The Revelations by Erik Hoel (some good books to read TXT) 📗

Science’ and remembered something about lobotomies and was out there screaming.”

“He said they were doing experiments.”

“Oh come on.” But at her reaction he quickly says—“Listen, I know you’re sensitive about that. Given what happened. It was a sick joke. Maybe even a real death threat. And that’s upsetting. And then what happened with Mars Bars . . . It’s odd. I agree. But what’s the motivation?”

Brushing aside his earlier words Carmen says—“I had the same thought about motivation. And then I realized something. Come with me.”

The TMS/EEG lab is empty. The big plush chair sits in the middle of it like an obscene throne with the extended metal arm a mini-crane looming over it. The coil was attached so that the transcranial magnetic stimulation could be maneuvered to any position above a subject’s head and a magnetic pulse delivered. The webbed hats of electrodes hung in rows on the walls to dry off like wet scalps after an Indian raid. To the front of the chair was the large monitor where visual stimuli could be presented.

Carmen swipes her finger across the armrest and shows her blackened digit to Kierk.

He gestures. “So the cleanliness of the experimental chair is a tragedy of the commons. And?”

“Kierk, sniff this chair.”

He takes a whiff and then pulls back, eyes watering. “And what exactly does this tell us?”

“Not just the chair!” Carmen rushes over to the trash bin. “I found this earlier!” She picks out what looks like an old blanket, frayed and caked to stiffness by dirt and stains. She’s holding it pinched between thumb and forefinger.

Carmen sees Kierk’s expression and says—“I’m a scientist, it’s not my job to be politically correct. It’s my job to go where the facts lead. And the facts say that there was a homeless person in this room, or several. Over time.”

“It’s your job to be skeptical. Extraordinary claims require—”

“There being no simpler explanation for the data,” Carmen finishes.

“Hmm . . . But he was saying they were giving them lobotomies. Why would they do it in this room . . .” Kierk drifts off, eyeing the claw-arm of the TMS.

“No . . .”

“Yes!”

“You’re saying that someone turned the TMS all the way up and was burning out lesions.”

“Yes!”

“As what, the patient, ah, abductee, watched stimuli?”

“Imagine how much you could learn about consciousness by triggering real lesions in real time. In humans.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to be approved by the Institutional Review Board.”

“Obviously. But it’s a motive.”

“Anything else? Or are you going to draw a straight line between your two data points?”

“As a matter of fact there is. Follow me.”

She leads him down a few floors to where the giant tube of the MRI machine rests. Carmen flips the lights in the control room on to a bright hospital-like hum, illuminating the computer terminals. Nearly jumping into the swivel chair, she pulls up a program.

“Look. Here’s the activation times of the recent scans. Look!” She points to two tiny numbers that Kierk squints at.

“Last night?”

“Last night at 3:02 a.m.”

“So?”

“So who the hell is using the MRI machine in the middle of the night? Unless they were getting anatomical images . . . to use for targeted transcranial magnetic stimulation. With the stimulation turned up so high it burns out lesions. Which you can then check to see exactly where they are using the MRI.”

Kierk stares at the little numbers.

“And three makes a trend line,” Carmen says smugly.

“That’s quite an elaborate secret experiment.”

“Don’t Scully me!”

“Alright fine,” Kierk says. “Do you want to know when it’s used?”

“Like when the program is activated? How?”

Kierk pulls up the command terminal and a text doc, fingers flying.

“I’m hiding something, a small function in the code for the fMRI machine. Code that sends you an email whenever the fMRI gets run.”

They are silent as Kierk types, Carmen examining him under the pretense of studying the code. He is focused on the screen and doesn’t look at her. A realization is building in her, that sickly sense of something being deeply wrong.

On clicking to a finish he says, “Okay that’s that. You’ll get your email. I gotta go get some work done.”

“Fine. Do whatever. I’ll see you later.”

Carmen watches him retreat. Her hands go up to rub the goose bumps on her shoulders. It’s freezing in here.

Kierk is leaving the CNS after a day spent studiously avoiding Carmen and just focusing on his research. He’s so close . . . But there’s so much going on and she’s the center of all of it. It feels like some otherworldly conspiracy keeps thrusting them together. He’s going to have to try harder, make a cleaner break, if he can.

As he steps out of the building into the still-blinding light his name is called and for a second he’s unable to locate its source, until he sees a middle-aged man in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. The man is taking off his sunglasses as he speaks and had obviously been waiting for him.

“Kierk Suren?”

Kierk shades his eyes—“Yes?”

“Hello. It’s a pleasure.” The man motions Kierk over to the side of the sidewalk and into the minimal shade provided by the CNS. Once there the man, forgettable, suburban, smiles at him.

“I wanted to meet you in the flesh.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I work for DARPA and the Department of Defense. I was responsible for setting up the Francis Crick Scholarship.”

“Oh! Well . . . Thank you. It’s been interesting.”

“Yes, well, it’s good to finally get the next generation together.” He purses his lips. “Actually, to be honest, we’ve had our eye on you for some time. We keep track of certain individuals who we suspect might have a chance—”

“Of cracking it?”

“Precisely.” He seems to be judging Kierk’s reaction. “And you’re not bothered by this?”

Kierk shrugs. “I can understand why the DoD would be interested. Solving consciousness would probably lead to next-gen artificial intelligences. Personality uploads. Brain-to-brain communication. Conscious tech.”

“Precisely. We are highly interested in its strategic importance. At the national level, I mean.”

“So you keep track of