Mad Skills

by Greatshell, Walter

  Between the miniature buildings (and some of them weren’t really so miniature) were streets and canals and elevated trains, all seething with hectic activity. It was noisy. It smelled like a pet store. But the most remarkable thing to Maddy was that it was not just a sterile clockwork, a toy store’s gaudy Christmas display. It was alive. It was populated … or perhaps more accurately, it was infested.

  Infested with rats!

  Maddy laughed with delight—it was the funniest thing she had ever seen.

  Rats everywhere, rats wearing little hats—black caps with blinking blue LEDs. Many of them also wore specialized body harnesses with side pouches and Velcro straps, like miniature pack mules.

  And so many. The avenues were full of them, stopping and starting, yielding and passing, getting on and off trains and boats, most carrying loads of one kind or another, all moving in orderly lines as though trained for the circus—a perfect simulacrum of urban commerce. Or perhaps not perfect in that it was too perfect: There were no bottlenecks, no traffic jams, no pileups or police sirens. Just a smooth flow of furry bodies and pink tails, as orderly as the movement of blood cells through capillaries. Or ants in a nest.

  Above her left shoulder, Maddy heard her father say, “This is amazing.”

  “Isn’t it? Everything you see is controlled by computer. It’s constantly refining the live model to match the simulation, down to a fraction of an inch. If you can believe it, we started with only one rat. Once the computer mastered that, we tried ten, then added about ten a week until we reached a thousand. The rats are manipulated, using very crude neural implants—nothing like the sophistication of the human prototype—but you can see it’s enough to govern a wide range of behaviors. The truly remarkable feat here is not the implant itself but the logistical challenge: Every rat has its own complex series of functions, and each rat’s mission intersects either directly or indirectly with every other rat, so they have to work at a high degree of organizational efficiency. Combine that with the need to keep them healthy, to feed and sleep them in rotating shifts, to cope with every conceivable variable, intended or otherwise, and you can understand the tremendous sophistication required to keep it running smoothly. Fortunately, we leave most of that to the computer. Thanks to its organic component, the system has great flexibility in adapting to random events, just as a living organism must. It forms new synaptic pathways as needed, quadrillions of them, far beyond what we can predict or understand. Fortunately, we don’t have to.”

  “But why? Why build this whole thing?”

  “We didn’t build it, Mr. Grant. They did. They’re still doing it, see? When anything breaks down, they fix it. The rats are the hands of the computer.”

  “But what does this have to do with our daughter?”

  “This city is a complex system, just like your daughter’s brain. The computer doesn’t know the difference—it’s all just urban renewal.”

  “I don’t know. It seems so bizarre …”

  “Okay, well, look at me. Do I seem bizarre or unusual in any way to you?”

  “No …”

  “That’s good. Because just seven months ago, I suffered a severe stroke. Oh yes. Completely out of the blue. I was paralyzed, a vegetable, unable to walk or talk. My wife nearly signed a Do Not Resuscitate order. Almost pulled the plug.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “That’s right. But look at me now. You see, Mr. and Mrs. Grant, I’m not only a doctor here at Braintree—I’m also a client.”

  FOUR

  BLINDS

  WEIRD. Maddy was amazed at how clearly she could remember her dreams. Normally, they evaporated upon waking like so much dry ice, all details lost in the fog. This was more like adjusting the focal length of a microscope: The harder she thought about her dreams, the sharper and more elaborate they became, so that it was necessary to scan the endless recollections as if fast-forwarding a DVD. I must still be sick, she thought. Scrolling, scrolling—no end in sight. I’m delirious.

  The torrent of memories was fascinating … and disturbing. She’d never had such dreams, not even in her worst fevers. They were like a whole lifetime passing before her eyes. Not her lifetime, thank God, but the lifetime of some alternate-universe Maddy Grant—a drooling basket case who could barely walk or talk. Yet in these dreams she was that girl, as though her brain had somehow recorded things that had happened to someone else. It was creeping her out.

  “Maddy, wake up.”

  “I’m awake. God.”

