“The security module serves as the gateway to the rest of the Navi’s functioning. It’s also the same part that doctors and law enforcement use to reduce the Navi’s range and functionality in a situation like this.” She gestures at my oblivious brother.
I nod. My headache is coming back, and I rub the back of my neck.
“That’s how the whole misconception came up about the security of Navis being hard-wired. When the manufacturers created the security module and separated it from the CPU and built a wall between them so that the CPU wasn’t accessible without going through the security unit, it got interpreted as ‘hard-wired security.’ A misconception, though, as you can see.”
Mila sighs again and stretches, reaching her pale, slender hands upward and arching her back. Her curly blonde hair swings back, and her chest rises, and I find myself staring. I quickly look away. She collapses again and goes on, “The point is, code has been added in that section that’s referenced only from the CPU, and I can’t get to it yet. But I can tell you this.” She looks straight at me. “It’s not what I thought it was. I told you in my email that the signals can simply be redirected elsewhere, but that’s not what’s happening. What I have been able to determine is this: the installation nanobots are missing.”
I blink. “Missing?”
“Missing. Not docked where they’re supposed to be.”
My mind races. “Why didn’t the M-MRIs pick up the location of the nanobots?”
“The nanobots are made of bio-identical substances and flexible polymers. They wouldn’t show up in an M-MRI scan.”
I get up and start pacing. “The nanobots are used during the installation process, I remember that. Do you know the details?”
“They unpack the components, assemble them, and send them to the appropriate locations in the brain. Beyond that, installation isn’t my area of expertise. I troubleshoot function, not installation.”
“I know who’ll know.” I message the installation technician I’d recruited earlier, and I patch him into my video and audio. Then I speak aloud so that Mila will know what I’m saying, even though every movement of my face is causing pain to radiate from my upper chest to the top of my skull.
“Abhishek, is this a good time for a couple of questions?”
<< Sure, go on ahead. >>
“What role do the nanobots have in the installation process?”
I repeat Abhishek’s message out loud for Mila. “The installation takes place, as you know, through the carotid artery via hydraulic injection. All the components have to be assembled by nanobots as they enter the bloodstream. Then, the nanobots ping the optical and auditory cortexes to find the best installation locations—two at the cochlear nerves and two where the fibers cross where the optic cortex meets the eyes.
“Same thing for the auditory and optical processing chips on the sylvian fissure and occipital cortex, and the primary CPU on the motor strip.”
< Abhishek, okay, so the nanobots “ping the nerves” to find good locations for installation. What does “ping” mean in this context? >
I read his answer out loud again.
“Those nerves aren’t accustomed to receiving data input from those locations, so they have to be electrically stimulated to pick up the signals at first. Then they’re able to learn to do it themselves afterward. The nanobots locate the most receptive spots on the nerves for the installation by giving them small electrical shocks and seeing which ones respond best.
“They also position the subvocal SRU and the power source, which remains alongside the carotid artery, using blood flow for the power for the whole system.”
I’m already connecting dots. “So the nanobots can send out electrical shocks. If the nanobots went somewhere they shouldn’t, then could that same electrical stimulation they use to find the optimal location cause problems?”
Ugh. Another wave of nausea hits. I get up and fill a paper cup with water from the room’s sink, lean back against the counter, and take three ibuprofen.
Abhishek replies, and I read the message out loud. “I don’t know for sure, but it seems unlikely to me. The intensity of the stimulation is quite mild.”
I look at Mila. “So where does that leave us?”
“I can’t tell you anything else yet. Only that they aren’t where they belong.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks, Abhishek. I’ll get back to you later if there’s anything new.”
<< Actually, I’m about to go home. I’m not feeling so well. But you can message me anytime if it’s important. >>
< Okay, thanks. >
I groan out loud with the intensity of my headache, and Mila looks at me.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m having a hell of a migraine. I think—”
Things go sideways, and I clutch at the counter, gasping. Then they go right-side-up again.
Mila is staring now. Even poor Jamie is looking at me.
“I think I might actually have to go home.”
I’m trying to figure out how to get my legs to work properly when the door swings open and Dr. Green—he of the condescending nostrils—sweeps in dramatically.
“Stop what you’re doing,” he snaps.
Mila, Jamie, and I all look at him with what I imagine are equally blank faces.
“Your research here has not been approved by the ethics board, and it is not permitted to go forward. Nurse, get this civilian out of here.” He waves toward Mila.
Civilian? Is this the military all of a sudden?
Mila snaps her laptop closed and stands up.
“Wait!” I say. A wave of rage is quickly eclipsing my agony and nausea, though the dizziness tells me it’s a profoundly bad idea to let go of the counter. “Mila, don’t go anywhere. Doctor, I have approval from Dr. Abadi to do this.” Then I wince and grab my head.
