9

Coronado

April 2, 2023

The helicopter came in over the bay, past the bridge that connected the hooked peninsula of Coronado to San Diego. The roads below were sealed tight by security: the copter was not only the safest but was the fastest way in and out of the base. It swooped low over the gray shapes of the mothball fleet, quietly rusting into extinction since the end of the Second World War. They dropped down to the HQ helipad, dust clouds roiling out, and saw a stretched limo pull up.

"This seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to for a meeting," Erin Snaresbrook snapped. "Some of us have work to do. This is totally ridiculous—when we could have had a teleconference."

"All of us have work to do, Doctor, all of us," Benicoff said. "You have only yourself to blame—this meeting was your idea. You must have realized that this was the only way that we could guarantee security."

"A progress report, that was all that I said." She raised her hand before Benicoff could speak. "I know. I hear the arguments. It is far safer here. The disappearances, the thefts, assassination attempt. It's just that I hate these infernal awful choppers. They are the most dangerous form of transportation ever invented. One of them fell off the Pan Am Building, you're too young to remember, dropped right into Forty-second Street. They are death traps."

They drove into an underground entrance to the headquarters building. Past marine sentries, guards and locked gates, TV cameras and all the security apparatus so adored by the military. One last guarded door admitted them to a conference room with a panoramic view of the bay and Point Loma. An aircraft carrier was just coming in from the open sea. In front of the window at least a dozen dark-suited civilians and uniformed officers were gathered around the teak table.

"Is this room secure?" Snaresbrook whispered.

"You're being facetious, Doctor," Benicoff whispered back. "That window will stop a thirty-inch naval shell."

Erin turned to look at it, then caught Benicoff's smile. Like her, he was joking to relax the tension.

"Sit down," General Schorcht ordered, his usual charming self. His introductions were equally succinct. "Dr. Snaresbrook is on the left. With her is Mr. Benicoff, whom you have met before and who is in charge of the ongoing Megalobe investigation."

"And who are all these people?" Erin Snaresbrook asked sweetly. General Schorcht ignored her.

"You have a report to make, Doctor. Let's have it."

The silence lengthened, the General and the surgeon radiating cold hatred at each other. Benicoff broke in, not wanting the situation to decay any further.

"I called this meeting because it appears that the operations undertaken by Dr. Snaresbrook have now reached an important and most vital stage. Since the rest of our investigation is stalled, I feel that everything now depends on Dr. Snaresbrook. She had been a pillar of strength, our only hope in this disastrous matter. And she seems to have worked a miracle. She will now bring us up to date. If you please, Doctor." Slightly mollified, still very angry, the surgeon shrugged and decided that she had had enough of the petty feuding. She spoke calmly and quietly.

"I am now approaching the end of the basic surgery on the patient. The superficial damage caused by the bullet has had a satisfactory resolution. The more important and vital deep repairs of the nerve bundles in the cortex have been completed. The film implants were successful and the connections have been made by the inbuilt computer. Gross surgery is no longer called for. The skull has been closed."

"You have succeeded. The patient will talk..."

"I will have no interruptions. From anyone. When I have finished my description of what has been done and what my prognosis is I will then answer any questions."

Snaresbrook was silent for a moment. So was General Schorcht, radiating pure hatred. She smiled demurely, then went on.

"I may have failed completely. If I have, that is the end of it. I'll not open his head again. I want to tell you strongly that there is always a chance of this. Everything I have done is still experimental—which is why I make no promises. But I will tell you what I hope will happen. If I have succeeded the patient will regain consciousness and should be able to talk. But I doubt if I will be talking to the man who was shot. He will not remember any of his life as an adult. If my procedures succeed, if he regains consciousness, it will be as a child."

She ignored the murmur of dismay, waited until it died down before she continued.

"If this is what happens I will be very pleased. It will mean that the procedure has succeeded. That will be the first step. If it goes as planned I must then proceed with additional input and communication in the hopes that his memories will be brought forward to the period in time when the assault occurred. Questions?"

Benicoff got in first with the question so vital to him. "You hope to bring his memory right up to the day the assault occurred?"

"That may indeed be possible."

"Will he remember what happened? Will he tell us who did it?"

"No, that is impossible." Snaresbrook waited until the reactions had died away before she spoke again. "You must understand that there are two kinds of memory, long-term and short-term. Long-term memories last for years, usually for an entire lifetime. Short-term is what happens to us in real time, details of a conversation we might be hearing, a book that we are reading. Most short-term memories simply fade away in a few seconds, or minutes. But some parts of short-term memories, if they are important enough, will eventually become long-term memory. But only after about a half an hour. It takes the brain that much time to process and store it. This is demonstrated in what is known as posttrauma shock. Victims of car accidents, for instance, can remember nothing of the accident if they were rendered unconscious at the time. Their short-term memory never became long-term memory."

General Schorcht's cold voice cut through the other voices and questions.

"If there is no chance of your succeeding in this dubious medical procedure why did you undertake it in the first place?"

Erin Snaresbrook had her fill of insults. Her cheeks flushed and she started to rise. Benicoff was on his feet first.

"May I remind everyone here that I am in charge of this ongoing investigation. At great personal sacrifice Dr. Snaresbrook volunteered to help us. Her work is all that we have. Though there have been deaths already, and the patient may very well die as well, it is the investigation that is of paramount importance. Brian Delaney may not reveal the killers—but he can show us how to build his artificial intelligence, which is what this entire matter is all about."

He sat down slowly and turned in his chair. "Dr. Snaresbrook, will you be kind enough to tell us what procedures are still to come?"

"Yes, of course. As you know I have left a number of surgical implants within the patient's brain. They consist of various kinds of computers connected by microscopic terminals to the brain's nerve fibers. Controlled measures of chemicals can be released through these. By combining this with a carefully monitored variety of stimuli, I hope he will soon learn how to access more of his later but now inaccessible memories. When these are integrated he should have a functional mind once again.

"There may be gaps—but he will not be aware of them. What I hope he will be aware of and remember is all of the work he did in developing his AI. So that he can rebuild it and make it function.

"I will of course use more than chemicals. I have also implanted computer film chips that will interface directly with nerve endings. On these chips are embryonic brain cells that can be induced to grow in various ways. They can be kept dormant as long as I want, waiting for an opportunity to make the correct connections. When they are activated each one will be tested. The ones that end up wrong will be disconnected so that only the successful will remain active. This can all be done by opening microscopic chemical holes implanted in the chips. Either a connection will be made—or a tiny package of neurotoxins will destroy the cell."

"I have a question," one of the men said.

"Of course."

"Are you telling us that you are installing a machine-mind interface inside that boy's skull?"

"I am—and I don't know why you sound so shocked. This kind of thing has been going on for many years now. Why, even in the last century we were hooking up neural connections in the ear to cure deafness. Many times in recent years we have been able to use nerve impulses from the spinal cord to activate prosthetic legs. Connecting to the brain itself was a logical next step."

"When will we be able to talk to Mr. Delaney?" Schorcht snapped.

"Perhaps never." Dr. Snaresbrook stood up. "You have my report. Make of it what you will. I am doing my very best, with still-experimental techniques, to rebuild that shattered mind. Trust me. If I succeed you will be the first to know."

She ignored the voices, the questions, turned and left the room.

10

September 17, 2023

Brian came slowly back to consciousness, rising up from a deep and dreamless sleep. Awareness slipped away, came again, sank into darkness again. This happened a number of times over a period of days and each time he remembered nothing of the previous approach to consciousness.

Then, for the first time, he did remain on the borderline of full awareness. Though his eyes were still shut he gradually began to realize that he was awake. And dreadfully tired. Why was that? He did not know, did not really care. Cared about nothing.

"Brian..."

The voice came from a very great distance. At the edge of audibility. At first it was just there, something to be experienced and not considered. But it kept repeating. Brian, then Brian again.

Why? The word rolled around and around in his thoughts until memory returned. That was his name. He was Brian. Someone was speaking his name. His name was Brian and someone was speaking his name aloud.

"Brian—open your eyes, Brian."

Eyes. His eyes. His eyes were shut. Open your eyes, Brian.

Light. Strong light. Then soothing darkness once again.

"Open your eyes, Brian. Do not keep your eyes closed. Look at me, Brian."

