[Does it remind you of working with Marin?] Ham asked with just enough mischievous tone to provoke her.
[I knew it; I knew you'd be thinking that. Damn it! Ok, she was very good but Ham, and listen to me now, I'm not gay]
[I never said you were, you're being far too sensitive, and anyway what would be wrong with that?]
[Nothing . . . but to be clear, I'm not]
[Ok . . . you're not, not even a bit]
[You're winding me up Ham, I know it] She regarded the figure swinging her legs on the gurney. [This isn't fair on her, or Mom, or Jared. How long has it been?]
[Regan you already know the answer, to the second, but for the record just over a week, not too long but long enough, and it's time]
[So . . . What's the process going to be?]
[First, we need to talk, let's go somewhere else and talk a bit, about what might or might not be]
And immediately they were sitting in deck chairs alone on a beach, looking across at a familiar bluff, Panekire in the Urewera's. The Waikaremoana lake water gently lapped the shore and midday sun felt warm on her skin. She turned to look at her companion, an impossibly handsome, no . . . beautiful person, radiating warmth and strength.
"Ham?"
He didn't reply immediately, continuing to look into the distance, to the bluff.
"I'm a little embarrassed to appear like this. There is a certain vanity in such things but I'm more concerned about damaging our relationship." He turned to look at her nervously, "A non specific Ham might be somewhat easier to accept than a particular Ham."
She reached out a hand and stroked it down the figures back lovingly. "This is an amazing delight my friend, we should have done this earlier. If it worries you, vary the look. I'll always know it's you and you will always be welcome."
She looked out across the lake. "I'd forgotten how beautiful it is here . . . why this spot?"
"Because later, the memory of this experience may remind you of all that is possible if things don't work out as we planned, I hope it will remind you of all that can still be enjoyed."
The chair softened, it was suddenly her favorite leather from Riverside and she tucked her feet up, gazing out toward the eastern arm. "Talk to me Ham, about what might or might not be."
He drew in a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. "Let's begin by me pointing out the clinically obvious. We have removed the left part of your brain. You know if I could have saved anything I would have, but the damage was too severe. Make no mistake though Regan, that person on the gurney is still you. He reached over and squeezed her hand before releasing it and continuing.
Now, with that in mind, I'd like to tell you about something that has already been well demonstrated through research a long time ago, back in the twentieth century in fact. One of your great thinkers, Robert Winston talked about it in a fascinating BBC documentary I watched. With the human brain there is a crossover between the eyes and the parts of the brain that receive the information. What is seen in the left field of vision is processed by the right side of the brain and vice versa. It's more complicated than that but you get the gist."
"I'm not sure I do."
"Bare with me . . . Now, we also know from research that the left brain controls language. Why is this important? Well for a number of reasons which I will explain. In the nineteen sixties a popular treatment for epilepsy that became quite successful was severing the corpus callosum. Cutting the connections between the two halves of the brain was intended to stop electrical discharges between the two sides thereby reducing or eliminating the fits. As I said, it enjoyed some success as a procedure and in time it also provided some interesting insights into the workings of the brain. How, you ask? Imagine if you will a person who has had their corpus callosum severed. How would they now process left and right field vision bearing in mind there would normally be a crossover and a connection between the two halves processing the incoming information? In this case there could be no sharing of the information between left and right."
"You're going to tell me."
"I am . . . A brilliant Nobel Prize winner Roger Sperry worked with a woman who had received just such a procedure. He tested the effects by asking her to focus on a small dot in the centre of a screen. Then he presented an image of a cup on the right of the dot, which is the right field of vision, but only for a tiny fraction of a second. When asked what she had seen she could say 'cup' . . . now, how could that be?"
Regan thought for a moment, "Because the image was processed by the left language side, and it was clearly a cup."
"Correct, and so she had a word and a voice for what she had seen. He then presented an image to the left of the dot, in this case a spoon. When asked what she had seen she could only say . . . 'nothing'. Why, because the image had been processed by the right side which has no language to describe it. But, and here's the kicker, Sperry got her to reach under the table to a number of objects she could only feel with her hand. He asked her to check if there was anything there she had seen. She picked out a spoon by touch alone. You see? When the spoon image went to the right brain she couldn't name it because the left brain controls language, but nevertheless the right brain recognized and could identify it."
"Ham, I know you're probably going somewhere but I'm not getting it."
"Regan, this is a case of 'softly, softly, catchee human'. Give me time."
She scowled and shifted in the chair. "I know the saying, you meant monkey, and you once implied I was an elephant."
"It's an expression; we're getting there, patience."
"Ok, ok, go on."