  The venetian blinds next to her bed were driving her crazy. Dust had collected on the beige horizontal slats, and all she could think was, Why don’t they make them vertical? Or just hang curtains. It had to be a pain to clean these things, dusting each slat individually, and the scattered dust would only float back down and make them dirty all over again. Waste of energy. Plus the metal slats were unnecessarily heavy, noisy, and fragile, and the string-pulley mechanism overly complex. The whole thing was an accident waiting to happen—one crimped slat, one tangle, and it was history. It reminded her of a failed contraption from the dawn of aviation, one of those early technological bloopers. And why venetian, anyway? Were they really invented in Venice, and if so, what gave the Venetians license to design a window blind? The sun wasn’t especially intense there, was it? You think Venice, you think canals, gondolas, bridges, churches. You think blown glass. You don’t think crappy window blinds from an old detective movie. Egyptians or somebody like that should have the franchise on blinds—some ancient culture from a desert climate, who could do it right. Think of those rooftop windcatchers in medieval Cairene architecture. Now that was an elegant technology.

  “Maddy.”

  Maddy turned toward the voice. It was a smiling, sharp-featured woman with a steely gray ’fro. Dr. Stevens, Maddy recalled. It was strange to see her in real life, because this wasn’t quite the same Dr. Stevens from her dreams. That one was godlike and benevolent. Angelic. Capable of miracles. This was just a middle-aged woman with thin, cracked lips and an oddly ambivalent smile. She seemed to have shrunk substantially.

  “Where am I?” Maddy asked. It hurt to talk. “What happened?”

  “Don’t worry, you’re safe. You’ve had a bit of an accident, but you’re doing fine. Your folks are on their way in now—they should be here any minute.”

  “What accident?” Maddy suddenly realized that her fingers were bandaged, and when she raised them to her head, she found more bandages covering her scalp. Her heart jumped in fright. “What is this?”

  “You don’t remember anything?”

  Maddy tried to think back—back past the vivid dreams of that long, long, restless night, seeking the last time she had been fully awake. It was like trying to swim through molasses … but the harder she tried, the more clearly she could visualize shapes and colors through the muck. Faces, places, random familiar images flipping like pictures in a photo album. Marina Sweet. Colored lights over the trees and the wheezing sound of a calliope. With each mental effort, she felt a peculiar rush of acceleration, almost like changing gears on her bike.

  Suddenly, she could smell popcorn and damp sawdust. The carnival. Craving a candy apple. Ben. Going in the fun house. That kiss in the dark. And at the end …

  “Where’s Ben? What happened to Ben?”

  Even before Dr. Stevens answered, Maddy already knew. She had heard the doctor talking to her parents about it … but in the dream. That was just a dream!

  “Now please remember that your daughter has suffered a significant brain injury. Considering she’s just awoken from three weeks in a coma, she’s doing exceptionally well—it’s a miracle she’s alive at all—but she’s still in what we call a minimally conscious state. That means we’re not quite sure what she may or may not be aware of. It’s important that you don’t overreact to her impairment—try to appear relaxed and upbeat. Reassure her that you haven’t changed, that there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “We understand. Don’t we, honey?”


  “Normal. Yes, okay. I’ll try. Thank you, Dr. Stevens.”

  “Come this way.”

  “I’m still just so thankful that you could squeeze her in here, you have no idea. It’s a long trip for us, but just knowing that she’s getting this level of care makes it so much easier to cope. That other hospital—”

  “Of course. I understand, Mr. Grant. Just remember that your daughter is also providing a valuable benefit for us—we’re a private research clinic, not a charity hospital. Medicine is our business. If Maddy wasn’t helping us develop the next generation of neurological treatments, she wouldn’t have been enrolled in the program. Many are denied, most of whom are very deserving people. For instance, we turn away many injured vets simply because their type or degree of brain trauma does not fit the narrow parameters of our study. So don’t thank us too much for your daughter’s care. We need her as much as she needs us.”

  “Certainly, certainly.”

  “Here we are. Maddy? Look who’s come to visit: It’s your mom and pop.”

