Totaled

by Kary English

  TOTALED

  by Kary English

  Think. I’ve got to think.

  If I still had a body, I’d be flashing cold right now, with nausea clawing at my throat. My mind rebels against it, but I think...

  Damn it! Why did I ever sign that research waiver?

  I think I’m dead.

  ***

  I remember the accident like it was yesterday—no, like it’s still happening, with the tires skidding on wet asphalt. It was the first big storm of the season. The boys had dentist appointments, so we all slept in, and I made waffles for breakfast. I can still smell the syrup.

  Lightning crackled overhead. We ducked our heads and ran for the car, spurred by the smell of fresh rain on hot pavement.

  We hydroplaned at the bottom of the on ramp. The back end fishtailed, and we skidded into the traffic lanes. A big diesel monster plowed into the driver’s-side door. The spin sucked us into the gap between the truck and trailer.

  Everything was slow motion after that. The flip. Spinning on the roof. The raging cacophony of silence when we hit the tree.

  The boys, strapped in their seats, were fine thanks to the side cushion airbags. The other driver walked away.

  But I was totaled.

  ***

  Damn, this is hard.

  I try to process what I’m feeling. If I’m feeling. I cycle through my senses.

  It’s dark. Dark like a cave on the night of the new moon. I try to inhale through my nose but nothing happens. It smells like sterile air in the containment room at the lab. It smells like nothing.

  My tongue remembers the warmth of my mouth and the smooth-hard shapes of my teeth, but that’s a memory, not a perception.

  My adrenaline rises. My heartbeat thumps in my ears like an off-balance wash load, but I don’t have ears—or a heart—so that’s a memory, too.

  No, not a memory. An association formed of repeated fear responses over thirty-eight years of life.

  If I had hands, they’d tremble. My mouth would go dry. An fMRI would show shifting colors lighting up my pre-frontal cortex, then racing through the midbrain and amygdala.

  I want to hug my knees to my chest and hide my face in my arms. I want to take deep breaths to calm myself, but I can’t. All of that is an illusion now.

  Wait.

  Maybe I can.

  I remember a study where subjects imagined flame and their skin warmed. If I imagine breathing, maybe I can fool my brain into sweeping the stress chemicals from my tissues.

  I focus every scintilla of will on taking a deep, cleansing breath. Like sensations in a phantom limb, I feel my chest expand. Feel cool air flowing through my nostrils and down the back of my throat. I let the breath out, and my shoulders relax even though I don’t have shoulders, either.

  I do it again. And again, until the darkness feels soft and comforting like flannel sheets on Christmas Eve.

  Now I can think.

  Where am I?

  No way to tell. Should be a lab at Allied Neuro Associates if I’ve left the hospital already. The research rider was explicit about that. A total meant immediate notification of ANA so the tissues could be stabilized for transfer.

  How long have I been like this?

  No way to know that, either, but it doesn’t feel like long. Immediate transport was vital to stave off the effects of glucose and oxygen deprivation prior to immersion in the SuMP chamber. SuMP, sonicated microparticle perfusion. Continuous oxygenation, near-perfect preservation of living tissue for up to six months. No refrigeration needed.

  The irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. My own research helped make this possible.

  ***

  The personal total wasn’t a new concept. It started back in the Teens when the Treaders put their first candidate in office. Healthcare costs were insane. Insurance was almost impossible to get. The Treaders said taxpayers shouldn’t have to pay for medical care someone else couldn’t afford, so they instituted a review board for totals.

  The uneducated, the elderly, the poor—they could be totaled at less than a year’s wages. My doctorate put my total at lifetime earnings plus a multiplier for patents. My policy was supposed to be enough to cover anything. I thought I was safe.

  The research rider came with an annuity. I did it for the boys. I had a good salary, but things were still tight after the divorce. If I died or got totaled, the rider said ANA could have any tissues they wanted, and the annuity would go to Dale and Zachary.

  Tissues, of course, meant brains.

  ***

  It’s still dark, and I can’t tell how much time has passed. Have I slept? The accident plays over and over in my mind, a screech of tires followed by a stomach-twisting lurch. I wish for something, anything, to distract me from it.

