“Oh, now that’s awful. That kind of thing used to happen years ago, back when they used… What did it used to be called? Something in the insulation?”
“Asbestos,” Mila says, playing a two of diamonds.
“Oh, that’s twenty-five. Yes, they used asbestos. But all that finished off when I was still younger. The last of the people that got sick with it died. They didn’t know, of course, back when they were using it, that it would do any harm.”
“Yes, this is like that.”
“Well, you’re going to help, aren’t you, dear?” Mrs. Bremer’s eyes widen expectantly, creating more wrinkles.
“I could ask one of my coworkers to help. It doesn’t have to be me.”
Mrs. Bremer studies her hand and then says, “That’s it for me. It’s ‘Go’ to you, sweetie. Now, can your coworkers help as well as you can?”
Mila frowns and admits, “Well, no. Probably not.” She plays a five of spades.
“I’ll bet you’re about the best there is at whatever it is you do.” Mrs. Bremer nods with a sidelong glance. “You are one smart girl. I can tell that from talking to you for this little while.”
Mila shrugs.
“So if you’re the best one to solve the problem, then you ought to do it, especially if people are sick. I tell you what, no one ever appreciates their health until they lose it, and then they realize that there is nothing more precious in this world. Nothing else matters when you’re in pain or when you can’t get around or don’t feel good. It might as well all be over.”
Mila looks at her cards, and Mrs. Bremer gives her another perceptive look. “You don’t want to do it, do you?”
“No, not especially. I don’t like to get out of my routine. I like how my days are. I go to work, I come visit—” She catches herself. “I go visit someone in a hospital or nursing home who might like some company, and then I go home to my cat. I like things how they are.”
Mrs. Bremer chuckles. “Oh, honey. One thing I have learned in my time—things don’t stay the way they are. Not for long at all. You might as well get used to that. And if things change because someone needs help, then that’s a whole lot better than the alternative.”
Mila says, “Yes, ma’am,” but it sounds like courtesy, not agreement.
“So you’ll help those nurses out?”
“It isn’t my problem,” Mila argues. “I shouldn’t have to do it. It’s nothing but trouble for me.”
Her mother gives her a look. “I know you’re not my child, but if it was my daughter I was talking to, I would say you ought to be ashamed of yourself if there’s something you can do to help someone and you don’t do it. That’s what I would say.”
Mila looks like she’s being sentenced to a long prison term.
“If we only live for ourselves,” Mrs. Bremer says, “we aren’t living at all.”
“Okay. I will help,” Mila says, though it sounds like it may be through gritted teeth.
Mrs. Bremer beams. “Thatta girl. You’ll be glad you did it.”
When I wake up the next afternoon—Thursday—the first thought that hits me is, Whoa. Jamie’s girlfriend.
Jamie has been cut off from his girlfriend and his other friends for at least a full day and probably no one has told any of them what’s going on. Not unless someone in my Collective overlaps with someone in his—but let’s be honest, what little brother would let that happen? Not mine.
I direct my Memory app to go back to yesterday’s visit to Jamie, to when I was reviewing his memories of the weekend. From my video of his video, I pick out the girl’s name and send her a message, although I have to take a few minutes to decide how to phrase it.
< Tonya, this is Jamie’s older sister. Jamie has been out of touch because he’s in the hospital. He’s okay at the moment, just a problem with how his brain is functioning, but while he’s in the hospital, he’s not allowed to talk to anyone. It should only be a few more days. I can let you know when he’s been released or you can wait for him to contact you again. Please spread the word to Jamie’s friends. >
This is an absurdly optimistic message, but I cross my fingers that it’ll end up being that simple.
I realize that I’m exhausted. I’ve been working a lot in the past two days.
Before I can even form the next thought, Tonya has written me back. Seven times.
<< OMG HOLY CRAP >>
<< I HAVE BEEN CRYING MY EYES OUT >>
<< I thought he BROKE UP WITH ME >>
<< he didn’t talk to me for TWO DAYS >>
<< I was so MAD >>
<< OMG OMG OMG >>
<< thank you for writing me >>
Okay then.
I’m so glad I’m not seventeen anymore.
When I left work this morning, it seemed that the wave of new patients had crested for the moment. The problem is that we’re having trouble getting them discharged. The regular medications aren’t working reliably, and Jamie is no longer the only patient who has flipped from hyper-aggressive to a blank slate. In fact, it seems to be a typical progression, affecting about fifteen to twenty percent of the patients.
I check my other new messages, and I spot one from Mila.
<< I will help. I’ve already talked to my supervisors about it and obtained the necessary approval to do the troubleshooting. I can come after work. Where do I go? >>
I blink in surprise.
< I thought you were a programmer. >
<< I hold a Class IV Navi Interface License from the DEA and a Georgia Department of Health certification with an in-situ repair rating. I started as a technician before I worked my way up to being a programmer. But my license and bond are still current. >>
My heart sinks for two reasons—first, that she wants to be the one to help, and second, that she didn’t even respond to my message about how my brother doesn’t know me anymore. Her offer to help is devoid of all emotion, just business. I do think that she might be on the autism spectrum somewhere.