Glare again, blink, shut, open. Light. Vagueness. Something floating before him.

"That's very good, Brian. Can you see me? If you can, say yes."

This was not an easy thing to do. But it was a command. See. Light and something. See me. See the me. See me say yes. What was seeing? Was he seeing? What was he seeing?

It was hard, but each time he thought about it the process became easier. See—with the eyes. See a thing. What thing? The blur. What was a blur? A blur was a thing. What land of a thing? And what was a thing?

Face.

Face! Yes, a face! He was very happy to discover that. He saw that this was a face. A face had two eyes, a nose, a mouth, hair. What about the hair?

The hair was gray.

Very good, Brian. He was doing so well. He felt very happy.

His eyes were open. He saw a face. The face had gray hair. He was very tired. His eyes closed and he slept.

"You saw that, didn't you!" Dr. Snaresbrook clasped her hands together with excitement. Benicoff nodded, puzzled but agreeing.

"I saw his eyes open, yes. But, well—"

"It was terribly important. Did you notice that he looked at my face after I spoke?"

"Yes—but is that a good response?"

"Not just good, but immensely significant. Think for a moment. You are looking at a young man's body that for a long time had a disconnected mind—broken into disconnected fragments. But you see what happened now—he heard my voice and turned to look at my face. The important thing is that the brain centers for auditory recognition are in the back half of the brain—but the eye-motion controls are in the front part of the brain. So we must have got the new connections at least partly correct. And there was more. He was trying to obey—to understand my command. This means that a good many mental agencies must have been engaged. And note that he labored very hard, made mental connections, rewarded himself with a feeling of happiness—you saw the smile. This is tremendous."

"Yes, I did see him smile a little. It's good that he is not depressed, considering his injuries."

"No. That's not the important point at all. If I were concerned about his attitude, I'd prefer for him to be depressed. No, my point is that regardless of whether he's pleased or annoyed, at least he isn't apathetic. And if his systems can still assign values to experiences, then he can use those values for self-reinforcement—that is, for learning. And if his systems can learn properly, he'll be able to help us repair more of the damage."

"When you put it that way—then I see why it is important. What next?"

"The process continues. I will let him sleep, then try again."

"But won't he lose his short-term memories? The memories that you have restored? Won't they fade away if he sleeps?'

"No—because these are not short-term memories but reconnected K-lines or functions that existed before. K-lines are nerve fibers connected to sets of memories, sets of agents, that reactivate previous partial mental states. Think of them as reconnected circuits. Not reconnected in fragile human synapses, but in tough computer-memory units."

"If you are right—that means that everything you have done is working out," Benicoff said, hoping that his lack of enthusiasm did not show in his voice. Was the doctor reading an awful lot into one little flicker of a smile? Perhaps wanting to believe so much that she might be deceiving herself. He had been expecting something more dramatic.

Erin Snaresbrook had not. She had not known what to expect in this totally new procedure, but was immensely satisfied with the results now. Let Brian rest, then she would talk to him again.

A room. He was in a room. The room had a window because he knew what a window looked like. There was someone else in the room. Someone with gray hair and a white thing on her body.

Body? Her? The white thing was a dress and only hers wore dresses.

That was good. He smiled widely. But not completely right. The smile slowly slipped away. It was almost right, he had done well. The smile returned and he slept.

What had happened the night before? He stirred with fear; he couldn't remember, why was that? And why couldn't he roll over? He was being held down. Something was very wrong, he didn't know what. It took an effort of will to open his eyes—then quickly clamp them shut since the light burned them painfully. He had to blink away the tears when he hesitantly opened them again, looked up at the face of the stranger looming close above him.

"Can you hear me, Brian?" the woman said. But when he tried to answer, his throat was so dry that he started coughing. "Water!" A cool, hard tube pushed between his lips and he sucked in gratefully. Choked on it, coughed and a wave of pain swept through his head. He moaned in agony.

"Head... hurts," he managed to say.

Nor would the pain go away. He moaned and twisted under the assault, pain so great that it overwhelmed all other sensations. He was not aware of the tiny slice of pain when the needle went into his arm, but did sigh with relief when the all-encompassing agony began to ebb.

When he opened his eyes again it was with great hesitation. Blinked tears as he fought to see.

"What... ?" His voice sounded runny but he did not understand why. What was it? Wrong? Too deep, too rasping. Listened as the other voice came from a great distance.

"There's been an accident, Brian. But you are all right now—you are going to be all right. Do you have any pain? Do you hurt anywhere?"

Hurt? The pain in his head was lessening, was being muffled somehow. Other pain? His back, yes his back—his arm too. He thought about that. Looked down and could not see his body. Covered. What did he feel? Pain?

"Head... my back."

"You've been hurt, Brian. Your head, your arm and back too. I've given you something to take away the pain. You'll feel better soon," Erin said, looking down at him with grave concern at the white face on the pillow, framed by the crown of bandages. His eyes were open, reddened and black-rimmed, blinking away the tears. But he was looking at her, questioning, following her when she moved. And the voice, the words clear enough. Though wasn't there a marked Irish accent to what he said? Brian's accent had changed after all his years in America. But an earlier Brian would certainly have more of the brogue he had brought to this country. This was Brian all right.

"You have been very ill, Brian. But you are better now—and will get better."

But which Brian was she talking to? She knew that as we grow we learn new things all of the time. But we do not burden our minds with remembering every detail of how we teamed a new process, how to tie a shoe or hold a pencil. The details of remembering belong to the personality that remembered. But this personality is left behind, buried when the new personality develops. How this was done was still unclear—perhaps all the old personalities still existed at some level. If so—which one was she talking to now?

"Listen, Brian. I am going to ask you a very important question. How old are you? Can you hear me? Can you remember your age—how old are you?"

This was much harder than anything he had ever thought about before. Time to go to sleep.

"Open your eyes. Sleep later, Brian. Tell me—how old are you?"

This was a bad question. Old? Years. Time. Date. Months. Places. School. People. He did not know. His thoughts were muddled and this confused him. Better to go back to sleep. He wanted to—but sudden fear chilled him, made his heart hammer.

"How old—am I? I can't—tell!" He began to cry, tears oozing from his tight-clamped lids. She caressed his sweat-damp forehead.

"You can sleep now. That's right. Close your eyes. Sleep." She had come along too fast, pushed him too hard. Made a mistake—cursed her own impatience. It was too early yet to integrate his personality into time. It had to integrate into itself first. But it was coming. Each day there was that much more of a personality present, rather than a collection of lightly linked memories. It was going to work. The process was slow—but she was succeeding. Brian's personality had been brought as far forward in his own personality time line as was possible. How far that was she still did not know; she had to be patient. The day would come when he would be able to tell her.

More than a month went by before Dr. Snaresbrook asked the question again.

"How old are you, Brian?"

"Hurts," he muttered, rolling his head on the pillow, eyes closed. She sighed. It was not going to be easy.

As often as she dared she tried the question. There were good days and bad—mostly bad. Time passed and she was beginning to despair. Brian's body was healing, but the mind-body link was still a fragile one. Hopefully, still hopefully, she asked the question again.

"How old are you, Brian?"

He opened his eyes, looked at her, frowned. "You asked me that before—I remember..."

"That is very good. Do you think you can answer the question now?"

"I don't know. I know you have asked me that before."

"I have. It is very smart of you to remember that."

"It's my head—isn't it? Something has happened to my head."

"That is perfectly correct. Your head has been hurt. It is much better now."

"I think with my head."

"Correct again. You are getting much better, Brian."

"I'm not thinking right. And my back, my arm. They hurt. My head—?"

"That's right. You have had head injuries, your back and arm were injured as well—but they are mending very well. But your head injuries were not good, which will give you some confusing memories. Don't let that worry you because it will come right in time. I am here to help you. So when I ask you a question you must help me. Try to answer—as well as you can. Now—do you remember how old you were at your last birthday?"

There had been a party, candles on the cake. How many of them? He closed his eyes, saw the table, the candles.

"Birthday party. Cake—a pink cake."

"With candles?"

"Plenty candles."

"Can you count them, Brian? Try to count the candles."

His lips moved, his eyes still closed, working at the memory, stirring in the bed with effort.