  There’s a soft clunk followed by a vibration. It’s not a sound but a sensation of movement so slight that I wonder if I’ve imagined it.

  The darkness continues, and the vibration comes again. It’s rhythmic, and I recognize it. It’s the HVAC system cycling on and off at the lab. ANA for sure, then.

  The sensation puzzles me. We left touch alone because an isolated brain has no skin, no nerves to transmit tactile sensations. How, then, am I able to sense movement?

  I ponder the sensation. I’m not hearing the vibration so much as feeling it. It seems like forever before I make the connection. Vascular tissue. No nerves in the brain itself, but it’s full of vascular tissue for blood supply, plus we preserved the optical and auditory nerve clusters for later activation. Interesting.

  There’s a stronger, sharper vibration in what I assume is the hallway outside the lab. It stops and starts in small jolts. Footsteps? The sensation intensifies as if they’re coming closer. In a flash, I realize I know them. It’s my research partner, Randy.

  Oh, God! I’m in my own lab? Randy! Randy, it’s me. Get me out of here! But he can’t. Not anymore.

  Randy Moreno, PhD in AI and neural interfaces. Mine was in good ol’ neuroscience and distributed cognition. Our focus was biotech, integrating electronics with neural pathways. I was bio. He was tech. I guess he still is.

  We were working on a bionet, a microscopic web of living, electrical conduits no more than three molecules wide. If we could stabilize the bionet, there was so much we could do—regulate neurotransmitters, end depression, cure Alzheimer’s. We were so close, and the list seemed endless.

  Randy bangs things around, and I feel a sloshing sensation. He’s moving me. There are bouts of protracted jostling interspersed with maddening lengths of nothing. Then my entire awareness is blasted by a stimulus larger than a thousand suns. I can feel myself screaming, my phantom mouth open wide, phantom hands covering phantom ears. And that’s when the stimulus falls into place. Sound. Riotous, deafening sound.

  Holy crap! I can hear!

  My newfound hearing adjusts. It’s quiet in the lab, but the tiniest sound seems painfully crisp after my time in the dark void of nothing. The AC. The soft hum of machinery. The squeak of Randy’s lab chair, and the rustle of clothing as he moves.

  It works. I can’t believe it works! I mean, we knew the hearing module worked with chimpanzees and fetal tissue, but this was our first trial with an adult human brain. A surge of pride and excitement rushes through me. If I were truly alive, Randy and I would be hugging and high-fiving.

  I hear a tapping of keys, then a blast of Zydeco music. Geez, Randy. Couldja make it any louder?

  Randy likes his music loud and fast. Zydeco was a favorite. So was old speed metal. I could never think with Washboard Gumbo or Motorhead drowning out my Pachelbel Canon, so we’d both agreed to induction transmitters when we worked together. It’s part of what inspired the sound research.

  By the time the day ends, I’ve decided that I’m not re
ally in the lab. I’m in a twisted hell of Black Sabbath and Buckwheat Zydeco.

  Finally, the onslaught ceases, and I can hear Randy gathering his coat and keys. His footsteps retreat, the door closes, and the lab goes still. The void settles over me again, and I feel strangely bereft, but I push the feeling aside. It must be night. Time to plan.

  I picture the lab setup. If nothing’s changed, I know every monitor, every piece of equipment. Randy’s more of an electronics guy than a wetware guy, but he knows when an fMRI looks hinky. Enough anomalies, and he’ll start to wonder. He knows I signed that rider. Enough anomalies, and he’ll know it’s me.

  ***

  When the door opens the next morning, I’m ready. I need a happy thought to light up the reward center on the fMRI.

  I remember getting off the airplane after my last conference. The boys were waiting at the baggage claim with their grandparents. They ran to meet me and I grabbed them up in a hug.

  Damn, wrong memory. Now I’m crying, and I’ve missed the moment.

  The musical assault resumes and scatters my thoughts like a beaker hitting the tile floor.

  I’ll try again tomorrow.

  ***

  The door opens. Here we go again. Kittens! Fluffy, furry kittens!

  Nothing. Is Randy even watching? Maybe it hasn’t occurred to him that lab tissues shouldn’t have feelings.

