His research had shown distinct differences in the patterns of signals from a healthy nervous system and that of a diseased one. Many of his early experiments failed and the rats just died. But eventually, using a system of cavity tuned oscillators of tiny proportion, he manufactured the first Balancer—the basis of what would become his life's work. It was a dual hookup—one sick animal, one healthy one, and a balanced modulator between; a cavity resonant circuit capable of picking out the signals from both nervous systems and mixing them, producing a third signal that was fed back to both animals. He hoped to be able to take the sick rat, hook it together with the healthy one, and combine the levels of their signals, and thus their health. This would allow both, through the normal processes of their immune systems, to overcome a smaller amount of disease.
Initially, the process proved everything that he had hoped it would. Both animals, in repeated tests, were dizzy for a short time, then recovered. Many of the induced illnesses were fatal, and in critical stages, yet the animals had been cured. It was not until late in his experiments at the college that he discovered that the process had other effects as well…
Little Abner had lived above Curit's bookshelf for several years and was a maze expert. Edmond could sit and watch him run through the maze for hours, as he was doing now, fascinated by the level of intelligence the rat exhibited. Every time he got to the end of the maze and started gnawing on the cheese, Abner would turn around and look straight at Edmond, as if to say, Look, daddy, I did it again. Aren’t you proud of me?
And the strange thing was, Edmond was proud of him. He'd taught other rats and mice to scamper through mazes and get at the cheese, but none had been so adept as Abner. None so . . . sentient about the whole process.
Used in several conditioning exercises, Abner had memorized labyrinth after labyrinth of wooden slats, water traps, and Habitrail units, all in the search of food. Abner was a pampered, fat, and very healthy pet.
Whiskers, on the other hand, was not so lucky. His cage was located in a dark corner of one of the university’s laboratories. He was not involved in any particular experiment, nor was he a favorite among the technicians.
Whiskers had been discovered by one of the cleaning crew, laying on one side in his cage and breathing much too rapidly. The food in his bowl had a small growth of mold on it, and his water was brackish and foul. That was his condition when they first brought him to Curit. The equipment had been set for days, awaiting further tests, and Edmond was quick to light it off. Abner, perky nose twitching and bright eyes peering down on them with curiosity, was also there. With trembling hands, hurried by the urgency of Whiskers' condition, Edmond hooked the electrodes in place, turning up the intensity on his monitor and gluing his eyes to the pulsing waveforms that immediately sprang into view. Carefully, but as quickly as precision would allow, he applied the signals to the balancer, monitoring the output and noting both frequency and amplitude. He applied the combined signal back to the animals and waited, breathless.
At first nothing spectacular happened. Abner's eyes dulled slightly, his nose twitched less. Whiskers began to breathe easier, more regularly.
Switching off the balancer, Edmond carefully placed the two in an observation pen on the table. After securing all of his equipment, he came back, meaning to take the two to his room for overnight monitoring. When he looked into the pen he stopped, dropping his notepad and pencil in shock.
The small pen he'd left the rats in was one that Abner knew well, but Abner was sitting exactly where Curit had left him. The rat glanced up, twitching his nose sleepily, as if in greeting. Whiskers, however, who had never even seen a maze, was at the far end of the twisting, winding trail, sitting in the pile of food and eating contentedly.
"What?" Curit stumbled forward in astonishment. Placing Whiskers back at the beginning of the maze, he rearranged it in a slight variation that, though unfamiliar, would be well within Abner's ability to solve. Before his eyes, almost in unison, the two rats scampered into the tunnel together. In moments they sat, side by side, gnawing on the pellets of food.
Flopping his trembling frame into a nearby chair, Edmond could only stare at the two as they ate, overwhelmed by the possibilities. Whiskers was cured, there was no doubt of that. His actions were now those of a healthy animal. The process, in that respect, was performing as he had hoped. This was far from the first case, but no side effects had previously been noted, certainly nothing as remarkable as this.