"Lit. Burning. I can see them. One, two—more of them. All together, I think, yes, there are fourteen."

The gray-haired woman smiled, reached out and patted him on the shoulder. Smiled down at him when his eyes fluttered open and he looked at her.

"That is good, very, very good, Brian. I am Dr. Snaresbrook. I have been taking care of you since the accident. So you can believe me when I say that your situation is greatly improved—and will improve steadily now. I will tell you about that later. I want you to sleep now—"

It wasn't easy. At times it seemed to be two steps backward for every one ahead. The pain appeared to be lessening but it still bothered him; at times that was all he wanted to talk about. He had little appetite, but wanted the intravenous drip removed. For one day he just sobbed with fear; about what, she never discovered.

Yet, bit by bit, with dogged insistence, she helped the boy put his memories together. Slowly the tangled and cut skeins of his past were gathered up, rejoined. There were still large sections of memory missing. She was aware of that even if he wasn't. After all—how can one miss something one does not remember? The personality of Brian was slowly and surely emerging, stronger each day. Until one day he asked:

"My father—Dolly, are they all right? I haven't seen them. It has been a long time."

The surgeon had been expecting the question, had prepared a carefully worded answer.

"When you were wounded there were other casualties— but none of them were people you know. Now the best thing for you to do is get some rest." She nodded to a nurse and out of the corner of his eye Brian could see her inject something into the drip that led to his arm. He wanted to talk, ask more questions, tried to move his lips but plunged down into darkness instead.

When Dr. Snaresbrook next visited Brian she was accompanied by her neurosurgical resident, Richard Foster, who had closely followed the Delaney case.

"I've never seen so much recovery from such a grave injury." Foster said. "Unprecedented. This kind of gross brain damage always leads to major deficiencies. Serious muscle weaknesses and paralyses. Massive sensory deficits. Yet all of his systems seem to be operating. It's amazing that he's recovered any mental function at all, with such an extensive injury. Normally such a patient would be permanently comatose. He ought to be a vegetable."

"I think you're using the wrong concept," Snaresbrook explained patiently. "Brian has not, in fact, 'recovered' in the usual sense of the word. No natural healing process has repaired those connections of his. The only reason that his brain acts like more than a bunch of disconnected fragments is that we have provided all those substitute connections."

"I understand that. But I can't believe that we got enough of them right."

"I suspect you're completely correct about that. We were only able to approximate. So now, when an agent in one part of his brain sends a signal to some other place—for example, to move the arm and hand—that signal may not be precisely the same as it was before his injury. However, if we got things nearly right, then at least some of those signals will arrive in the right general area, somewhere they can have roughly the right effect. And that is the important thing. Give the brain just half a chance, and it will do the rest for you. The same as in any surgery. All the surgeon can do is approximate. One can never restore exactly what was there before—but that usually doesn't matter that much because of how much the body can do."

She looked at the monitors: blood pressure, temperature, respiration, carbon dioxide—and most important of all, the brain wave scan. The characteristic patterns of normal, deep sleep. Without realizing it she let out a deep breath. There were real and positive results now. Everything she had seen in the past weeks that suggested that her unorthodox, new, unproven plan might work after all.

Benicoff was waiting in the room outside, started to stand and Erin waved him back, sat down slowly in the armchair across from him.

"I've done it!" she said. "The words bubbled out, finally released. "When you saw him last—it was a very early stage. I have been working with him, helping him to access those memories and thoughts that are the periphery of his mind. He is still confused about a lot of things of course, has to be. But he speaks well now, has told me his age, that he is fourteen years old. And now he is asking about his father and stepmother. Do you realize what that means?"

"Very much so—and I'm happy to be the first to congratulate you. You have taken what was essentially a dead man with a dead brain—and have restored enough of his earlier memories to bring him to a mental age of fourteen."

"Not really. Much of that is illusory. It certainly is true that Brian has now recovered many of his own memories of himself up to the age of fourteen. But very far from all of them. Some parts are missing, will remain missing, leaving gaps in his memory that may interfere with a lot of his abilities and attitudes. Furthermore, the age of that cutoff is far from sharp. A lot of threads that we've repaired do not go all the way up to that date—while others go well past that time. But the important thing is that we're starting to see signs of a reasonably well integrated personality. Not a very complete one yet—but one that is learning all of the time. Much of the original Brian has returned—but in my opinion not yet enough."

She was frowning as she said it, then forced a smile.

"In any case, none of that need concern us now. The important thing is that now we can enlist his active, thinking cooperation. And that means that we can proceed to the next stage."

"Which is—?"

Snaresbrook looked at him grimly. "We have done just about as much reconstruction as we can do 'passively.' But there still are many concepts mat we simply have not reached. For example, Brian seems to have lost virtually all his knowledge about animals, a particular form of aphasia that has been seen before in cerebral accidents. We seem to be at the point of diminishing returns in trying to reconnect all of Brian's old nemes. So although I plan to continue that, I shall now also begin the new phase. It might be called knowledge transfusion. What I plan to do is to try to identify those missing domains—those domains of knowledge that virtually every child knows, yet Brian still does not—and upload the corresponding structures from the CYC-9 commonsense data base."

Benicoff weighed the significance of this, started to speak— but she raised her hand to stop him.

"We had better discuss this at another time." She shook her head, felt herself fading, felt the onslaught of exhaustion too long held at bay.

"Now let's get a sandwich and some coffee. Then, while Brian is sleeping I'll get my notes up to date. He is going to need guidance every step of the way. Which means that I—and the computer—will have to know more about him than he knows himself."

The restraints had been removed and only the raised sides of the bed remained in place. The end of the bed had been lifted up so that Brian was no longer lying flat. The bandages that encased his skull covered the connecting fiber-optic cable that led to the back of his skull. All of the drips and other invasive devices and monitors had been removed; the few remaining ones were small and noninvasive and fixed to his skin. Other than his bruised and bloodshot eyes and pallid skin he looked to be in adequate health.

"Brian," Erin Snaresbrook said, looking at the brainwave monitor as the wavelength changed to consciousness. Brian opened his eyes.

"Do you remember talking to me before?"

"Yes. You're Dr. Snaresbrook."

"That's very good. Do you know how old you are?"

"Fourteen. My last birthday. What happened to me, Doctor? Don't you want to tell me?"

"Of course I do. But will you let me set the pace, explain things one step at a time in what I think is the best order?"

Brian thought for a moment before he spoke. "I guess so—you're the doctor, Doctor."

She felt a sudden spurt of enthusiasm when he said this. A small verbal joke. But immense in significance, since it indicated that his mind was alert and functioning.

"Good. If you let me do it that way I promise to tell you the complete truth—to hold nothing back from you. So first—what do you know about the structure of the brain?"

"You mean physically? It's the mass of nerve tissue inside the skull. It includes the cerebrum, cerebellum, pons and oblongata."

"That's pretty specific. You have had brain trauma and have been operated on. In addition—"

"There is something wrong with my memory."

Snaresbrook was startled. "How do you know that?"

There was a weak grin on Brian's lips at this small victory. "Obvious. You wanted to know my age. I have been looking at my hands while you talked. How old am I, Doctor?"

"A few years older."

"You promised that you would tell me only the complete truth."

She had planned to hold this information back as long as possible; the knowledge might be traumatic. But Brian was way ahead of her. The truth and only the complete truth from now on.

"You are almost twenty-four years old."

Brian ingested the information slowly, then nodded his head. "That's okay then. If I was fifty or sixty or something really old like that, it would be lousy because I would have lived most of life and wouldn't remember it. Twenty-four is okay. Will I get my memories back?"

"I don't see why not. Your progress to this point has been exceedingly good. I will explain the techniques in detail if you are interested, but first let me put it as simply as I can. I want to stimulate your memories, then restore your neural access to them. When this happens your memory will be complete and you will be whole again. I can't promise that all of your memories will be restored. There was injury, but—"

"If I don't know they're missing I won't miss them."