As if on command, Dr. Abadi stalks in. She, too, speaks aloud, her voice low and tense. “This isn’t a formal research study, Dr. Green. Your department doesn’t need to approve it.”
I freeze. I’m about to watch two doctors fight.
“Wrong, Doctor. They are researching a medical issue in live human patients. That is explicitly in the domain of formal research, and the ethics committee for the protection of human subjects must be involved. End of story.”
“How is this formal research?” Dr. Abadi demands. “We have a licensed, bonded technician sent by ENI troubleshooting the code of the medical device. Troubleshooting is done by technicians all the time for all sorts—”
“I am sending you both a copy of the formal complaint right now,” Dr. Green snapped. “Read it. With a formal complaint lodged, the research must cease until it has been thoroughly investigated. Those are the rules, and you know them as well as I do.”
Dr. Abadi is obviously scanning the document at the same time that I am, because her olive face is turning crimson. “You filed this complaint yourself.”
“So I did.” He folds his arms.
“So revoke it!” Dr. Abadi said. “What reason do you have to oppose this? It will take months for a formal research study to be set up, and you know it. Explain this!”
The room seems to lurch around me, but all I see is Jamie’s placid, staring face seeming to plead with me, and suddenly, I’m like Daniel entering the lion’s den. “These patients don’t have months. Something is happening to their brains right now, as we stand here. They are deteriorating. Something has to be done.”
Dr. Green’s nose turns up even further. “Need I remind you what will happen to you if you get another write-up, Nurse?”
My vision goes red—literally. It’s my Navi flashing a red hue into my display, warning me. At the bottom of my vision, a message blinks urgently. This is the beginning of Red Mode.
!!! Warning. Behavior not consistent with personal goals. You are having an argument with a superior. !!!
Some part of me whispers Oh no, but the rest of me doesn’t care. Doesn’t care at all. What I care about is my family and my patient
, and with the kind of feeling you get when you’re about to do something that’s both courageous and idiotic, I step up to Dr. Green.
When I speak, my voice is low with rage. “Listen to me, you worthless son of a bitch.”
My Navi shrills an alarm at me and my vision flashes a brighter red.
| You have donated $10 to the Animal Control and Depopulation Society. |
I stick my finger right in his face. I can barely hear my own words over the shrieking of the siren. “I am going to find out what’s wrong with my brother, and you had better not dream of getting in my way. I am going to—”
Dr. Green laughs. Loudly. And slaps my hand down to my side. “You can consider yourself fired, Nurse. Your supervisor will be processing the paperwork in a matter of moments.”
And with that, he sweeps out of the room.
Dr. Abadi looks at me.
<< That was stupid. >>
Mila walks smoothly alongside me as I stagger down the hallway. I can’t believe what happened, what I did. Normally, I would never, ever get involved in a dispute between doctors. Those strike hospital staff like the Apocalypse—everyone takes cover until it’s over. I wasn’t thinking because of how sick I feel.
My heart is hammering, and my breath is high in my chest. On top of that, I’m still dizzy, and my head feels like it might explode. I practically pant with the pain as I speak to Mila. “I shouldn’t have done that. I really shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have done that,” Mila says calmly.
“Thanks. Thanks a lot for that very helpful confirmation.”
She looks at me, and I think I might see a touch of amusement in the way she raises her eyebrows. “Well, you shouldn’t have done that.”
“Thanks again,” I mutter, and I clutch my head again.
Right on schedule, I get the notification.
| Priority message from Grady Hospital Administration. |
I groan, but there’s nothing I can do but suck it up.
< Show it. >
Dear Phebe Bernhart, Grady Hospital regrets to inform you that your employment has been terminated effective immediately. Please collect your personal items and depart from the premises. Your badge will be withdrawn in thirty minutes, and security will escort you out at that time if necessary. We thank you for your 1 years of service and wish you profitable employment elsewhere.
Screw you, Grady.
But my anger is weak, because I know this is my fault. My stupid bad temper has ruined any chance I had of being able to help my brother or any of the other patients. I tell myself I deserve every agonizing throb of my head and more.
<< Deonte: Dude, did you really get fired? >>
< How the hell did you find out already? >
<< What did you do this time? >>
< I can’t even talk about it right now. >
<< Sara: Did you really just get fired? >>
I groan.
“Can you transfer him somewhere else?” Mila asks.
I stare at her. “Do what?”
“Can you transfer your brother somewhere else?”
I stop walking and stare some more. My brain is firing awfully slowly, but I see what she means, and I’m stunned that she thought of it already and I didn’t.
She misunderstands my silence and explains, “The doctor’s refusal to let you continue can only be enforced in this one hospital, right? If you can move him to another facility where they don’t mind the research, then we can carry on.”
“You’re a freaking genius,” I say.
Mila pauses, then nods.
<< Sara: Did you really cuss out Dr. Green? I would’ve loved to have seen that. >>
<< Thiago: Did you really get fired? That sucks. >>
Maybe Mila is a genius.