And so the second phase, the secret phase, of Edmond's work with the Balancer had begun. He had continued experimenting with the curing of disease after that night—that had been his original purpose, and it was an admirable one. His other discovery he reserved for his own private investigation. The implications and possibilities were incredible. He kept silent about his discovery, not out of greed, or an inflated ego, but because he was a man of vision. Not all of the visions were good ones. If his discovery meant what he believed it did, it must be kept from government hands at all cost. The government, he'd come to realize, had two uses for science; two ways of looking at it. There were money makers and weapons, nothing else. Edmond wished to contribute to neither.
Now, still watching Abner run back and forth through the intricate maze, he sat, triumphant, his work finally bearing fruit that could be shared, his creation finally doing the good that he had wished for it.
He'd spent long hours perfecting a filter that he hoped would serve to block the transfer of personality, of thought—when his process was in use—yet allow the patterns of normality to be maintained to a degree that would still allow for a physical cure. So far it had worked, but he didn't know what he would do if one day a patient should turn to the relatives of the man in the next bed and begin to converse as though they were old friends. For now it was enough that the process was working. It seemed that he'd covered all of the bases, rendered the process safe and successful.
He drowned his fears in the praise of the others. Who could say what might be next? Could mental illness be eradicated? Were retardation and autism now a thing of the past?
He leaned back in his chair, smiling, turning away from Abner's adventures in the maze for the first time in hours. He swiveled and flicked on the TV/VCR combo he had set up in the corner of the lab and watched the videotape they'd made of his experiments, their voices babbling excitedly and sharing his dream.
Yes, for now that would be enough.
Calvin Konklin was not a genius. Intelligent, yes, clever with his hands, yes, but by no means a genius. He knew this, and he lived with it, but sometimes it was different. Sometimes, when the blackness swam in from either side of him, sliding from the furthest periphery of his vision to claim him, he knew that it was Genius, trying to come to him. He could sense it, could feel it reaching for him in those moments when his mind was drifting, thoughts neither here, nor there, but somewhere in between.
There had been a time when the blackness only came in furtive glimpses. Calvin would sense it, wrench his head around as fast as he could, as though it were physically there, and he could catch it sneaking up on him. Other times he'd wait in ambush, hoping it would steal up on him and he could surprise it, claiming the darkness as his own. It had occurred to him that anyone watching his actions would find them strange, but Calvin was used to that. He'd never really fit in with others. Now he had a chance to be someone. The shadows had become deeper of late, sometimes creeping so close he didn't even need to turn his head to see it.
The past couple of days, as the shadow had grown clearer, he'd sensed that it was evolving as well. He'd caught little flecks of iridescent gold and diaphanous blue streaks, little trails of deep green, all flitting against the dark background that held his Genius. Calvin wasn't sure how he knew that the encroaching black tide of multi-colored anomalies was Genius, but he did. He knew it deep down in his heart; had known from the first moment they'd crept into his vision.
Tall, slender, and pale, brown hair curling every which way a
nd laying as if pasted to his temples, Calvin had been assistant to more than a few geniuses. All of them were famous now, Calvin was still an assistant. It was all, he had long since concluded, one big joke that the universe was playing at his expense, one big, multi-act play designed to make him out a fool. The universe knew that Calvin wanted to be famous, and it mocked him.
Never mind that his pay for being Head Laboratory Assistant for this project was in a very respectable tax bracket, or that his wife, the one person who believed he was a genius, was beautiful and loved him deeply; he was always one step away from what he really desired—fame.
Calvin adjusted the controls before him slightly, watching the meters carefully. Of all the projects that he'd seen, the wonders he'd been a part of, even his own cynical mind was awed by the "Curit Process". The concept itself, once developed, was relatively simple; even the components were inexpensive and common. The results, however, and all of the possibilities they presented, were nothing short of miraculous.