"That's perfectly correct." Brian was sharp. He might only have the memories of his first fourteen years now, but the thinking processes of his conscious brain appeared to be much older. He had been a child prodigy, she knew. Graduate school at fourteen. So he was not just any fourteen-year-old. "But not missing a memory is only a small part of it. You must realize that human memory is not like a tape recorder with everything stored in chronological order. It is very different, far more like a badly maintained file system organized by messy and confusing maps. Not only messy to begin with, but we reclassify things from time to time. When I say that I have memories of my childhood—that is not true. I really have memories of memories. Things that have been thought about over and over, simplified, reduced."

"I think I understand what you mean. But please, before we get started, there are a few things you will have to tell me. Ten years is a long time. Things happen. My family..."

"Dolly has been here and wants to see you."

"I want to see her too. And Dad?"

The truth only, Snaresbrook thought, although it would hurt something terrible.

"I'm sorry, Brian, but your father—passed away."

There was silence as slow tears ran down the man's—the boy's—face. It was long moments before he could speak again.

"I don't want to hear about that now. And me, what about me, what have I done in those years?"

"You've gotten your degrees, done original research."

"In artificial intelligence? That's what Dad does, what I want to do."

"What you have done, Brian. You have succeeded in everything that you tackled. In fact you made the breakthrough to actually construct the first AI. Before you were injured you were at the threshold of success." Brian noticed the juxtaposition of the terms, made the snap logical leap.

"You have told me everything so far, Doctor, I don't think that you have held back."

"I haven't. It would be unfair."

"Then tell me now. Does my injury have anything to do with AI? Was it the machine that did it? I always thought the stories of evil AIs were dumb."

"They are. But men are still evil. You were injured in the laboratory by men wanting to steal your AI. And reality has turned out to be quite the opposite of myth. Far from being evil, your work with Al-assisted micromanipulators has aided me greatly—and has enabled me to bring you here and speak with you like this."

"You must tell me all about AI!"

"No, Brian. We must rebuild your memories step by step until you can tell me how AI works. You were the inventor— now you are going to be the rediscoverer."

11

October 1, 2023

The blinds had been pulled up by the nurse when she had brought Brian his breakfast. He had been awake since dawn, unable to sleep with the whir of thoughts in his head. Bandages covered it, he could feel them with his fingertips. What had happened to him that had made him lose all those years? Selective amnesia? It just wasn't possible. He should ask the doctor to physically describe the damage—though maybe he better not. He really didn't want to think about that now. Not yet. The same way he didn't want to think about Dad being dead.

The TV controller—where was it? He was still amazed at the quality of the picture—if not the contents. Programs were just as bad as ever. Should he watch the news again? No, it was too confusing, full of references he did not understand. It depressed him when he tried to figure it out, since he was mixed up too much as it was. There, that was better—kiddie cartoons. They had some really fantastic computer animation now. But despite the incredible quality the animation was still being used to sell breakfast cereal drenched in sugar. Ten years was a long time. He ought to forget about that too. Or look forward to getting the years back. Or did he want to? Why live the same life twice? What's done is done. Though it might be nice not to make the same mistakes twice. But he wasn't going to relive those years, just get back his memories of them. It was a very strange situation and he wasn't sure that he liked it. Not that he had any choice.

Breakfast was a welcome intrusion. A lot of the chemical taste was gone from his mouth now and he was hungry. The orange juice was cold—but so were the poached eggs. Still he finished them and used a bit of toast to wipe up the last bits. The nurse had just cleared the dishes away when Dr. Snaresbrook came in. There was a woman with her—and it took a long moment to recognize Dolly. If she noticed his startled expression she did not let on.

"You're looking good, Brian," she said. "I'm so happy that you are getting better."

"Then you have seen me here before, here in the hospital?"

"Seen is the wrong word. You were hidden behind all those bandages, pipes and tubes. But that's all in the past."

So was he. In the past. This thin woman with the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and graying hair, was not the maternal Dolly he remembered. Memory had taken on a new meaning for him now, something to be raked over, examined, rebuilt. Remembrance of things past, mat was what old Proust had written about in such a long-winded way. He would see if he could do a better job of it than the Frenchman had done.

"Dolly has been of immense help," the surgeon said. "We've talked about you and your recovery and she knows that your memories stop some years back. When you were fourteen."

"Do you remember me, when I was fourteen years old?" Brian asked.

"A little hard to forget." She smiled for the first time, looking far more attractive with the worry lines gone from around her eyes, the tension from her mouth. "You were going into graduate school the next year. We were very proud of you."

"I'm really looking forward to it. Though I guess that is land of stupid to say now. I've gone and graduated already, the doctor has told me. But I remember all too clearly the trouble I'm having—had!—with the registrars. They know I have all the credits that I need and it is just the administration still standing in the way. Because I'm too young. But that's all in the past, isn't it? I guess it all worked out well in the end."

It was odd hearing him talk like this. Dr. Snaresbrook had explained to her that Brian could remember nothing of the years since he had been fourteen, that it was her job to help him recover those years. She did not understand it—but the doctor had been right so far.

"They didn't cause trouble for very long. Your father and some of the others got in touch with the companies funding the university. They couldn't have cared less if you were five years old—or fifty. It was the search for talents like yours that had caused them to start the school in the first place. The word came down from on high and you were admitted. I'm sure that you made a success of it, but of course I wouldn't know."

"I don't understand."

Dolly took a deep breath and glanced at the doctor. Her face was expressionless; there was no help there. Going through it the first time had been bad enough; reliving it for Brian's benefit was not easy.

"Well, you know that your father and I had—have—our-difficulties. Or maybe you didn't—don't—know."

"I do. Adults think kids, even teenagers, are dim when it comes to family matters. You keep your voices down but there have been a lot of fights. I don't like it."

"Neither did I."

"Then why do you—why did you—fight with Dad? I have never understood."

"I'm sorry it caused you pain, Brian. But we were two different kinds of people. Our marriage was as sound as most, sounder maybe since we didn't expect too much of each other. But we had little in common intellectually. And once you joined us I began to feel a little like a fifth wheel."

"Are you blaming me for something, Dolly?"

"No. Quite the opposite. I'm blaming me for not making everything work out for the best. Maybe I was jealous of all the attention he lavished on you, how close you two were and how left out I felt."

"Dolly! I've always—loved you. You are the closest thing to a real mother I have ever had. I don't remember my mother at all. They told me I was only a year old when she died."

"Thanks for saying that, Brian," she said with a slight smile. "It really is a little too late to assign blame. In any case I and your father separated, had a very amicable divorce a few years later. I went back to live with my family, got a new job and that is where I am now." Sudden anger flared and she turned on Snaresbrook.

"There it is, Doctor. Is that what you want? Or a bit more guts spilled on the floor."

"Brian has the physical age of twenty-four," she said calmly. "But his memories stop at age fourteen."

"Oh, Brian—I am so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Of course you didn't, Dolly. I suppose that everything you have just told me about was in the wind and I should have seen it coming. I don't know. I guess kids think that nothing basic will ever change. It's just that school is so busy, the AI work so exciting—" He broke off and turned to Dr. Snaresbrook. "Am I at least fifteen by now, Doctor? I've certainly learned a lot in the past few minutes."

"It doesn't quite work that way, Brian. You heard a lot—but you don't have your own memories of the events. That's what we must restore next."

"How?"

"By using this machine. Which I am very proud to say you helped to develop. I am going to stimulate memories which you will identify. The computer will keep track of everything. When other memories have been matched on both sides of the lesion they will be reconnected."

"There can't be enough wires in the world to reconnect all the nerves in the brain. Aren't there something like ten-to-the-twelfth hookups?"

"There are—but there are plenty of redundancies as well. Associations with one sector of memory will permit compatible reinforcement. The brain is very much like a computer and the opposite is true as well. But it is important to always be aware of the differences. Memory is static in a computer— but not in the human mind. Recalled memories get stronger, untouched memories weaken and vanish. My hope is mat when enough pathways have been reconnected, other interconnections will be reestablished as well. We will be looking for nemes."

"What are nemes?"

"A neme is a bundle of nerve fibers that is connected to a variety of agents, each of whose output represents a fragment of an idea or a state of mind. For example, what is red and round, with a sweet taste and a crunchy texture, a fruit about the size of your fist and..."

"Apple!" Brian said happily.

"That's exactly what I had in mind, but notice I never used that word."

"But it's the only thing that fits."