  “Oh my God, oh my God. Maddy! Baby!”

  “Muhmm … fah …”

  “Oh dear Lord … Maddy …”

  “Bem … wuh Bem …”

  “It’s okay, baby, we’re here. It’s us.”

  “… wah know wuh Bem …”

  “What’s wrong? What’s she saying?”

  “She’s been asking about Ben Blevin since this morning. It’s actually a sign of significant improvement that she remembers.”

  “Oh my God. Have you told her?”

  “We were waiting for you. We wanted her to have as much emotional support as possible.”

  “Oh God. My poor baby. Do you think we should tell her now?”

  “I’m afraid that’s up to you.”

  “Bem … wah Bem … gahhh …”

  “Oh dear God … Maddy? Baby, I’m so sorry. Ben has gone up to Heaven to be with the angels. He’s passed away. Do you understand, sweetie? But Mommy and Daddy are here, and we love you. We’re here with your friend Dr. Stevens. You’re safe now.”

  “Bem … Bem …”

  “Baby? Maddy? It’s Mommy. Doctor, I don’t think she can hear me.”

  “From what we know, she’s physically capable of hearing you, Mrs. Grant. It just may be that she doesn’t comprehend what you’re saying … or perhaps simply doesn’t want to. That’s not surprising. Give her some time to let it sink in. With therapy, we’re hoping she’ll continue to improve, but part of that will be accepting a profoundly different reality than the one she may remember prior to her injury. That goes for you two as well. You’re all in it for the long haul. Today is the first day of the rest of your lives.”

  It was no dream, none of it. Twisting her hospital wristband until it hurt, Maddy cried, “He’s dead?”

  “Ben passed away, I’m afraid. It was too late to save him. It’s a miracle you survived.”

  “No way … you’re lying. I can tell you’re lying.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “He can’t be dead, okay? He kissed me! I can still feel it!”

  Releasing a dose of sedative into Maddy’s IV, Dr. Stevens said, “There there, it’s going to be all right.”

  “No! He kissed me—he liked me!”

  The room blurred, everything spinning. She tried to fight it, clinging to the bed rails and sobbing “No, no …” Then the tornado carried her away.

  FIVE

  SCRATCHES

  WHEN she woke up, Dr. Stevens was still waiting.

  “Ben,” Maddy croaked.

  “Madeline, that was a long time ago. It’s over; it’s time to let Ben go. You have a new life to look forward to. Don’t you think he would want that?”

  She glowered at the doctor as if seeing her for the first time. In a flat, weary tone, she said, “You never had any children, did you?”

  “Now now, shhh.”

  “No, wait, I’m wrong.” Maddy strained to sit up. “You did have a child. But something bad happened, right? It died, or disappointed you … or both.”

  “Hush now, that’s enough.”

  “So you gave up. You turned cold and made it all about the work. I’m the work, aren’t I? People like me. We’re just substitutes for what you’ve given up—holy shit, you hate us. You’re lying to me, and you’re lying to yourself. You think I’m Pinocchio, but I’m a human being. You’re the one made of wood.”

  Dr. Stevens blinked as though dazed. She laughed weakly, and said, “Miss Grant, you’re just experiencing a drug reaction. Try not to speak.”

  Maddy collapsed back onto the pillow, all doped up. She was sweating, and her eyes burned with tears. “What do you mean, a long time?” she demanded. “How long have I been here?”

  “Fourteen months.”

  “Fourteen months?”

  “Yes—shhh, don’t scream. You were comatose when we first brought you here, and since then you’ve been through extensive rehabilitation. For most of that time you were unconscious, or delirious. Someone should have cut your nails sooner; that’s how you scratched your hands, I’m sorry. But I’m happy to tell you you’ve turned the corner. Thanks to your recent surgery, we’re confident of a full recovery … perhaps within days. You may not realize it yet, but the change is striking.”

  “MADDY! OH, OH, MY BABY!”

  Before Maddy could react, her mother swept in like a tornado and fell upon her, sobbing hysterically.

  “Oh God oh my sweet baby …”

  “Hey, Mom. Ow.”