That gives me a shred of insight into the blonde woman. Maybe she’s not an Aspie—or maybe she is, but maybe it’s not that she doesn’t understand social cues so much as she’s simply too smart to be bothered with them.
All of that aside, she’s right about what we should do.
And I already know who to ask.
< Dr. Abadi, I would like to apologize for being an idiot and getting myself fired. >
<< Not my problem. >>
I wince.
< The research we were doing is, however, crucial. Mila had determined that the nanobots used during the Navi installation process are missing. These rogue nanobots could be related to the problems the HAD patients are having. Further investigation is warranted. Do you agree? >
<< I do. >>
< May I ask that we transfer the patients to a different facility that is amenable to our efforts? >
<< Yes. Do so. >>
I blink in surprise.
She messages me again an instant later.
<< Forgot you were fired. I’ll have Deonte handle it. You can locate an alternate facility, though. First check with Browning Charity Hospital. I’m there on Thursdays and Fridays. >>
< Roger wilco, over and out. >
I couldn’t help that last bit. I think it’s the hysteria. Or, at least, the hysteria I would be having if I were the hysterical type.
I stagger as things go sideways again, and Mila takes my arm and lets me lean on her. “You don’t seem to be doing well,” she says. “Do you have the amygdalae disorder?”
“Not that I know of, thank you very much,” I mumble. “But if I start punching you in the face or trying to have wild animal sex with you, then you’ll know.”
I suddenly realize that with her so close to me, that last bit was terribly inappropriate.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s the hysteria.”
Mila doesn’t even answer. I think she’s decided that I’m not much use to talk to.
A few minutes later, she’s carrying my box of personal effects to my car for me, even though I’m feeling better. All the ibuprofen has kicked in at last.
Tentatively, I ask, “So, just to confirm, you’re going to keep helping us with the research?”
“Yes.” She says it somewhat grudgingly.
I can’t understand why. Not that Mila doesn’t seem to care about people, but… to be honest, she doesn’t seem to care about people.
“Please don’t let me talk you out of it, but why?”
“The code they introduced is poorly implemented,” Mila says. “It annoys me. I want to take it out.”
“Ah.” I feel chilled by how right I was. I don’t think it matters to Mila that there are human beings on the receiving end of that code. “Well…”
There’s an awkward silence.
“Goodbye,” Mila says. “Please keep me informed as to where and when we can continue. Meanwhile, I’ve got a copy of the malware running on a virtual machine on my laptop, and I’ll take it to someone with a quantum computer so we can crack the encryption.”
“Is it safe for you to carry it around on your laptop?” I ask dubiously.
“Yes.”
As she walks away and gets into her own car without another word, I feel let down. I keep having that feeling with Mila. It’s as if I want something more from her beyond normal courtesy. But there’s nothing else that I ought to want from her.
Six
By Friday morning, I have provided sufficient details to the charge nurse at Browning Charity Hospital and have received permission to continue our work there.
I spend the next couple of hours replaying videos of Jamie from my Memory app and trying not to cry.
We both got our Navis at age seventeen and both when we left home, but we were almost a decade apart. Jamie just got his eight months ago.
Other kids these days get theirs starting at age six, when their neurology is stable enough. Their parents throw them Navi parties. The parents love being able to track their kids’ movements and listen in on their conversations—minors don’t have any right to privacy under the law—but even so, the kids love having them. The constant connectivity, the games, the nonstop entertainment—it’s a
win/win for everybody.
As I run through my videos from my few visits home over the years, I stumble across one that I’d starred. I watch as we all head out to the horse-and-buggy to go into town for an errand of some sort. Jamie, who’s around thirteen here, is dancing around like a maniac and won’t settle down. Dad hitches up the horses to the buggy, a process that takes several minutes and a number of steps, and then takes hold of the door handle and pulls it open.
As he turns toward us to tell us to take our seats, the buggy collapses in on itself like a house of cards. Even the wheels fall over.
The horses startle and look around in confusion. Everyone stares in shock except Jamie, who howls with laughter. Just howls.
I start laughing through my tears as I watch.
Then Dad lunges at Jamie, yelling about whipping him good, and Jamie runs for it, still laughing. The rest of us watch them go around the inside of the house twice.
Then Dad stops, red-faced and panting, and gets serious. He summons Jamie with That Voice that you just don’t disobey, and I stop the video. I don’t want to see the lashing.
Jamie gets it for five days straight, one day for each hour it takes him and Dad to put the buggy back together, but Jamie told me later that it was worth every lash, and I believe it.
Jamie has always been such an immature pain in the ass. But I don’t care. I want him back.
I spend Friday evening in Jamie’s room. There’s no point in it, as we both just stare into our Navis, but I feel better being near him.
Absence of Mind Page 10