"Yes, indeed—but you'd only know that if you had an 'apple-agent' that was connected so that it would automatically get activated when enough of the right other nemes are activated—like the ones for red, round, sweet and fruit."

"And also cherries. I must have nemes for cherries too."

"You do. That's why I added 'fist-sized.' But you didn't have those nemes two months ago. Or, rather, you certainly had some apple-nemes, but their inputs weren't wired up right. So you didn't recognize that description before, until we connected them up during therapy."

"Strange. I don't remember that at all. Wait. Of course I can't remember that. It happened before you restored my memory. You can't remember anything until you have some memory."

Snaresbrook was becoming accustomed to that startling sharpness, but it still kept taking her by surprise. But she continued in the same manner. "So that is how nemes hook up. By making the right kinds of input and output connections. So far, we've been able to do this for the most common nemes—the ones that every child learns. But now we'll be looking for more and more complex nemes and discover how they connect as well. I want to find higher and higher levels of your ideas, concepts and relationships. These will be increasingly harder to locate and describe, because we'll be getting into more areas that are unique to your own development, ideas that were known to you and you alone, for which there are no common words. When we find them, it may be impossible for me—or anyone else—to understand what they mean to you. But that won't matter because you will be learning more every day. Every time the correlation machine discovers ten new nemes, it will have to consider a thousand other possible agents to connect them to. And every twenty nemes could trigger a million such possibilities."

"Exponential, that's what you mean?"

"Perfectly correct." She smiled with pleasure. "It would seem that we're well on our way to restoring your mathematical ability."

"What will I have to do?"

"Nothing for now, you've had a long enough day for the first session."

"No, I haven't. I feel fine. And don't you want to work with my new information in case it slides away when I go to sleep? You were the one who told me that a given period of time must pass before my short-term memory becomes long-term memory."

Erin Snaresbrook chewed her lip, chewed at this idea. Brian was right. They ought to get on with the process as soon as possible. She turned to Dolly.

"Can you be here tomorrow? Same time?"

"If you want me." Her voice was very cold.

"I do, Dolly. Not only do I want you but I need you. I know you must feel upset about this—but I hope that you won't forget the boy Brian once was. Brian the man is still Brian the child whom you took into your home. You can help me make him whole again."

"Of course, Doctor, I'm sorry. I shouldn't think of myself, should I? Until tomorrow, then."

They were both silent until the door closed behind her.

"Guilt," Brian said. "The priest was always talking about it, the nuns in school too. Expiation as well. You know, I don't think that I ever called her Mother. Or Mom like the other kids—or even Mammy the way we do in Ireland."

"No blame or remorse, Brian. You are not living in your past but are re-creating it. What's done is done. Cold logic, as you always told me."

"Did I say that?"

"All the time when we were working together on the machine—when my thought processes got woolly. You were very firm about it."

"I should have been. It saved my life once."

"Want to tell me about it?"

"Nope. It's part of my past, remembered in all too clear embarrassment. The time when I let a bit of stupid emotion get a hold of me. Can we move on, please? What's next?"

"I'm going to plug you into the computer again. Ask you questions, establish connections, stimulate areas of your brain near the trauma and record your reactions."

"Then let's go then—hook them up."

"Not at once, not until we have established a bigger data base."

"Get things rolling then, Doctor. Please. I am looking forward to growing up again. You said we worked together before?"

"For almost three years. You told me that my brain research helped you with your AI. You certainly helped me develop the machine. I couldn't have done it without you."

"Three years. Since I was twenty-one. What did I call you then?"

"Erin. That's my first name."

"A little too presumptuous for a teenager. I think I'll settle for Doc."

Snaresbrook's beeper signaled and she looked at the message on its screen. "You rest for a few minutes, Brian. I'll be right back."

Benicoff was waiting for her outside—and looking most unhappy.

"I have just been informed that General Schorcht is on his way over here. He wants to talk to Brian."

"No, that's impossible. It would interfere too much with what we are doing. How could he have known that Brian is conscious? You didn't tell him—"

"No way! But he has his spies everywhere. Maybe even your office bugged. I should have thought of that—no, a complete waste of time. What he wants to know, he finds out. As soon as I heard he was coming here I got on the phone, went right to the top. No answer yet so you will have to help me. If he gets this far we need a holding action."

"I'll get my scalpels!"

"Nothing quite that drastic. I want you to stall. Keep him talking as long as possible."

"I'll do better than that," Erin Snaresbrook said, reaching for the phone. "I'll use the same trick he pulled, send him to the wrong room..."

"No you won't. I'm in the right room now."

General Schorcht stood in the open doorway. The slightest smile touched his grim features, then instantly vanished. A Colonel was holding the door open and there was another Colonel at the General's side. Snaresbrook spoke without emotion, the tone of the surgeon in the operating room.

"I'll ask you to leave, General. This is a hospital and I have a severely ill patient close by. Kindly get out."

General Schorcht marched up to the woman and stared down at her coldly. "This has long ceased to be humorous. Stand aside or I will have you removed."

"You have no authority in this hospital. None whatsoever. Mr. Benicoff, use that phone, get the nurse's station. This is an emergency. I want six orderlies."

But when Benicoff reached for the phone the Colonel placed his hand over it. "No phone calls," he said.

Dr. Snaresbrook stood firmly with her back against the door. "I will place criminal charges against you for these actions, General. You are in a civilian hospital now, not on a military base—"

"Move her aside," General Schorcht ordered. "Use force if you have to."

The second Colonel stepped forward. "That would be unwise," Benicoff said.

"I'm removing you from this investigation as well, Benicoff," the General said. "You have been uncooperative and disruptive. Get them both out of here."

Benicoff made no attempt to stop the officer when he stepped by him and reached for the doctor. Only then did he clasp his hands together into a joined fist—that he swung hard into the small of the Colonel's back over his kidneys, knocking him gasping to the floor.

In the silence that followed this sudden action the sound of the telephone ringing was sharp and clear. The Colonel who had his hand over it started to pick it up—then turned to General Schorcht for instructions.

"This is still a hospital," Dr. Snaresbrook said. "Where telephones are always answered."

The General, radiating cold menace, stood motionless for long seconds—then nodded his head.

"Yes," the Colonel said into the phone, then stiffened, almost coming to attention.

"For you, General," he said, and held out the phone.

"Who is it?" General Schorcht asked, but the Colonel did not answer. After an even briefer hesitation the General took it.

"General Schorcht here. Who?" There was a long silence as he listened, before he spoke again. "Yes, sir, but this is a military emergency and I must decide that. Yes I do remember General Douglas MacArthur. And I do remember that he overstepped his orders and was removed from command. The message is clear. Yes, Mr. President, I understand."

He handed the phone back, turned and walked from the room. The officer on the floor climbed painfully to his feet, shook his fist at Benicoff, who smiled back happily, before he went after the others.

Only when the door had closed behind them did Erin Snaresbrook permit herself to speak.

"You pulled some long strings, Mr. Benicoff."

"The President's Commission is making this investigation— not that military fossil. I think he had to be reminded who was his commander in chief. I liked that reference to MacArthur and the expression on General Schorcht's face when he remembered that President Truman fired the General."

"You have made an enemy for life."

"That happened a long time ago. So now—can you tell me what is happening? How is Brian progressing?"

"I will in just a moment. If you will wait in my office, I'll finish up with him. I won't be long."

Brian looked up when the door opened and the doctor came in.

"I heard voices. Something important?"

"Nothing, my boy, nothing important at all."

12

October 27, 2023

"Feeling fine today, are we?" Dr. Snaresbrook asked as she opened the door, then stood aside as a nurse and an orderly rolled in the heavily laden trolleys.

"I was—until I saw that hardware and that double-ended broom with the bulging glass eyes. What is it?"

"It's a commercially manufactured micromanipulator. Very few have been made."

Snaresbrook kept smiling, gave Brian no hint that this was part of the machine that Brian had helped her develop. "At the heart of the machine is a parallel computer with octree architecture. This enables it to fit it on a single and rather large planar surface. Wafer-scale integration. This interfaces with a full computer in each joint of the tree-robot."

"Each joint—you're putting me on!"