Well, that’s fine. At least I feel like she’s a known quantity at this point. If she’s on the spectrum, then I can rest assured that she probably doesn’t mean to be rude. And it means that I don’t have to worry about small talk or other social niceties. I can keep things simple and straightforward. I can’t expect emotional responses, and that’s fine, I tell myself. Why would I need anything else from this particular woman?
I message her some directions for tonight, and as I do, the headache from yesterday makes a vicious resurgence. I wonder if I’m having rebound headaches from taking too much ibuprofen the last few days. Or maybe I’m taking too much caffeine and this is withdrawal from the overnight break without a dose. I decide I’m going to have to taper off both caffeine and ibuprofen, and that’s going to make the next couple of days even more special. For now, though, I go ahead and take some of both.
Heading off the annoying Navi reminder before it can even get started, I go for a quick run, but sans Tobi, since he’s still with Mrs. Jones.
Just as I start off, my TellMeWhen trigger goes off, and I listen as my Navi reads to me.
I knew it wouldn’t take long for someone to connect HAD with the police shootings, and I was right.
Preliminary reports show that over two dozen violent offenders have been shot and killed across multiple metro areas since the onset of Hyper-Aggression Disorder (HAD), which began on Monday and has swept the nation with over three thousand cases reported so far.
In most cases, the suspected offenders have been shot two or more times in the chest or face following or during an assault, armed burglary, or homicide or in the attempt of those crimes.
The police commissioner of Atlanta, Robert Nguyen, has issued a statement that police “always regret the taking of a life.”
“Our law enforcement officials are trained to recognize threats of various types and to respond with lethal force only when they have no alternative and only to protect themselves or innocent bystanders.”
The commission
er said that while they recognize that “the taking of lives of those suffering from neurological disorders is always tragic,” sometimes such actions are unavoidable to protect the public.
Commissioner Nguyen has confirmed the deployment of police dogs and the utilization of riot gear, rifles, and shields in the public’s defense against HAD.
Other metropolitan areas, including Houston, New York, and Los Angeles, have followed suit.
The dramatic increase in violent offenders—as high as 300% in some areas—is taxing resources, according to an anonymous source from within the APD.
“Now that we’ve recognized that these offenders are suffering from HAD, we are sending the survivors to neuro wards in hospitals for treatment,” said the source.
The “survivors”?
I do not like for neuro patients to get shot. They need treatment, not riot gear.
My jaw clenched, I ask my Navi what else is new, but there’s nothing. Hospitals are doing press conferences that echo one another’s statements about being overwhelmed with patients and looking into possible causes, but nothing plausible has come up yet.
My Collective is officially freaking out. “Hyper-Aggression Disorder” is the top searched term on social media today. Some people are already wearing gloves and surgical masks or refusing to leave their homes, even though there’s no indication so far that HAD is contagious.
But they’re also coming up with jokes about the epidemic, like, “I think my girlfriend has HAD. She was strangling me, and our safeword wasn’t working.”
Ba-dum-tsh.
Actually, my favorite comment, in light of the above article, is “HAD + APD = DOA.”
Amid the comedy and the hysteria, there are already some pretty stupid conspiracy theories out there. Since this seems to be somewhat US-centric so far, of course there are people saying that it’s a government-created virus designed for population control. Others say it’s terrorism, with one guy making a detailed outline of how it all goes back to the Lord’s Resistance Army—never mind that it’s been defunct since James Kony, the group’s leader, died fifteen years ago.
Of course, I’m most interested in the Navi theories, but they’re too crackpot for me. One lady with too many facial piercings says it’s the Singularity. Our Navis have come alive and are trying to suppress the inferior intelligence of their hosts. I kind of like that one.
Another Navi theory is that it’s an early attempt at mind control. We’re all assured that they’ll refine the process later on. Whoever “they” are.
For my part, I post calming reminders about the bird flu and the other pandemic scares we’ve had in the past thirty years. “Did everyone end up dying of Ebola?” I ask rhetorically. “No, we’re still here. Don’t panic.”
I leave unsaid the fact that I’m investigating the Navis myself. I don’t want to end up sounding like one of the conspiracy nuts.
When I get home after my run, my Navi prods me to go to the grocery store, clean my apartment, and do some laundry, but I tell it to leave me alone. Normally, I’m all over these chores¬, thanks to being trained by my parents to help around the house from age three, but I’m too overwhelmed right now. Lucky for me, these are low-intensity reminders, not the ones I programmed to be unavoidable.
I end up at the hospital hours before my shift is due to start, so I visit Jamie, who is the same as he was yesterday—disinterested in my existence and without personality. I miss my brother. He was a pain in the ass, but at least he was a person.
I check his chart and note that a new M-MRI has been run. The report says that both of his amygdalae show indications of deep lesions. That makes me feel sick. There’s actual brain damage happening here. But what in the world could be causing it? I hate it that something is injuring his brain while he’s sitting right here in the hospital, surrounded by medical staff who are unable to do a damn thing about it.