Since they'd moved into Calvin's particular area of expertise, the consolidation of the data on which all of their work would rest, he'd seen apparently terminal illness regress and disappear, viscious animals calmed—miracles. Each time he watched, fascinated, as the subjects of their experiments rose form death beds, wobbly at first, then nosing around for pellets of food, as though the reaper had never raised his scythe, as though awakening from a deep sleep.
It was some consolation that he, his name, would be associated with this work. Not enough to ease his discontent, but something, nonetheless. He was, after all, only the Head Lab Assistant, one step—one long step—from Associate.
As Calvin mulled this all over for the hundredth time, the shadows crept in slowly. Sweat broke out on his forehead. A thunderstorm was brewing outside; he could smell the rain from the open window, and could feel the breeze drying the sweat on his brow. He closed his eyes tightly, but when he reopened them, he saw that the twirling colors were dancing closer than they ever had before. Flitting about, each twining with the others like odd, ethereal lovers. His eyes watered. It was hard to keep them open with the pungent aroma of the storm breaking outside wafting over him and the breeze that now blew in harshly against his face, but he knew that if he blinked, the peripheral images would disappear and he would have to wait for the black tide to reach him again.
He concentrated, willing his eyes to remain open wide, the mental overload of the encroaching and steadily multiplying ribbons of color stealing the strength from his legs. He fell back, his ass hitting the floor hard, leg twisted at an odd angle, not caring; forcing his gaze to focus on the Genius that flooded from the shadows, accented by the flashing of lightning and the deep yellow-green light of the storm.
Calvin's leg screamed for attention, but he ignored it, intent on keeping his eyelids open long enough to see what he'd always been meant to see. His destiny.
A crack of thunder rent the crisp air and Calvin screamed.
There was something else in the blackness of the Genius. And now Calvin couldn't close his eyes, even if he'd wanted to. The storm swelled to a sudden crescendo—raindrops pummeling the windows, lightning flashing like a strobe light, and his ears roaring with a continuous roll of deafening thunder. He heard a soft, beeping sound from somewhere very far away, but he could not grasp it. Something was seeping into Calvin Konklin's mind, something black and slithering. All the beautiful gold, blue, red, and green anomalies were gone, and there was nothing in the Genius now but the blackness, and the something working its way between Calvin’s off-kilter synapses. His mind conjured an image—DNA broken down to geometric figures and the Genius, diverting diametrical portions to the convexo-concave slats that made up his nervous system, clicking itself into place, sending violent shudders throughout his body. His eyes started to roll back in his head and drool pooled in the corners of his mouth.
It's . . . finally . . . come, he thought.
Then he heard the beeping sound again, this time much clearer. He tried to focus on it, but the blackness was consuming his thoughts, and he could not concentrate. The final bits of the Genius—or rather the thing that was in the Genius—were securing themselves in his brain and locking onto his nerves.
The beeping grew deafening, and Calvin’s eyes rolled down to their normal position slowly. He could see a flashing red light on the instrument panel of the equipment above him.
The storm had settled, and the drool that had accumulated in his mouth slopped over the rim of his lips, unheeded, as Calvin got shakily to his feet, nursing his sprained ankle.
Leaning on the desk next to the lab equipment, Calvin was finally able to see what the beeping and flashing was about. A small LED was lit on the monitor screen and a flashing red message followed:
THT FILTER FAULT
REPLACE FLTHT 12 BEFORE CONTINUING
Calvin blinked a few times, at first not understanding, then he realized what the error message meant. And knew, too, that it didn't matter in the slightest. It was just the filter.
Instinctively, he flipped the bypass on the fault monitor and pressed the Enter key on his keyboard to restart the process. Nothing happened. The fault remained on his screen, and the equipment remained silent. Calvin frowned. It was just a filter, the bypass should have been automatic. He pressed the switch again. Nothing.