"You'll soon discover how much computers have changed— particularly the one that controls this actuating unit. The basic research was done at MIT and CMU to build those brooms, as you call them. It is a lot more complex than it looks at a distance. You will notice that it starts out with two arms—but they bifurcate very quickly. Each arm then becomes two—"

"And both of them smaller, by half it seems."

"Just about. Then they split again—and again." She tapped one of the branching arms. "Just about here the arms become too small to manufacture, tools get too gross—and assembly would have to have been done under a microscope. So..."

"Don't tell me. Each part is standardized, exactly the same in every way—except size. Just smaller. So the manipulators on one side make the next stage on down for the other."

"Exactly right. Although the construction materials have to change because of structural strength and the volume-to-size ratio. But there is still only a single model stored in the computer's memory, along with manufacture and assembly programs. All that changes with each stage is the size. Piezoelectric stepping motors are built into each joint."

"The manufacturing techniques at the lower end must really be something."

"Indeed they are—but we can go into that some other time. What is important now is that sensors in the small tips are very fine and controlled by feedback from the computer. They can be used for microsurgery at a cellular level, but now they will be used for the very simple job of positioning this connection precisely."

Brian looked at the projecting, almost invisible, length of optic fiber. "Like using a pile driver to push in a pin. So this gets plugged into a socket in my neck, as you told me—and the messages start zipping in and out?"

"That's it. You won't feel a thing. Now—if you will just roll over onto your side, that's fine."

Dr. Snaresbrook went to the controls and when she switched the unit on, the multibranching arms stirred to life. She guided them to a position close behind Brian, then turned over control to the computer. There was a silken rustle as the tiny fingers stirred and separated, dropped slowly down, touched his neck.

"Tickles," Brian said. "Like a lot of little spider legs. What is it doing?"

"It is now positioning the fiberoptic to contact the receptor unit under your skin. It will go through your skin, though you won't feel it. The point is sharper than my smallest hypodermic needle. Plus the fact that it is looking for a path that avoids all nerves and small blood vessels. The tickling will stop as soon as the contact is in place—there."

The computer bleeped and the fingers held the metal pad that held the fiber optic firmly in place against his skin. They rustled again as a strip of adhesive tape was picked up from the bench and passed along swiftly to the site on his neck, where it was pressed down firmly to secure the pad in place. Only then did the arms contract and move away. Snaresbrook nodded to the nurse and orderly, who withdrew.

"Now it begins. I want you to tell me anything you see or hear. Or smell."

"Or think about or imagine or remember, right?"

"Perfectly correct. I'll start here..." She made a slight adjustment and Brian shouted hoarsely.

"I can't move! Turn it off! I'm paralyzed—!"

"There, it's all right now. Did it clear up instantly?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I sure hope you won't have to do that again."

"I won't—or rather the computer won't. We have been trying to locate, identify and establish controls over the major low-level agencies in the brain stem. The system apparently shut off the whole cerebellum. Now that the computer knows—it won't happen again. Are you ready to go on?"

"I guess so."

At times there was warmth, then darkness. A chill that filled his entire body in an instant, vanished as quickly as it had come. Other sensations were impossible to describe, the functions of the mind and body at the completely subconscious level.

Once he shouted aloud.

"Are you in pain?" she asked, worried.

"No, really—the direct opposite. Don't stop, please, you mustn't." His eyes were wide, staring at nothing, his body rigid. She did not hesitate to interrupt. He relaxed with a profound sigh. "Almost... hard, impossible to describe. Like pleasure squared, cubed. Please note the site."

"It's in the computer's memory. But do you think it wise to repeat—"

"Quite the opposite. Stay away from there. Something like that, like a rat pressing a button to stimulate its pleasure centers until it dies of thirst and hunger. Stay away."

Erin Snaresbrook was keeping track of the time and when an hour was up she stopped the session.

"I think that is enough for the first day. Tired?"

"Now that you mention it—the answer is yes. Are we getting anyplace?"

"I believe so. There is certainly a lot of data recorded."

"Any matchups?"

"Some..." Snaresbrook hesitated. "Brian, if you're not too tired I would like to go on a few minutes longer.''

"I bet you want to try some new way to locate higher-level nemes?"

"Precisely."

"Well I do too. Fire it up."

If anything was happening Brian was certainly not aware of it. The answer was obvious when he thought about it. If the machine really was connecting bundles of nerves, reestablishing memories, there was really no reason for him to be aware of the process. Only when he made an attempt to recover those memories would it be obvious that they were there. Yet he was aware of something happening at a very remote level of consciousness. It was a transient thought that slipped away like an eel when he tried to approach it. This was annoying. Something was happening that he couldn't quite grasp. And he was tired. Plus the fact that now he had noticed, it was like an itch he couldn't quite grasp.

That's enough, he thought.

"I think that we'll stop for the day," the doctor suddenly said. "It's been a long session."

"Sure." Brian hesitated, but then decided why not. "Dr. Snaresbrook—can I ask you a question?"

"Of course. But just a second until I finish here—now, what is it?"

"Why did you decide to end the session at that moment?"

"Just a little difficulty. The control is very fine and this is all still experimental. There was an abort signal on one of the connections being established. I must admit this was the first time something like this has happened. I want to rerun the program to that point and find out why."

"You won't have to—I can tell you."

Erin Snaresbrook looked up, startled, then smiled. "I doubt if you can. This wasn't in your brain but in the CPU, or rather in the interaction of the implanted central processor and the one in the computer."

"I know. I told it to shut down."

The surgeon fought to keep her voice calm. "That's hardly possible."

"Why not? The CPU is on the chip implanted in my brain—and is interrelating with my brain. Is there any reason why there can't be feedback?"

"None whatsoever—except to my knowledge it has never been done before!"

"There's a first time for everything, Doc."

"You must be right. It appears that while the computer was learning some of the connections in your brain, parts of your brain were learning some of the computer's control signals."

Snaresbrook was beginning to feel dizzy. She walked to the window then back, rubbing her hands together—then laughed. "Brian, do you realize what you are saying? That you have interfaced your thought processes directly with a machine. Without pressing buttons or giving voice commands or any other kind of physical action. It was not planned, it just happened. Before this all communication has been at the level of a motor action, from a nerve to a muscle. This is the first time that communication has been effected directly from the brain to a machine. Nothing of this kind has ever happened before. It's... breathtaking. Opens up all sorts of incredible possibilities!"

Brian's answer was a low snore. He had fallen asleep.

Erin Snaresbrook unplugged the neural link from the computer and coiled it under his pillow, not wanting to wake him by attempting to remove it now. Then she quietly shut down the machine, closed the curtain and left the room. Benicoff was waiting for her outside, radiating gloom. Erin raised her hand before the other man could speak.

"Before you deliver the bad news I prescribe a cup of coffee in my office. It has been a busy day for both of us."

"It shows that much?"

"I'm a great diagnostician. Let's go."

The surgeon had a lot to think about as she led the way. Should she tell Benicoff about Brian's newfound ability? Not yet, later perhaps. She must run some controls first to make sure that it had not been an accident, a coincidence. The possibilities it opened were so large as to be frightening. Tomorrow, she would think about it tomorrow. She sipped the coffee and smacked her lips, passed Benicoff his coffee— then dropped into a very welcome chair.

"Bad news time?" she asked.

"Not really bad news, Doctor, just pressure. General Schorcht is not going away that easily. He insists that every day Brian remains here in the hospital the security worsens. In a way he has a point. And it is sure wracking hell with normal day-to-day hospital management. I know—I get the . complaints. The General has been on to the Pentagon, who has been on to the President—who has been on to me. Is it possible that Brian can be moved now that he is conscious and off all the life support equipment?"

"Yes, but—"

"It had better be a world-buster of a but."

Erin Snaresbrook finished her coffee, then shook her head. "I'm afraid that it isn't. As long as very prudent medical precautions are taken."

"That's why the long face. General Schorcht, a small army and a medevac copter are standing by right outside—at this very moment. If that's your answer they are going to do it now. I'll try a holding action, but only if you have some really strong medical reasons."

"No. In fact, if he has to be moved eventually, it might be best to move him at the present time. Before I get too involved in the memory reconstruction. And I am sure that we will all be a bit more relaxed once security is tightened."

Brian was quite excited when he heard what was going to happen.

"Wow—a copter ride! I've never been up in one before. Where are we going?"