My forehead deeply wrinkled, I dive back into my project. I arrange for the assistance of a Navi install technician and write up the consents for the investigation that we’ll be doing. Then I start going patient-to-patient to request the consents, trying to ignore the renewed pounding of my head as I do so. Of course, I have Jamie sign one of the consent forms, and he’s agreeable, confirming my suspicion that he can’t be discharged. I can easily imagine him letting other students walk into his dorm room and take anything they want.
I’ve collected eleven consents when I get a message from the nurse’s station that Mila is there waiting for me.
Despite my worry, when I get there, I smile at her for some pointless reason. “Hi. Thanks for coming to help.”
“Where are the patients to examine?” Mila asks, unsmiling.
“This way.” As I lead her, I notice that I’m not offended by her lack of a greeting. I think I’ve come to terms with her neurodivergence.
We start with Jamie, even though I waver about it initially. If I admit it, maybe I’m afraid that Mila might accidentally do something that’ll make it worse. But my strongest impulse is to help Jamie as quickly as I possibly can. Some part of me hopes against all reason that it’ll be easy and fast.
“How are you planning to investigate, exactly? I mean, how do you gain access to someone else’s Navi?”
She pats her canvas backpack. “I have a laptop computer in here.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling foolish. “So you can use the internet to talk to the Navis?”
“Yes. More or less. It’s a wireless connection to the Personal Area Network.”
“How do you get in? I mean, there’s security, right?”
“Of course. I’ll show you when we get there.”
I clutch my head as we walk. This headache is a doozy. I notice I’m having some dizziness as well.
We hit a small hiccup when we try to start. That is, as soon as we walk in and get Jamie’s attention, he starts heading for the door.
<< Gonna go out. >>
< Um, hold up, Jamie. You have to stay here. >
I get between him and door.
<< Don’t wanna stay here. >>
He starts to push past me, and I have to strong-arm him a bit.
< Is there something in particular you need? I can bring it to you. >
<< I wanna go out. >>
< Jamie! Stop this instant. Go sit down! >
His expression doesn’t change, but he hesitates, and then he goes and sits down on his bed. I let out a breath. I was worried for a moment there that we were going to end up in a fistfight.
Once he explains that he’s just hungry, I order up some room service. A few minutes after that, I’ve made brief introductions between Mila and Jamie, and Mila has sat down and opened her slim, silver laptop in her lap. I scoot a chair over next to her and watch.
“Tell your Navi to open the Navi port, please,” Mila commands Jamie. “Tell it, open 6284.”
Jamie doesn’t so much as twitch, but apparently it happens since she begins working.
It both fascinates and frustrates me to watch Mila interact with her laptop. It seems so painfully slow that she has to use her hands to interact with the device. She taps on an icon, types in a password, taps on “All discoverable devices,” types in a “B,” scrolls through a list and taps on “James Bernhart,” taps “Request access,” waits a moment, and then tells Jamie, “Approve the access request, please.” A moment later, she sees “Access granted” and taps on “Open Navi interface.”
“You can’t give voice commands?” I ask, still clutching my head and still aghast at how time-consuming this is.
“I could, but it hurts my throat to talk all day. I’d rather use my hands.”
I message my Collective.
<< You guys be grateful for your Navis. The old way is downright painful. >>
What she does after that loses me. She opens a black window and types nonsense words into it, and equally nonsensical responses scroll by too quickly for me to read. The brightness of the display makes me squint.
“W
hat are you doing now?” I ask.
“Evaluating the processes that are running, to look for anything out of the ordinary.”
“What does that mean?”
She looks directly at me with her pale-blue eyes, and I feel like I’ve been skewered with something sharp. I realize that I’m disturbing her. “Sorry. I’m going to go… do… nurse things. Just tell someone at the nurse’s station when you need me again.”
She goes back to scanning the text, and I leave the room. I’m practically staggering. Nausea hits in waves, and I almost duck into a restroom, but I decide it’s not quite that bad yet.
I know I said I was going to taper off the painkillers, but I can hardly function at this point. I head toward the break room to get some water and take another couple of ibuprofen, but by the time I get there, my head has decided to start getting better. Whatever.
Two hours later, I’m able to catch a break and go visit Mila and Jamie. When I walk in, she’s frowning and hammering at the keys on her laptop.
“Things going okay?” I ask.
“No,” she replies.
I sit down and wait for a bit, but when it becomes apparent that nothing else is forthcoming, I ask, “What’s wrong?”
Mila stops typing abruptly and sighs. “There’s definitely some malware here that’s been added to the Navi’s security module and encrypted so that I can’t get to it with the normal Navi security access.”
She glances over at me, and I probably look confused, since she explains. “Navis have two main parts, the security module and the CPU—although the security module has its own processing chip. The security module manages security, obviously, and the power supply.
“Since Navis are powered by blood flow, there’s no external power switch. There’s no way to turn them off. When you tell your Navi to turn off, the main CPU just stops responding to anything but an order from the security module to ‘turn back on’ or resume normal functioning.
Absence of Mind Page 9