  Her dad was there, too—her real dad, Roger, not Ben’s handsome father, Sam—but he kept his distance, sagging tearfully against the doorway. Roger Grant knew Maddy didn’t like big emotional displays—she had suffered enough melodrama during the divorce to last a lifetime.

  “Mom, I’m not an infant. Come on, it’s okay.”

  Her mother sobbed against her awhile longer, then sat up and fumbled a pack of tissues out of her purse. Her face was a disaster.

  “Oh my God. I’m sorry, sweetie. It’s just—it’s just that I never thought I’d have you back again. Look at you! I can’t believe it!”

  She dissolved once more into wracking sobs. Maddy’s father came forward and put his arm around his ex-wife’s shoulder, saying gently, “That’s enough now, Beth. Maddy’s just woken up; she probably doesn’t need us going to pieces right now.”

  “I CAN’T HELP IT!”

  “Okay, okay … relax.”

  “MY DAUGHTER IS ALIVE! CAN YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?”

  “Yes, yes—shh.”

  “MY LITTLE GIRL IS BACK! SO JUST—JUST LET US ALONE FOR FIVE SECONDS! JESUS!”

  “Fine. Absolutely. Sorry—go ahead.”

  Maddy asked, “You guys haven’t gotten back together by any chance, have you?”

  Sniffling, her mother gave a rueful chuckle and blew her nose. “No, honey.”

  “We just both wanted to be here for you.”

  “Divorce or no divorce, you’re our only daughter.”

  Maddy looked at her folks, so broken up. It must have been horrible for them. They looked old and worn-out, as if they were the ones who belonged in the hospital. They were so … pitiful. It was disturbing to see them this way, nothing like the uncritical childish adoration she’d felt for them in her dream. In the dream, they were her heroes, they were back together again, reunited as a family, and it was all so effing wonderful. Stupid.

  Maddy felt bad about not sharing the moment—obviously this was a huge deal to them—but from her point of view, she hadn’t gone anywhere. Apparently she’d snoozed through all the really rough stuff. Her most meaningful event was Ben’s death … and obviously nobody cared about that anymore. Ben Blevin, the first boy she’d ever kissed, was old news.

  Maddy looked past her parents to Dr. Stevens, who was standing unobtrusively in the corner.

  “So … when can I go home?”

  “Soon. We’d like to keep you a few more days, just for observation.”

>   “Haven’t you observed me enough by now?”

  Her folks laughed gratefully at her wry tone—this was the Maddy they remembered—but the doctor only smiled and said, “Not quite.”

  SIX

  THE PROCRUSTEAN READING ROOM

  THE Braintree Clinic was different in her dreams. In dreams, it was much bigger inside than out. In dreams, it was old. She remembered it as a magic box, a brightly mirrored portal into a strange castle riddled with crazy catacombs and pools of white light. It echoed.

  The reality was less impressive: a generic silver module five stories high, with a pleasant view of trees. Braintree was obviously very well funded, everything gleaming and state of the art, but Maddy thought it was a little lame how they wanted it to look like something out of Star Trek when behind the chrome veneer it was really the same old crap. The inefficiencies drove her crazy, not to mention the health hazards—she could practically smell formaldehyde leaching from unstable compounds in the furniture. And forget cracking a window! Wandering the faux-futuristic halls, she half expected to turn a corner and find herself in a cavern full of enormous, rusty machinery. But Maddy knew there could be no such place there—that it had to be some kind of residual memory from the fun house.

  The fun house. Maddy had read news reports of the carnival accident, but thankfully she didn’t remember very much of that night. And it was hard to tell which of her memories were true, so she was always looking for independent confirmation. Verifiable facts. There were still a lot of gray areas, neutral territories where dreams and reality battled for turf in her head. However much she would have liked to make peace with both sides, they could not share the same ground; they did not mesh. They could be remarkably similar at times, but they occupied separate universes. Nevertheless, she homed in on any points of congruence she could find, seizing them like handholds—intersections along the tightrope where her fumbling mind could find purchase.