"To the naval hospital on Coronado."

"Why there?"

"I'll tell you after we arrive." Dr. Snaresbrook glanced at the nurses who were preparing Brian for the short trip. "In fact, I think I better answer a lot of your questions when we get there. I'm afraid we can't keep this a private party much longer. Are we ready?"

"Yes, Doctor," the nurse said.

"All right. Inform Mr. Benicoff. You will find him waiting outside."

The orderlies were navy medical corpsmen—and were backed up by a squad of heavily armed marines. The entire hospital floor had been cleared and there were more marines in front of and behind the party that surrounded the gurney. The first squad double-timed up the stairs to the roof when Brian was rolled into the elevator, were waiting there outside the door when it arrived. Nor were they alone. Sharpshooters looked down from the parapets, while at every corner of the roof there were soldiers with bulky surface-to-air missiles at the ready.

"You are right, Doctor, you do have a lot of explaining to do!" Brian called out above the roar of the copter's blades.

During the short hop across the city and bay they were boxed in by attack choppers, while a flight of jets circled higher above. After landing on the helipad of the naval hospital the same procedure was done in reverse. When the last marine had stamped out, there were still three people left in the room.

"Will you wait outside, General," Benicoff asked, "while I explain to Brian what this is all about?"

"Negative."

"Thanks. Dr. Snaresbrook, will you please introduce me?"

"Brian, this is Mr. Benicoff. The military officer next to him is General Schorcht, who has some questions to ask you. I wouldn't have him here now but I have been informed that this interview was expressly asked for by the President. Of the United States."

"For real, Doctor?" They may have been twenty-four years old but the eyes had the wide-eyed stare of a fourteen-year-old. Erin Snaresbrook nodded.

"Mr. Benicoff is a presidential appointee as well. He is in charge of an ongoing investigation—well, he'll explain that himself."

"Hi, Brian. Feeling okay?"

"Great. That was quite a ride."

"You have been seriously ill. If you want to postpone this..."

"No thanks. I'm a little tired, but other than that I feel fine now. And I really would like to know what happened to me, what is going on around here."

"Well, you do know that you succeeded in developing an operating artificial intelligence?"

"The doctor told me that—I have no memory of it at all."

"Yes, of course. Well then, without being too detailed, you were demonstrating the AI when the lab you were in was attacked. We have reason to believe that everyone there with you was killed, while you were badly wounded in the head. By a bullet. We assume that you were left for dead. All of your notes, records, equipment, everything to do with the AI was removed. You were taken to the hospital and operated on by Dr. Snaresbrook. You recovered consciousness in the hospital and of course everything that has happened since then you know about. But I must add that the thieves were never caught, the records never recovered."

"Who did it?"

"I am afraid to say that we have absolutely no idea."

"Then—why the military maneuvers?"

"There has already been one other attempt on your life, when you were in the hospital that you just left."

Brian gaped around at their blank faces. "So what you are telling me is that the AI has been pinched. And whoever has it wants to keep it their secret. So much so that they are ready to bump me off to keep it a secret. Even though I don't remember a thing about it."

"That's right."

"This takes some getting used to."

"For all of us."

Brian looked over at the General. "How does the Army fit into this?"

"I will tell you." General Schorcht stamped forward. Benicoff started to interfere, then hesitated. Best to get it over with. Snaresbrook was of the same mind and nodded agreement when she saw Benicoff draw back. The General raised his single hand and held out a recorder.

"You will identify yourself. Name, date of birth, place of birth."

"Why, your honor?" Brian asked in a wondering voice, his Irish brogue suddenly thick.

"Because you have been ordered to. Statements have been made about your health and sanity that need corroboration. You will answer the question."

"Must I do that? I know why. I'll bet it's because these people here been telling lies about me. Have they told you wild stories about me being only fourteen years old when with your own fine blue eyes you can see that is not true?"

"Perhaps something of that nature." The General's eyes sparkled as he leaned forward. "You are speaking for the record."

Benicoff moved away so the General could not see his face. He had spent time in Ireland. He knew what "putting the mickey to someone" meant—even if the General did not.

Brian hesitated and looked about him, licking his lips.

"Am I safe now, General?"

"I can guarantee that one hundred percent. As of this moment the United States Army is in charge."

"That's nice to know. I feel a great relief as I tell you that I woke up in me hospital bed, sore in the head. And with not a memory I could find after my fourteenth year. I may not look it, General, but as far as I know I am fourteen years old. And very tired. Feeling suddenly ill. I have something of medical importance to discuss with my attending physician."

"Mr. Benicoff," Dr. Snaresbrook said, right on cue, "would you and General Schorcht please leave. You may wait outside."

Whatever the General had to say never came out. His face was bright red, his jaw working. In the end he spun about so sharply on his heel that the pinned-up arm of his uniform jacket flew up. Benicoff was holding the door open for the General and closed it behind them as they left. Worried, Dr. Snaresbrook hurried to Brian's side.

"What's the trouble, Brian?"

"Don't worry, Doc, nothing terminal. I just had enough of that one. But, yes, there is one thing."

"Pain?"

"Not quite. If you will excuse the expression—I just have to pee."

13

November 9, 2023

Almost two weeks passed before Benicoff saw Brian again. But he did get daily progress reports from Dr. Snaresbrook, which he passed on instantly to the President's office. He did not hurry the second report that he had to file every day. Out of sheer malice at three in the morning, his E-fax was programmed to send a copy of the progress report to General Schorcht's unlisted security number. In the hope that some excitable staff officer might find an item in the report that was interesting enough to wake up the General. This thought sent Benicoff to sleep with a smile every night.

He also E-faxed a daily case report of the Megalobe investigation at the same time. These were getting shorter and emptier of any progress with every passing day. There had been a flurry of activity when a series of caves had been discovered not too far from Megalobe; a result of one of the more way-out theories that had been developed. This theory expanded on the supposition that maybe the truck that had been at the laboratory that night had left the valley after all. But had left empty. The stolen items might then have been buried at a prepared site, to be dug up later when things had cooled down. Therefore all the excitement about the cave discovery. But the caves contained only fossilized bat guano which, Benicoff thought to himself, described just about everything else about the case that they had uncovered so far.

He had jogged through Balboa Park for an hour just after dawn then, showered and dressed, he had scowled through a low-cal breakfast and black coffee. At nine he had phoned the electronic company to check the delivery time of the items he had arranged for. Then, after returning the calls from the East Coast that had been recorded while he was out, he sealed his computer and took the rear elevator that connected with MegaHertz car rental in the subbasement of the hotel. The yellow electric runabout he had reserved was waiting for him. He checked that it had a spare tire, that there were no obvious dents in the body and that it had a full charge in the battery. Traffic was light until he reached the Coronado Bridge where the tail-back from security reached back halfway along it. He switched to the VIP lane and stopped only at the far end when the marine guard flagged him down.

"I'm afraid you can't use this lane, sir."

"I'm afraid I can."

His pass and documents earned him a salute and another inspection at the VIP entrance. There were more salutes here—along with a complete search of the car. And all this just to get into the public part of Coronado. The searches became even more enthusiastic when he reached the gates of the military base.

Brian was standing at the window when Benicoff came in, turned around with a smile.

"Mr. Benicoff, it's good to see you. We're kind of short of visitors here."

"Even better to see you—and you look great."

"And that's just about how I feel. They took the bandages off my back and arm yesterday. I've got a couple of nice scars. And I'm going to get a cap instead of these bandages tomorrow. Everyone keeps peeking at my skull but won't let me see it yet."

"Which is probably not such a bad idea. And I can give you some more good news. Dr. Snaresbrook and I, after a frontal assault on the naval authorities, have obtained reluctant agreement to have a computer terminal plugged into the room here for you."

"That's great!"

"But you'll notice that I said terminal and not computer. A dumb terminal to the hospital's mainframe. So you can be sure that every keystroke you enter will simultaneously appear on General Schorcht's screen."

"That's even better! I'll see to it that the good man has plenty to read to keep his blood pressure up."

"Love at first sight. I appreciate the way you put the mickey to him."

"I had to. He looks and sounds just like one of the nuns at school back in Tara, the one who used to break her ruler over my knuckles. And speaking of breaks—any chance of breaking out of here? Getting some fresh air?"