  My disappointment sinks into an auditory cloud of key tapping and Slayer.

  I’ve almost given up when I hear it.

  “What the hell?” Randy says.

  Kittens!

  Oh my God, Randy. See it! Puppies. Kittens. Christmas!

  Randy’s rushing around the lab, fussing with the equipment. The frenetic sound of his movement tells me he’s onto something.

  Then the door to the lab opens, and a female voice speaks.

  “Hey, Randy. Want to get some lunch?”

  Dammit! Jeanine Sanders. Grad student lab assistant who works part-time in PR. She has a thing for Randy. I can hear it every time she says his name.

  “Nah, I’m in the middle of something here. I keep getting a p300 on this brain.”

  A p300? Oooh, good catch, Randy! I forgot about that one.

  The file cabinet rattles with a soft thump. Is Jeanine sitting on it? Can’t she see he’s busy? Shoo! Scoot!

  “P300—novelty response, right? So?”

  Randy’s chair swivels. The wheels squeak. “It’s more complicated than novelty,” he answers. “Like, did you ever play Slapjack as a kid? No? OK, Joker Poker, where the joker’s wild? P300 only hits on the Joker. Regular poker where the joker’s just a misdeal? Nothin’.”

  Randy’s chair rolls across the room. “So,” he says, showing off for her, “every time I come into the lab, this thing spikes a p300.”

  Duh, Randy. It’s because I know you.

  “Well, hell if I know, Randy. Maybe it knows you.”

  Great, so Jeanine-the-annoying-grad-student gets it but my own research partner doesn’t.

  “Ha, ha. Very funny. Hey, when you go out, would you bring me a sandwich? I’m gonna be stuck here awhile.”

  Jeanine’s voice brightens. “Sure thing, Randy!” Her heels click across the floor until the door closes behind her, then Randy turns his attention back to me.

  His chair creaks, and he slurps a liquid that’s probably coffee. It sounds like he’s adjusting monitors and checking the settings on our equipment.

  “OK, brain,” he says, talking more to himself than to me. “What’s going on in there? You playin’ tricks on ol’ Ran’?”

  I imagine Handel’s Messiah, and the pure, liquid notes of Maria Callas’s Ave Maria.

  It’s a message, Randy. Please see it.

  Randy goes silent. There’s a fumbling click, and Slayer stops mid-riff.

  I hear him take another swallow of coffee and return the cup to the desk.

  “Maggie?” He whispers it. I can hear the horror and disbelief in his voice.

  Yes, Randy! Yes, it’s me. I knew you could do it.

  “Oh, God. Oh, Maggie. I have to—What do I have to do? Uh, look, I need more bandwidth, more data.”

  Randy shuffles papers. He moves his coffee mug, then his chair. “Maggie, just hang on. I need to wire you up on the full array. I’ll be right back.”

  By the time he returns, we’ve both calmed down a little.

  “Christ, Maggie. How did this happen? The accident, right? Light up something for me so I know I’m not crazy.”

  I think of brownies. Hot. Sweet. Fudgy. Gooey in the middle but crunchy around the edges.

  Randy’s tapping his fingers on his desk. I can picture him half-standing, leaning his weight on his hands while he stares at the monitor. “OK,” he says. “I can get this. Parahippocampal gyrus. Christ, Maggie, could you have picked something easier to spell? Lemme look it up.”

  I hear the rapid-fire clicking of his keyboard.

  “Reward center. Associated with food. You’re … hungry? No, wait. You can’t be hungry. Reward center—it means yes, right? Yes?”

  Apple pie hot from the oven with the steamy scent of cinnamon rising from the crust.

  Randy’s voice sounds intense but distracted. It’s his work mode when he’s hot on a breakthrough.

  “Got it. OK, Maggie, let’s try ‘no.’ Whaddaya got for me?”

  I’ve thought about no. Pain won’t work. I don’t think I can fake it consistently. Neither will sadness. Too diffuse. I need something baser, more instinctive. I need disgust.

  Vomit. Maggots. Rotting, stinking meat crawling with flies.

  “Whoa, anterior insula. Yeah, that’ll do it. Now let’s run some confirmation trials. Give me a yes.”