"Another brilliant Neuroscientist, Gazzaniga found a young man whose right hemisphere had the ability to communicate in simple sentences. It's rare but it happens. This struck him as an opportunity. Could he somehow interview the right brain in isolation and if so what would it say? It's a difficult challenge because normally both sides of the brain receive any spoken question, and the left brain being vocal dominant will naturally control the answer. So, Gazzaniga and his colleague LeDoux devised a cunning plan. They would ask most of the question verbally but leave out the last word. They would then present the last word, the one that makes sense of the question, but do it visually, using the right/left hemisphere technique. What they found was that the right side had a distinct personality of its own. I could tell you more but you'd be better watching the documentary, I loved it. But listen to this example. They asked the man what he wanted to do after . . . graduation. Remember the last word is presented visually in either the left or right hemisphere of vision. Asking the question this way the left side answered 'draughtsman' while the right side answered 'car racer'. Imagine it!"
Regan was quiet, thoughtful, so Ham continued.
"Regan, Winston suggested this disturbing possibility, and I think I've got this right, that all humans may all be walking around with two separate personalities in their heads with one of them, the right, a frustrated mute."
"So now all I'm left with is the right brained playgirl. Shit that'll finally confirm bimbo status. Plenty have suggested it."
"You know that's not true. Look, both sides of your brain have always been important. Without your right you probably wouldn't have had the great ideas that inspired your business. Without the left your ideas might never have been realized. They work together, but let me ask you this. If I did ask you which side you feel has been dominant in you, which would you say?"
"The left." She didn't hesitate.
"I'd give your right brained thinking more credit than you appear to but having said that, on the evidence I'd have to agree."
"Why do you say that?"
"Regan, I've watched you beat yourself up for years. It's like you've got this internal accountant tallying up your performance in everything, judging your behavior when you've been having fun, filling you with cautious worries about things that may never happen. It gives you no peace, and sometimes it robs you of the freedom to just enjoy, and create."
"So one side's
the vixen and the other side's my judge?"
"What is it about you woman, how did you bring this back to sex?"
She ignored the question, suddenly thoughtful. "You know Ham, I've had an interesting recurring dream over the years. I dream that I'm off exploring somewhere or other, and I return to camp, to my community, to find raiders have attacked, everything is destroyed and then I also realize my little girl has been killed too. Ham, in my dream I burn with anger and hate, and I feel this absolute determination that I'm . . . gonna . . . kill that raider. Then I wake up."
"And . . ." Ham waited.
"And . . . I know it's all me. As soon as I wake up, I'm the one killing that free spirited child."
Ham let the thought hang there for a long moment.
"Ok, now Regan remember, both sides have always been important. The left needs to give the right more slack, and embrace it. The right needs to recognize the value of the lefts cautions and logic. They need to work together. In the past your left dominance has been largely unconscious, it's habitual, even genetic. You've had little real control over it. But now your left is a super computer, it houses all of you that I stored, left and right and it's proactive. It can now choose a response to the right. It can embrace this true right, the one there on the gurney, instead of suppressing it and it can help you truly work together to maximize your strengths. I can't guarantee what we'll find in there when we wake you up; it may be a ballerina, a painter, an inventor, a racing driver, all or none of those. Like me when I update you'll soon merge, but in that process, be gentle with yourself, learn what you can and then become the best that you can be."
She sat silent for a few minutes considering all that they had talked about The awful potential hit her, was there a frustrated 'right'? How much of her anxiety stemmed from that unconscious internal conflict. What will happen now? What could happen if I allow the right more freedom?
Regan stood and walked barefoot into the warm shallow water. She hugged herself as she stared across at the bluff. He joined her and they stood there together, silent for a few minutes. Then she turned to him.
"Ham . . . let's do this thing."
And they were back in the Medlab . . .
* * *
Emergency lights flickered on throughout the ship allowing Commander Merryl to make his way to Central Control. Wide eyed figures looked to him as he passed, probably hoping for some kind of reassurance. He could offer nothing being as much in the dark as anyone. His heart still beat wildly, thumping in his chest so he paused for a few deep breaths before entering control. He could hear yelling through the door. At least they're doing something.
"Commander in control!" The voice of security boomed across the space as he entered, drawing all anxious eyes to him.
"Update number two, what is our current situation?" He moved straight to his command chair eyeing the blank screens and ignoring blank faces. Stay cool, we need order.
"Sir, we're trying to establish what happened and restore power. All systems are down; they completely crashed so we can't yet identify the problem. Engineering and Tech systems are onto it as we speak." The tall extremely thin Coran looked far too young to be second in command and Merryl cursed inwardly, Nepotism will be the death of me!
"What was happening before we crashed number two?"
"We were monitoring a signal from the region of the third planet region sir, not Earth, something in space, an orbital perhaps?"
"They don't have orbital's Ryner." He said it dismissively.
"Well sir, we noticed the signal and I was about to call you. It seemed random, meaningless until we realized it was repeating. It appeared to be specific for us, certainly squirted in our direction sir. We were trying to interpret it so I could give you more information."
Merryl ignored his concerns. "Go on . . ." As they continued to speak systems around them appeared to be coming back on line with lights flashing on screens. In the background he could hear the air system now humming again.
"We don't know how they detected us so early, but we're quite sure the message, if that is what it was, was for us. Then sir, all I can say is that there followed a massive drain on our systems and everything crashed. The rest you know sir."
