them in the room, growing quieter, dying into an echo of itself. The audio system lapsed into silence and the camera monitors, one by one, blinked to static. The main screen still displayed the two, multicolored chimpanzee brains in side profile, the last landscape the computer had batched before power was cut to the coils. And the window was hopelessly fogged.

  “Let’s see that windshield wiper,” Gill said. Galtrup turned it on, but the lab was too smoky to see more than three feet in.

  “My instruments are going nuts,” Sara shouted as she broke for the hallway, grabbing a Geiger counter on the run. “What’s that smell! Does anyone recognize that smell?”

  Wincing, Galtrup handed her a mask and covered his own face. They peered into the lab a moment, then looked at one another. It was hard to say who groaned it first, Galtrup or Sara: “Burnt hair.”

  Warren was already inside, coughing his way through the purplish cloud hanging in the room. A few of the acoustic ceiling tiles and light covers were down, but the damage was minimal, two of the lights still working, casting dark and light patterns in the smoke-filled room. He found Tyler curled in a fetal ball next to the machine, a pair of broken florescent tubes draped across his motionless body.

  “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Warren wailed, kneeling to the boy and clearing away the broken glass. “Tyler! What have I done!”

  Chalmais was a step behind. “We have a hospital right here, Mr. Vardell.” Two orderlies arrived within 45 seconds and began tending the boy.

  Warren had his cellphone out. “I think you people have done quite enough,” he snapped.

  “He has a pulse but it’s faint,” one orderly announced.

  There was no way that Chalmais could let this situation get out of containment. “I know how you must feel,” he began soothingly; a firm hand on Warren’s shoulder. “But there isn’t time to move him to another hospital.”

  Warren had punched in 9-1-1 but had not yet hit send. He looked at his phone, then at Chalmais, then nodded meekly. The orderlies transferred Tyler to a stretcher, his little body limp.

  They took him to IC Two where Lomax and another doctor were waiting. In the background, orderlies busily wheeled lifesign monitors into the room. After six hectic minutes Lomax announced the boy was stable, had no appreciable wounds, no broken bones. He had suffered bruising, first-degree burns primarily to the back of his neck. His eyes were bandaged as a precaution against infection. And all of his hair was gone. “I think he’ll be fine…we’ve given him something to sleep,” the doctor said to Warren. “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep yourself.” But Warren wouldn’t go.

  Moments later Lomax whispered a somewhat different story to Chalmais; that the boy was comatose, unresponsive. “I’m not seeing the injury that might have caused it, no head trauma of any significance,” the doctor said. For the moment, the two men agreed, Warren should be spared the additional burden of learning this.

  Chalmais hurried to the security office where he found Ned Carlton at the surveillance desk, on duty watching the closed-circuit monitors. Ned was a temp hired by the company’s personnel department.

  “I don’t suppose you saw the kid in the hallway…” Chalmais grumbled, searching a row of shelves.

  Ned gestured at the rack of 19-inch TV screens. “What hallway?”

  “Never mind. There should be a metal box around here…with a plug and a funny antenna. Where the hell is it? Blackburn said it was here.”

  “Who’s Blackburn?” Ned said.

  “Security chief in Austin. Your boss. Actually your boss’s boss.”

  Ned continued stuffing a jumbo glazed donut into his round face, apparentl
y not duly impressed.

  Chalmais found what he was looking for and plugged it in. “Don’t even think about touching it,” Chalmais reprimanded in advance while adjusting the antenna back and forth.

  “What’s it for?” Ned asked.

  “Tell you what,” Chalmais said. “Take the rest of the night off. Vamoose.”

  Adel stayed with Tyler. After the doctors left she sat with Warren in the boy’s room. “He’s going to be fine,” she reassured several times. Warren sat despondently for what seemed like an hour, his forehead resting in his palms, blaming himself for not properly reining-in the highly active boy.

  “I want my son transferred to a real hospital,” Warren said several times. Unable to comfort the man, Adel moved her chair close to the boy and took up his free arm, stroking the back of the limp little hand.

  Gill and Sara followed the two gurneys into OR Two. The chimps were bloody messes, skin burned through, muscles and organs exposed, broken bones. They looked like they’d fallen off a 100-foot cliff into a bonfire.

  The two scientists systematically unbuckled a dozen straps and removed the opaque eye shields, exposing the only parts of the anthropoids that had not suffered major damage. Gill lifted Clark’s left eyelid and examined his retina with a pocket penlight. After a time he said: “I’d like to get a brain and orbits with the CT, then we’ll bring him back here for some scalpel work.”

  “It’s almost eleven,” Sara objected. “It’s been a very long day.” She smiled exhaustedly. “Let’s get out of here - go someplace scrumptious for dinner.” She glanced at Clark. “How does vegetarian sound to you?”

  Two orderlies were recruited to carry the cart across the warehouse to the pathology/morgue trailer.