  We practice until yes and no are instant, consistent and clear. The door opens again, but it’s not Jeanine with Randy’s sandwich. It’s a male voice asking Randy if there’s been any progress.

  I know that voice. Doc Leavitt, ANA’s Executive VP of Research. Arrogant bastard. We’re all PhDs here, but we call each other by our first names. Not Leavitt. He wants to be called Doctor.

  “Yeah, there’s been progress. It’s Maggie.” Randy sounds livid. His voice is low and constrained, like he’s holding back from violence. There’s a thwack and a rattling, metallic crash like someone slamming a file on the desk and kicking a chair across the lab. “It’s Maggie, you troglodyte prick.”

  For once I’m glad I’m just a brain in a jar because I would have laughed out loud. Randy, Randy, it’s Doctor Troglodyte Prick to you.

  “Of course it’s Dr. Hauri,” says Leavitt. “She was too close on the bionet project. We gave your notes to three separate teams, and they’ve gotten nowhere. Learn to communicate with her so you can finish it before the perfusion decay sets in.”

  “You gave our notes—?” Randy sounds incredulous, then indignant. “Wait. You want us to finish it? Screw you!”

  Oh, God. I wish I could see. Don’t punch him, Randy. Please, don’t punch him.

  “Insubordination, Mr. Moreno. I will forget you said that when your proof-of-concept hits my desk. Until then, remember that I could send the tissue to the Connectomics lab for neural mapping instead of leaving it with you.”

  Connectomics. Where I’d be plastinated and carved into millions of transparent slices. I take it back, Randy. Punch him.

  The door closes again, and I hear Randy righting his chair. He sighs heavily.

  “Well, Maggie, guess we need to finish it. What do you say?”

  I hesitate. The bionet was my life’s work. Of course I want to finish it. But in this state, is it even possible? With the perfusion decay, I don’t even know how long we have.

  After a few moments, I think of ripe peaches, and how their heady scent used to fill my mother’s kitchen during summer canning. I imagine their velvet under my fingers and peach juice running down the inside of my arm.

  “OK, then,” says Randy. “We finish it.”

  ***

  In the hallway outsi
de, Jeanine’s heels tap their way to the door. I wonder what kind of sandwich she got him? I hope it’s a cheese steak. Randy likes those. Her voice when the door opens is unbearably perky.

  “Hey, Randy. They were out of peppers for a cheese steak, so I got you a Cubano.” He ushers her in with a sharp whisper. When the door clicks closed, Randy swears her to secrecy.

  Wait—Jeanine’s on the team? Hello, nobody asked me about this? I sulk while Randy eats his sandwich.

  ***

  Randy and I work together in the lab just like we used to. Well, almost like we used to. Jeanine keeps Randy fed, and I count the lunches to keep track of the days. After the fourth one, a gooey meatball sub by the sound, something’s changed in Randy’s voice. There’s a huskier note that tells me he’s beginning to return Jeanine’s feelings. My sense of loss and bewilderment comes as a rude surprise, and I retreat into memories of my boys.

  ***

  Randy says the auditory linkage wasn’t that difficult. We had it pretty well nailed down in previous trials, but vision is being fiddly. There’s not enough time to code even rudimentary opsin mimickry, so Randy scraps the environmental sensor that would have let me see what’s going on in the lab and switches to one of his implants. Leavitt, meanwhile, slaps Randy with a HIPAA redaction and non-disclosure order specifying that the anonymous tissue donor for our project be identified only as subject HF47-A.

  Great. I’ve been officially reduced to a number.

  Randy’s visual assist implant has been used with the legally blind, but it’s supposed to augment organic vision, not replace it, and it’s never been used for remote viewing. Without the opsin profiles, Randy’s only choice is to slave the input to a live source, namely his own eyes. He’s breaking at least six internal policies, and probably a federal law or two, but we both know Leavitt will look the other way if it works.

  The first two trials are abject failures. On the second one, Randy says there’s a flicker in my visual cortex on the fMRI, but my subjective experience is negative. Nada. Zip.

  Randy’s voice is tense and layered with exhaustion. “Listen, Maggie, we get one more shot at this. The nerve endings are too frayed for another splice if we fail.”