November 13, 2009

He sampled the salmon first, seeing its perfect coloring as he cut away a bite. It was subtly, but superbly, seasoned. Both the vegetables and rice also matched his high expectations. Yes, he decided, this restaurant (and meal) had been an excellent choice for his late dinner. His worry over the identity of the man across the restaurant was forgotten as he devoted his attention to his meal.

#

"We need to be able to communicate with him," he said, "or it will nearly impossible to make any further progress."

"I think you exaggerate, Dr. Kincaid," Adamson said.

"Not really," Kincaid countered, choosing to disregard the warning note in the Director's voice. "While we seem to be able to communicate with him, we have no way of knowing what is actually being heard," he explained. "It could be words," he said. "Or it could be meaningless bits of sound that he believes are attempts to communicate with him." He tapped the report in front of him. "At this point, we have only physical data to draw from. We have no information on his state of mind . . . even he has even remained sane."

Adamson regarded Kincaid in silence for several long moments. When the Director offered nothing, Kincaid continued.

"Unless he can communicate with us, we're at an impasse," he said. "We have no idea which inputs are working . . . or even what they’re showing him."

"You're asking for an incredible amount of latitude on this project, Doctor."

"I need it," Kincaid said. "We're in some seriously uncharted territory here, Director."

Adamson's eyes narrowed slightly. "I was told that much of the technology you plan to use has been tested before—at least under controlled conditions in a laboratory setting."

Kincaid nodded. "Most of it has been," he agreed. "But I don't think it has ever been used in these ways, in these combinations."

"I see," Adamson said. She leaned back in her chair, taking a posture that made it clear to Kincaid that she had made a decision. "We cannot allow this . . . experiment to continue indefinitely," she announced in an even, but firm tone. "Our funds are not unlimited and the possibility of ever seeing any return on our investment from this particular project seems quite remote."

"But Jorgensen said . . ."

"Derek Jorgensen is dead," Adamson stated firmly. There was no doubting the emphatic, but buried, anger in her voice.

Kincaid sat back, cowed by the Director's attitude. Finally, he said quietly, "I see."

Adamson studied him for a moment. "Do you, Doctor?" She made little effort to disguise the touch of sarcasm in her tone.

Kincaid felt the muscles at the corners of his jaw move. He rose suddenly from the chair. "Yes, Director," he replied softly. "I believe I do."

He left Adamson's office without turning around, feeling her eyes on his back the entire time.

#

"Alright, Nick," Gerhardt said. "I think we're ready to try this out. Are you?" He gave Nicholas a warm, reassuring smile.

Nicholas wanted to nod, but then had to remember that such a gesture was not yet possible. Gerhardt had promised him that it would be, but that his "gross motor movements" were the priority right now. Or didn't he want to be able to get around on his own? He had been forced to agree with Gerhardt's assessment.

"Yes," Nicholas answered.

"Great," Gerhardt responded with a renewed smile. He nodded to one of the technicians. "We're going to start with the knee joints," he told Nicholas. "Then we'll work our way around to the other ones." He checked a readout on his tablet. "It's the largest one, so easier to work with and make adjustments to," he explained. "We can then calibrate the others against it."

The technician turned and gave a Gerhardt a nod.

"Okay, Nick," Gerhardt said, "I need you to think about moving your lower leg, by bending your knee." His eyes studied the electromechanical joint closely. "Take it easy," he cautioned. "Don't force it. Just think about doing it."

After several moments of waiting, nothing happened.

"Nick?" Gerhardt addressed the boy.

"I'm trying," he reported.

Gerhardt frowned slightly, studying the figures displayed on his tablet. He looked up at the technician.

"Definitely receiving a signal, sir," he reported.

Rubbing his beard absently, Gerhardt's eyes traced the paths of the leads trailing from neural interface panel to the knee joint. "Can you boost the signal gain?" he asked thoughtfully.

The technician nodded. "Yeah, we still have some range left."

Gerhardt nodded slowly, still looking over the still-quiescent joint motor. "Let's try that."

"Ready when you are, Doctor," the technician said.

"Okay," Gerhardt told Nicholas, "let's try this again. Same thing: easy at first." He waited, wishing that Nicholas was capable of displaying some form of expression—even a simulated grunt of exertion would help let him know that the boy was trying.

Once again, there was no movement from the leg, not even a faint twitch. The motor remained stubbornly silent.

"There's definitely a signal," the technician reported, sounding both frustrated and defensive.

"I know," Gerhardt said gently. "I'm reading it here too."

"It worked in the lab," the technician protested.

