http://rt.com/news/156412-brain-memory-research-darpa/
Human memory, emotions, and their associated neural chemicals will soon become controlled variables on the battlefield....
It was a frigid March morning. Days ago, an explosion at a nearby industrial site shook the city with a deafening roar that sounded like the Earth itself was screaming. The explosion sent up titanic columns of acrid black smoke that quickly swallowed the sky. The sun disappeared behind the lifeless black cloud and ash fell from the sky, blanketing the city like a soft layer of snow. The haze erased the city’s iconic skyline from the horizon and brought a speedy end to spring, but the specter of winter wasn't the only ghost that had returned to the city.
Somewhere
deep in the urban hive, Sean Fritz was walking by a row of crumbling
houses. A long fence ran along much of the block to keep the hordes
of homeless out of the condemned structures that were all in advanced
stages of decay. Holes had been cut in different parts of the fence
and Sean could sense the eyes of the building’s unsanctioned
inhabitants peering at him from behind the boarded windows. The
dejected residents of the neighborhood, who occasionally reflected
off the edges of Sean’s designer sunglasses with their calloused
hands, sunken eyes, and drug-filled emaciated bodies, stood in deep
contrast to Sean who had carefully crafted his appearance with
shining leather loafers, pressed jeans, and a designer style
petticoat. Even though he was out of place, they were the ones who
were weary of him.
Sean
crossed a bridge that ran over the murky river that had once been the
life blood of the city. The 30 second crossing took Sean into what
looked like a completely different city. The face of the urban
confines had morphed from a charred and jagged facade into a vibrant
enclave of large window front stores, renovated lofts, and sky high
towers of steel and glass. It was an island of prosperity surrounded
by a sea of rot. Sean stopped at the first intersection just west of
the bridge. Besides a guy getting in a cab and a female jogger
running in his direction, the street was empty. Sean ignored the
crossing light. He tried to make eye contact with the jogger as they
crossed the street, but a breathing mask obscured her face, and it
was apparent to Sean she wasn’t interested. He turned around to at
least get a look at how her ass fit in her spandex. It was
bittersweet. He felt his heartbeat speeding up and his stomach began
to churn. He mumbled to himself, “is it 8 o’clock already?” He
pulled a compact mirror from
his coat pocket, opened it up, and studied his face for a moment. His
pupils were dilated, and he was clenching his teeth. He inflected the
mirror up slightly to his forehead. The edges of a perfectly
horizontal surgical scar could be seen coming through hastily applied
concealer. It was a permanent reminder of the neural chemical
regulator implanted in his brain.
It
was called the “receptor switch,” a microscopic machine designed
to stimulate and regulate the production of different neural
chemicals. His brain now produced different chemicals on a timer.
Every morning since the operation, at exactly 8am,
his brain became flooded with
dopamine and serotonin meant to keep him sharp and focused. It was an
adjustment as the machine definitely had some kinks in it. He barely
slept anymore. Sometimes, instead of smooth chemical transitions, the
machine would malfunction, and he would have bouts of mania
throughout the day followed by crashes at night, but he was getting
used to it. Sean stopped in front of a skyscraper made of a sort of
teal colored steel. The building’s directory was a metal plate
attached to the wall just inside the doors. Sean looked it over and
found that the restaurant Roma was on the 53rd floor.
The
elevator doors opened, and Sean entered the dimly lit restaurant. He
was greeted by a young red-headed hostess wearing a short black dress
that made Sean think of fucking and funerals. She smiled at Sean and
said, “Hello. I’m Claire. How are you this morning?”
“Good.
I have a meeting with Michael Yates here at 8,”
Sean informed her.
“Are
you Mr. Fritz?” She asked.
“Yes,”
Sean replied.
“Okay,
right this way.”