"So we still know nothing. Was it an attack?" He turned to his young tech officer. "Terrin, what do you think?"
The tech systems specialist blanched in the spotlight then rose to the occasion. "Sir nothing penetrated our systems," She desperately reviewed data as the systems continued to power up. "The signal was being monitored by communications. We weren't receiving file data, just monitoring the signal and while that was going on our systems suddenly experienced a huge drain. It crashed everything. Sir, we can't be sure that the two things are even related."
"Keep checking Terrin, it's too much of a coincidence, let me know immediately if you find anything, anything at all, no matter how inconsequential. Ryner," He turned to the young officer reluctantly, "could something in engineering have caused the drain?"
"I'll get down there now Sir." He quickly departed before Merryl could say anything, clearly relieved to escape.
The large front screen suddenly flashed back to life, the star field spread from side to side dominated by the sun. "Somewhere out there is our goal people and we were heading right for it. Get us back under power before we hit!" Merryl slumped into the command chair thinking. We are a long, long way from our home . . .
* * *
. . . Much nearer their home but still very much in the dark the ADF slashed through what miniscule atmosphere the moon possesses. Rod's decision to 'get up close and personal' had triggered warning alarms from the onboard computer systems but truthfully it was a pointless exercise anyway. Other than the experience gained there was nothing to see, nothing to learn. Minjee had given up protesting. He was 'a lad' as the Aussie would say. It irritated her but nevertheless she did respect his attention to detail when it mattered. Sure, they were breaking protocol here but she could tell Rod was keeping them well within safety limits. She pretended not to notice.
"Five minutes to contact Rod." She reminded him of the soon to be reached point where they would again come under Ham's critical gaze.
"Gotcha . . ." he pulled back on the joystick, soaring away from the surface and into a high curve that would bring them back on track when they reappeared from behind the man in the moon.
The seconds ticked by as they prepared for contact and handover. Rod looked across at Minjee guiltily. "Thanks for not making a big deal about that. I wouldn't have done anything really silly, not with you in the seat anyway."
"Oh really . . . So what's so special about me then?" She thumped him playfully.
He smiled, "I won't be missed, no family, few friends, but you . . . you make the right kind of impression everywhere. You'd be missed Minjee, believe it."
"Hmm, you underrate yourself I think flyboy, you may have friendships you're yet to cement." She smiled back. "Thirty seconds to contact."
The ADF swung back into glaring sunlight, the screen immediately compensating so that they didn't even have chance to squint. The seconds ticked by as they waited for Ham's usual 'Welcome baaack'. More seconds ticked by . . .
"Hillary Station this is ADF A1. Do you read me Ham? Come in please." Minjee looked sideways at Rod, eyebrows raised.
"No idea." He replied to the unspoken question, "Try again."
"Are you there Ham, we're ready to hand over for return." She sounded concerned.
Nothing . . .
"Hillary Station, anyone, do you read?"
Still no reply. They waited a moment longer . . .
"Well, it looks like we're on our own babe" Rod sighed, "and now this does sound like a test. Make the calculations and let's show we can get ourselves home."
Minjee immediately set about working through the routines with their system. The general task wasn't difficult, Earth dominated the view screen and Hillary Station under magnification was easily discernible. Negotiating the pipe
and landing the ADF would be another challenge altogether.
Two hours later Rod having utilized both the ADF's propulsion methods to accelerate and slow, they drifted in through the moonward entrance and sailed down pipe through darkness. Earth could be seen through the earthward opening but other than that all was black, no blue field screen at the earthward rim, no lit windows, no sign of tube movements, a few of the unmanned Sherpa's appearing to drift. With no signals it was eerily quiet both from the station and in the cockpit.
"Rod . . . Look over there, on the back of that Sherpa . . ." she gestured to the right.
He looked across squinting in the dim light provided from either end. It was a body, draped over the rear of the Sherpa as if stuck there. A cold feeling ran down his back. They were passing centre pipe now and debris became apparent, scattered about randomly. Rod slowed them even further progressing using the effector tech so their drift became a crawl, meter by meter toward the earthward flight decks. Both were galvanized now, alert, adrenalin pumping. It was clear something terrible had happened.
"Hillary Station, this is flight control on The Step do you read?" A woman's voice, she sounded anxious.
Minjee tapped to reply."Hillary Step, this is ADF A1, we read you from Hilary Station someth . . ." Rod grabbed Minjees arm arresting her comment. He glared at her and shook his head.
"Do you read me ADF A1, this is Flight Control Hillary Step, and who am I speaking to?"
Rod took over, "Hillary Step this is Major Rod Harmon, Ma'am we are in the middle of a surprise drill. You can expect contact again within the hour, two at the most. Our safety systems on station are being tested in case of emergency, do you read?"
"No one said anything to us Major, how come we're not having a drill?"
"Well we'd hate for you to miss out control, maybe it'll be you tomorrow . . . or the next day." he looked at Minjee and grimaced.
Regan's Reach 2: Orbital Envy Page 12