Gerhardt nodded. It had seen the successful demonstrations of the actuator working when the programmed signal was applied. As far as he could tell, the signal they had tested with, and the one being recorded as coming from Nicholas, matched. Or did it?

He examined the data again. The signal that Nicholas was sending included several more wavelengths in addition to the one that they programmed the motor interface to accept. It was possible, Gerhardt supposed, that instead of being ignored, those additional wavelength signals were creating some kind of interference instead. He made a note to conduct some further research later.

"Tony," he addressed the technician. "Can you filter it so that it's only sending the signal that the actuator is expecting?"

The technician studied his own screen intently for several moments. The contents displayed changed several times as the technician checked other items.

"I think so," he finally replied. "I should be able to add a filtering subroutine to the software." He glanced at the screen and then back at Gerhardt. "Give me maybe . . . thirty minutes?"

Gerhardt would have preferred three over thirty, but he also knew the dangers of rushing through this kind of work. He did not need the technician burning out one of the components—or worse, some part of Nicholas' brain—through an error in the code introduced through haste. From what he had seen before, though, he fully expected that Tony would announce his completion in about twenty minutes. Long enough for a bathroom break and some coffee, Gerhardt decided.

Without realizing what he was doing, he slapped Nicholas on the knee, and regretted it immediately as the metal stung his palm. He tried hard to turn the grimace of discomfort into a quick smile.

"I'll be back in a few minutes, Nick," he said. He nodded to where the technician sat engrossed in his software programming. "Tony can keep you company until I get back."

Nicholas stared blankly ahead, giving no response as Gerhardt left the room. As he closed the door behind him, he paused in the corridor, massaging his stinging palm. Nicholas, he was certain, had not felt it at all. It did make him wonder, though, what the boy was capable of feeling now.

#

Kincaid sat down with weary sigh, ignoring the fact that everyone else had arrived before him, and that had probably been waiting for some time.

"Doctor," Adamson greeted him coolly.

"Director," Kincaid returned in kind, reaching for one of the pitchers of water, filled a glass, and drank it greedily. His immediate thirst satisfied, he refilled the glass and settled back in the chair.

The group was seated in the staff conference room. It was nicely furnished, but not nearly as comfortably appointed as the executive board room. (In addition to much nicer furniture, the executive conference room also housed a fully-stocked bar.) They were seated around an oval table of some dark-toned wood that Kincaid had always thought might be mahogany. It was more likely, he had decided, some less expensive timber polished to look higher grade.

"May we begin now?" Adamson's tone was icy and she made no effort to mask that she was referring to Kincaid.

There were quiet murmurs from around the table, but no one spoke up. Adamson looked annoyed and turned her gaze back to Kincaid, apparently hoping to catch him unprepared due to his rushed entry.

"Doctor Kincaid?"

Kincaid remained relaxed in his chair, even as his voice carried an enthusiasm that belied his fatigue. His eyes studied the surface of the conference table. "I didn't think it was possible, but it . . . he appears to be in stable condition." He took a long breath, fighting back a yawn. "Everything we can measure seems to indicate that he's doing fine."

"For now," came a half-muttered comment.

Kincaid looked up, but he could find no indication of who had made the remark. If anyone else at the table knew, they were giving no sign of who it was. He knew it could not have been Adamson for two reasons: one, she would not have bothered to state it quietly; and, two, none of those at the table were exchanging those nervous looks that they did when the Director said something the others considered awkward.

"For now," he echoed, finally nodding slowly in agreement. "What we've done here is truly unprecedented." He sighed, chuckling softly, "Rumors and folklore to the contrary."

"Yes," Adamson said drily, "of course."

Kincaid gave a soft snort of laughter and settled back in his chair.

"Does anyone else have anything more useful to report?" Adamson asked, looking at the others around the table.

Kincaid let his own gaze follow hers, not at surprised that no one spoke up. Nearly every other occupant in this room had been only tangentially involved with what had happened, with those few with any direct knowledge having experienced from the other side of an operating theater window.

"Where is Dr. Jorgensen?" one of the older men asked. Kincaid judged him to be nearly seventy, although trying to appear fifty.

"Dr. Jorgensen is still in recovery," Adamson said flatly. "He will be unable to join us."

There was some uncomfortable shifting in seats after this statement.

"He should be here," one of the younger members protested. The strength of his objection was greatly diminished by the quaver in his voice.

"He cannot be," Adamson reiterated. "We will need to continue without him."

The sound of shifting was much more subdued this time. Adamson's gaze traveled the circumference of the table once more; everyone again remained silent.