Sean
followed Claire past a long ebony gold bar that was trimmed with
gleaming gold. There were just three steps that led
up into a dining room in the sky. The luxurious cavern was lined with
mahogany wood and encased in glass. The only thing the view offered
was the glow of a few ghostly lights in the sea of haze that hung
heavy over the city. It was the backdrop set behind Michael Yates, a
stocky middle aged man in an Armani suit.
“Sean?”
he
asked.
“Yeah,”
Sean answered.
Yates
pushed his wire frame glasses back up his large nose and stood up.
“I’m Michael Yates,”
he said extending his hand, which
Sean shook and sat down opposite
him.
“Your
waiter will be right with you,”
Claire said reminding them she was there.
“Thanks,”
Yates said giving her a nod and opened his menu.
”They
got great omelets here, but I know you have a dentist’s appointment
so I’ll make this brief,”
Yates said. Sean looked confused.
“How
did you know that?” he
asked. Yates looked like he was
trying not to laugh.
“C’mon,
who do you think you’re talking to?” he
said cheerily.
Yates
waved his hand which seemed to instantly produce a tall slim man in
his early thirties wearing all black and holding a notepad. “Are
you gentlemen
ready to order?” he asked.
“Yeah,”
Yates said. “I’ll have the Spanish omelet and uhhhh...” He
trailed off for a second and looked at Sean. “Are you sure you
don’t want a mimosa?” Sean shook his head. “C’mon man, I know
you got a thing, but this is all on the corporate account!” Yates
exclaimed. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll get an extra one, and
if you decide you want it, you can have it.”
“Alright,”
said Sean, giving in.
“Nice!”
Yates said with more than a little enthusiasm. “We’ll have four
mimosas and a bloody Mary.”
“Very
good. Anything else?” he
asked, looking over at Sean.
“No,
nothing for me,”
Sean answered.
The
waiter weakly smiled before replying. “I’ll be right back with
your drinks.” The waiter turned and left.
”Alright,
down to business,” Yates said. He pulled an EnVizion, a
micro-optical computer, from his jacket pocket and handed it to Sean.
It was small, consisting of just a wireless eye piece that the user
wore over the right eye that was connected to a handle that warped
around the ear. The 1 square inch of translucent material aligned
with the user’s pupil and converted the CPU’s interactive display
into signals that would transmit directly into the user’s optic
nerves. Three manilla folders manifested themselves in front of his
face as if they were floating in the room, invisible to all but him.
With slight eye motions, he navigated through the folders until he
found one titled ‘H.R.
Department Security Consultant Executive Directives.’
Even the title was filled with enough jargon to deter any possible
prying eyes away from the idea of it having any useful information.
With a blink of an eye, the folder opened up before him and free
floating 3-D displays of information organized themselves for his
perusal. “It’s linked to an Overmind account in our cloud
server,” Yates explained.
“Yes,
I’m familiar,” Sean replied while opening a folder entitled
‘Special
Instructions.’
There was only one document in the folder.
It
read:
Login: Dorothy38
Password: noplacelikehome
Special instructions: When the contracting
party feels the security threat has been effectively neutralized,
that party is to contact the following mobile number and leave a
voicemail with the message: ‘we’re off to see the wizard.’
Should any difficulties arise that may prevent the contracting party
from completing the assignment, the aforementioned party should
immediately report it via email to the address of enoon@gmail.com.
”Now
I need to remind you,” Yates began, the smile fading from his face,
“I am a lawyer representing Corporate Security Consultants and its
affiliates. My clients have specifically instructed me to tell you
NOT to injure, kill, intimidate, or do ANYTHING outside of the law
while under contract. The money will be dispensed to you at the
discretion of the CEO of CSC. In other words, you’ll get paid when
it is determined there is no longer a threat. If you should fail or
if law enforcement should become involved, the device will be fried
via a scrambling signal and any traces of you will be deleted from
the Overmind server.”
“I
know the drill,” said Sean. “I just have one question. What’s
with all the Wizard of Oz shit?”
Yates
laughed hardily. “Oh, you know, corporate guys and tech geeks
really get into
that cryptic covert-ops shit. I think they’re just playing spy.”