His mind clearing suddenly, Calvin sat down and began to rapidly stroke in a sequence of codes, searching for the FLTHT filter. The experiment was nearly complete, and he didn’t want to have to admit he’d not been paying attention to the gauges. The filter did not show up on a maintenance scan, and he banged the keyboard in frustration. He couldn’t bypass it.
Then it hit him. He could bypass the alarm system that had been triggered by the failure. It was an unauthorized modification of the system, but to re-do the entire experiment would waste days. He flicked the authorization code in and bypassed the alarm. The balancer came alive again, signals blending and re-forming. He smiled. The signals were very similar to those he'd seen before the fault, but there was more—a sort of transient pulse line of odd signals was riding on the steady sine-wave created by the two animals.
Both dogs Calvin was using for this experiment eyed him suspiciously. He didn't know how'd they'd reacted to his Transformation on the floor of the lab. Now, with the balancer humming and clicking away again, they’d become eerily silent, just staring at Calvin with hooded eyes, waiting for him to do something. And Calvin was waiting, too; waiting for his Genius to somehow evidence itself.
Calvin sat back, shaking, his heartbeat and mind calming somewhat. The sweat had turned cold, on his brow, and his head ached behind his eyes. It felt full of water; heavy and sloshing about when he moved.
That was when the first tinge of fear laced itself around his heart and began to squeeze.
What's in my head now? He thought, stupidly. What have I allowed into my fucking head?
The storm had subsided to a faint drizzle, barely audible over the soft but insistent thrumming of the Balancer. Calvin's headache throbbed in time.
The thread of fear that wound itself around his heart was tightening its grip, but there was no time to think about it right now. He was already running behind in this experiment, and Curit would want results. He stood slowly, using the edge of the desk for support, and hobbled to the Balancer's instrument panel. The process now complete, he watched, waiting for the dogs to awaken.
Bartholomew—Bart, for short—was a meek, mild-mannered Beagle who, though friendly and cute, had been deemed too old by families seeking to adopt pets. Amadeus, Bart’s partner in the experiment, was a Doberman. His previous owner's favorite game had been fetch—fetch the cat, fetch the neighbor's dog. The game had ended after the first round of fetch the mailman. Now both animals, saved from the "merciful" end required of their kind by state facilities, were a part of the Curit team-exhibits in the showcase of miracles.
The idea was to see if Amadeus' temper could be controlled, nullified by
a dose of Bart's good cheer. As they awakened it was almost immediately clear that in this respect, at least, the experiment was a success. Whatever the THT filters were, they were not necessary for the balancing to take place. When the dogs had been brought into the lab, two technicians had been needed to strap Amadeus in place. It seemed he couldn't decide whether to snack on Bart or go for a fuller meal—Calvin, for instance. Now, though they were still groggy from the anesthetic, one would have expected the larger dog to resume its efforts. Both dogs were in plain sight of one another, and of Calvin. Rather than getting upset, the big Doberman sniffed quietly at the straps holding him and looked up at Calvin with the best Doberman doing an impression of a Beagle that Calvin had ever seen, tongue hanging out nearly to the table beneath him.
"Good boy, Bart," Calvin said absently, the blackness in his head sloshing around with the words. Both dogs cocked their heads when he spoke, barking almost in unison.
Calvin frowned, concentrating.
Then, remembering a trick that Amadeus had been drilled in by his neo-Nazi ex-owner, Calvin called out, "Amadeus, pose!" The loud words caused a sudden violent sloshing in Calvin’s head, followed by a sliver of pain that bolted through both eyes. He cried out. As the pain receded slowly, he saw that both dogs had become still as statues at the command Calvin had given them, their eyes gleaming.
They're the same dog, now. . . he thought disjointedly.
Calvin's head felt fit to burst. He could feel the . . . whatever it was, still struggling to fit itself into the lattice work of his brain; and could also feel it pushing outward against his skull, feeling along the bone with sandpaper hands.
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