Benicoff dropped into the armchair, which squeaked under his weight. "I have been fighting with the authorities on this one as well. When the doc says that your health is up to it you can use the balcony to the tenth floor."

"With ropes attached so I don't jump off?"

"Not that bad—I took a look at it on the way up. Some Admiral's personal little perk, I imagine. It's pretty big, with lounges, trees—even a fishpond. And well guarded."

"That's another thing I wanted to ask you about, Mr. Benicoff—"

"Just Ben, if you please, which is what my friends call me."

"Sure. It's about these guards, really, and what's going to happen to me when I get better. Doc said to ask you."

Benicoff climbed to his feet and began to pace. "I've thought about that a lot—without finding a good answer. When you leave this hospital I'm afraid that you'll have to go to someplace equally secure."

"You mean until you find out who it was that stole the AI and shot me—the same people who then came back later on and tried to finish the job."

"I'm afraid that's it."

"Then—can I see a printout of everything that has happened since the attack and theft in the lab, and everything you have discovered since?"

"It's classified Top Secret. But since it is all about you, and you're not going to do much traveling for a while—I don't see why not. I'll bring you a copy tomorrow."

A nurse poked her head in the door. "Some equipment here to be installed. Dr. Snaresbrook has approved it."

"Bring it in."

Two white-coated attendants pushed in the trolley, followed by a Yeoman with electronic patches on his uniform.

"Delivered a little while ago, sirs. Taken apart and searched, put back together again and operating A-OK. Who's going to sign for it?"

"Here," Benicoff said.

"That's not a terminal," Brian said, tapping the square metal machine.

"No, sir. That's a new-model printer for eternitree paper. Terminal is on its way up now. And initial here, please. Paper is in the box here."

"Eternitree? That's a new one to me."

"It shouldn't be," Benicoff said when the printer and terminal had been plugged in and connected and they were alone again. He took out a sheet of paper and passed it to Brian. "It was developed at the University of Free Enterprise for the daily newspaper published there. In fact your father's name—as well as yours—is on the original patent applications. I understand you both helped in developing the process."

"Looks and feels like ordinary white paper."

"Try folding or tearing it—see what I mean? It is tough plastic that has been textured to feel like paper, with a bonded thin-film surface. Which means it is almost indestructible and completely reusable. The perfect thing for the daily newspaper—also developed by one of the brightest boys at your university."

"If I can sit down, with a glass of water—will you tell me about it?"

"I'll get the water. Here. You know about selective TV news programming?"

"Sure. You punch in your own program, things that you are interested in. Baseball, stock market reports, beauty contests, whatever. Labeled news reports go out twenty-four hours a day. Your TV records those that interest you the most so when you come home and turn on the news, whammo, it's only the stuff you care about."

Benicoff nodded. "Well, your university newspaper is a high-powered version of the same thing. The editor there has signed up scientists right around the world as reporters.. They send in reports all the time about every kind of scientific and technical news. These are tagged and stored in a data bank, along with all the news items from standard services. The subscription system has a learning scheme. When you touch the advance button to reject something, the computer notes this and avoids future related items. More important is the fact that it follows your eye movements with a tracking device. Then it does a content analysis and records descriptions of the subjects that interest you. It is a true learning process and the system gets better and better at profiling your interests. It is so good that unless there is a cutoff you would find yourself doing nothing else but watching news and views that you agree with and approve of."

"Sort of turn you into an info junky. But what about browsing?"

"Built into the system. The retrieval operation is so efficient that there are always plenty of sidetracks even in the documents that are relevant to your subject."

"Great! So it works out that every subscriber gets his own special newspaper. The hydraulics prof has nothing but pipes, pumps and splashes from around the world, along with Topeka, Kansas, obituaries, where he comes from, and chess news if he is into that as well. What a great idea."

"Thousands think so. The subscriber pays a fixed fee, while the computer keeps track of how many times any single item is used and automatically pays the contributor."

Brian rolled up the sheet of eternitree paper, real tight, but it instantly flattened out when he let go.

"A personalized newspaper waiting in the bin every morning. But still a tree's worth of paper to be dumped every week."

Benicoff nodded. "That's what you and your father thought. The thin-film lab at the school was working on flat computer screens. Your father helped with the math and this was the end result. The layered film is changed internally and electronically from white to black. Any font or size of type is apparently printed on it—even large size for those with weak eyes. After reading it the sheets are dropped back into the printer. As the new newspaper is printed it clears away the old one. And even this technology is going to be redundant soon. There is a hyperbook coming onto the market that is about three-eighths of an inch thick and contains only ten pages. The edge binder contains a really powerful computer that controls a detailed display on each page, one that is even more detailed than the pages of printed books. When you finish reading page ten you turn back to the first page, which already contains new copy. With a hundred megabytes of memory this ten-page book will really contain a quite substantial library."

"I'll settle for this one for now—it's really neat. I'll set up a newspaper for myself."

"You can—but that's not why I brought the printer. You've been trying to order some books, the request got passed on to me. With the printer you can only store them in memory, but with eternitree you can print the book you want, slip the sheet into a spring binder and sit in the sun while you read."

"And reuse the sheets again when I'm through! A lot has happened that I forgot about. Say, can't you print out that report I asked for on this? I could have it right now."

Benicoff turned to the terminal. "I don't know. If this hospital has a cleared high-security network it might be possible. Only one way to find out."

He punched in his own code, accessed base security and found the right menu. But before he had gone very much further the screen cleared and the lines of print were replaced by General Schorcht's scowling image.

"What is the meaning of this breach of security?" His rasping voice rasping even worse through the terminal's tiny speaker.

"Good morning, General. Just trying to get a copy of the classified Megalobe report for Brian."

"Are you crazy?"

"No more than usual. Think, General. Brian was there. He is our only witness. We need his help. If I can't get a copy now I will bring him one tomorrow. Does any of this make sense to you?"

General Schorcht stared in cold silence while he thought it through. "The hospital circuits are not secure. I'll have the Pentagon transfer a one-off copy to CNBSC, the Security Central there. A messenger will deliver the copy." The screen went blank as soon as he finished.

"Well good-bye then, sir, nice to chat with you. You heard."

Brian nodded. "I don't know if I can help—but at least I can find out what happened to me out there. Early on, Dr. Snaresbrook said that others had been killed. Very many?"

"We just don't know—that is one of the infuriating things about this case. One man we can be fairly certain of, the Megalobe Chairman, J. J. Beckworth. We found a drop of his blood. But seventeen men in all are missing. How many were killed—and how many were in on the crime, we just have no idea. You'll read it in the report."

"What was taken?"

"Every record and every item of equipment relating to your work on artificial intelligence. They also moved out every piece of electronic equipment and record, every book and piece of paper from your home. The neighbors reported that a moving van was there for at least a half a day."

"You've traced the van?"

"The plates were forgeries and the company doesn't exist. Oh yes, the moving men were of oriental appearance."

"Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Siamese, Vietnamese or any specific country?"

"The elderly witnesses can only identify them as oriental."

"And the trail gets colder every day."

Benicoff nodded reluctant agreement.

"I wish I could be of help—but as far as my memory goes I'm still living back in UFE. Maybe if I saw the house I might get some clues. Maybe they missed my computer backup. I lost two important files when I first started programming seriously and I swore it would never happen again. I wrote an automatic program that saved to an external disk drive as I worked."

"Not a bad idea—but they got every disk in the house."

"But my program did more than just backup disks. When I was fourteen years old my program also backed the backup disk through the telephone modem to the mainframe in my father's lab. I wonder what setup I had here?"

Benicoff was on his feet, fists clenched. "Do you realize what you have just said?"

"Sure. There is a good chance that there is a copy of my AI work in a memory bank somewhere. That would help, wouldn't it?"

"Help! My boy, we might be able to rebuild your AI with it! It wouldn't solve the problem of who pulled this thing off—but they wouldn't be the only ones with artificial intelligence." He grabbed up the phone and punched in a number. "Dr. Snaresbrook, please. When? Have her contact me as soon as she gets back. Benicoff, right. Tell her that it is urgent to know just how soon her patient will be able to leave the hospital. That is a gold-placed top priority question."

14