The
waiter returned with the tray of drinks. “Alright, this is going to
be a good morning!” Yates said excitedly. His wide smile suddenly
coming back to form. The waiter set the drinks around the table.
“Anything
else I can get you gentlemen?”
“No,
we’re good for now,” said Yates.
“Very
good. I’ll be back soon with your omelet,” The waiter replied
before turning to leave.
” Says
here he was in the Green Berets,” Sean said disconcertingly. Yates
was taking a large gulp from his first mimosa. He put the glass back
down and had finished about half in the first go.
“Well,
he’s
like you. You know, decorated special ops guy apparently recruited
while he was in the service,” Yates said and took a large gulp from
his mimosa. “Apparently the Security Solutions Group, or the S.S.G,
isn’t the only one with an operatives program. He’s even got
neural chemical implants just like you,” Yates explained. There was
a silence as he took a sip from his second mimosa. “How have you
been since the operation?” he asked with an uncharacteristic tone
of sincerity.
“I’ve
been adjusting,” Sean responded flatly. “Is he looking for me
too?”
“Yeah,”
said Mike solemnly. “Yeah, he is.”
Sean sat in the
waiting room of the dentist’s office. It was a small space, just
another corner suite in another highrise, very typically furnished
with a few chairs and a coffee table covered with random issues of
different gossip magazines. The only ones in the brightly lit white
and windowless space were him and the receptionist who sat at the
other side of the room behind a fake wooden desk. She stared at her
computer screen, furrowing her brow and occasionally muttering to
herself. Sean assumed she was pretending to work to avoid
conversation, which worked out well enough for him. His mind was far
too preoccupied for small talk. He reached into the pocket of his
jacket and pulled out the EnVizion Yates had given him. He hoped the
collection of obscure information would lead to some kind of
revelation or some kind of breakthrough in his hunt.
The
target was Drennin Louis, a decorated special forces operator with a
service record of large parts not yet declassified. In short, he was
just like Sean. Sean had been recruited by the S.S.G while he was
finishing his last year of service. He signed an exclusive contract
that, in some very muddled language, allowed the S.S.G to use his
training however “they saw fit.” The pay was beyond anything a
soldier could ever dream of, and up until that point, the workload
had been relatively easy.
He
was taking advantage of his access to a rather generous spending
account to have some dental work done due to a mishap on his last
assignment. It was carelessness on his part and overconfidence that
had made him forget how hard anyone could fight for their lives.
The
target was a computer programmer named Andrew Morris. He was sharing
some kind of state-of-the-art anti-virus software he wrote in his
basement. It wasn’t really a mystery to Sean why a modern corporate
security firm like the S.S.G didn’t like the idea of free
anti-virus software that put theirs to shame being proliferated over
the internet. Sean found the unsuspecting programmer in his garage,
smoking a joint, while shining a laser pointer at the wall for his
cat to chase. Sean’s light footsteps were inaudible to Andrew, and
the cat didn’t give him any kind of heads up. Sean’s body,
drawing upon the muscle memory of death, acted swiftly and
mechanically. He locked his arm around Andrew’s neck and brought
him to the ground. He put an ether covered rag over the programmer’s
face. He loosened the grip around his neck just enough to let him
breathe in the ether. After just a few seconds, Andrew stopped
moving, and his body went limp. Sean pulled a small box cutter out of
his pocket. He slowly ran the blade across each of Andrew’s wrists
opening up his veins.
Sean
watched the blood stream out of Andrew for a moment before he turned
to leave. The first thing he saw was the blunt end of a wine bottle
racing towards his face. Before he had time to react, the bottle
smashed into his jaw breaking three of his teeth. His mouth instantly
filled with the iron taste of blood. He swallowed the blood, careful
not to let any fall between his lips to become forensic evidence.
When Sean didn’t go down, the girl turned to run away, but her legs
couldn’t carry her fast enough. Sean pounced, sending her face down
to the floor. Lost in the moment, Sean quickly jabbed the box cutter
into the side of her neck. She began to choke as blood filled her
throat. Her eyes rolled up into the back of her skull, and she began
convulsing. Sean quickly got off her and stepped away as she went
through her death throws. Every breath became sharper and sharper,
until finally, she inhaled one last time, and her body went limp.
Sean spent the rest of the night dressing the scene up into something
the local detectives would rule a murder suicide.
Andrew
never had a chance against Sean. No one Sean killed during his time
as a “consultant” did. Drennin
was a worthy adversary though. He was like a ghost with hardly any
known family and a foggy history. The file didn’t even have any
useful pictures for Sean. All that was really known was he had been
in the Berets and had a reputation for starting fights at college
bars. Sean read and re-read all the files. “Enoon,”
he mumbled. It dawned on him that “enoon” was “no one”
backwards. Sean laughed to himself. The corporate boys really do love
cryptic shit.
“Mr
Fritz, the doctor will see you now,” the assistant called.
Sean
was reclined in the dentist’s chair. His nearly horizontal body
left him facing his own reflection in the large examination mirror
hanging over his face. It was quiet. The only company in the room was
his own staring reflection. He started humming and drumming on his
knees. He abruptly stopped. He ran his finger over the exposed edge
of the scar on his forehead. His finger smudged the concealer, making
it even more visible. He stared at it while he ran his fingertip over
its surface. Its crumbling and jagged texture triggered an associated
memory.
It
was just a few days after his surgery. By complete accident, Sean had
found out Lt Allen
Dotson, a man who served in the S.E.A.Ls
with him, had worked as a “consultant” for the S.S.G. just a
little over a year ago. When Sean heard he was still living in the
city, curiosity got the better of him. He found out where Dotson was
living and took it upon himself to pay him a visit. Secret contracts,
and the recent reconfiguring of his brain chemistry, were starting to
give him second thoughts about his new high-paying position as “a
security consultant.” He hoped a quick meeting with Dotson to see
how well he was living would alleviate his concerns.
When
he found the building, he started to become a bit more optimistic. It
was a modern glass and steel high rise sitting towering over the bank
over the river. The building was a completely sealed structure, and
the airlock doors at the entrance ensured the only air circulating
went through massive subterranean purifiers. There were high end
stores in the lobby and a staff of 24 hour doormen.
Dotson
was on the 24th floor. Sean knocked on the door. After a few moments,
he could hear a series of locks clicking,
the door opened and standing in front of him was a short somewhat
heavy middle aged Filipino nurse. “Yes?” she asked in a manner
that was less than welcoming.
“I’m
Sean Fritz,”
Sean blurted out. She was silent for a second. “Here to see Allen
Dotson,” Sean continued awkwardly.
“He’s
back here, follow me,” said the nurse.
“Hello
Mr Fritz,” a man said in a chipper voice. Sean felt his eyes shift,
and he was back in the dentist’s office staring at himself in the
mirror. “Don’t get up,” the man said with a laugh. “I’m Dr
Cerone. How are you doing today, Sean?”
“Not
too bad, considering,” Sean replied.
The
doctor laughed again. “Well, I’ll have you all fixed up in just a
bit.” The examination light switched on. The combination of the
harsh ultraviolet light and the metallic clanking of the dentist’s
tools was making Sean uneasy, but all the standard symptoms of
nervousness didn’t surface. Sean’s neural chemical regulators,
sensing Sean’s fear, began to release small amounts of oxytocin. It
was like it had an override switch for his brain. Sean’s mind took
him back into his memory like a movie that had been put on pause.
The
nurse lead him through the cold dark apartment. The freshly painted
white walls were devoid of any pictures or decoration, and the rooms
were stacked with sealed boxes instead of furniture. The nurse opened
the door to the bedroom and motioned for Sean to come in. The first
thing Sean saw was the shadow of a bed with the wiry frail silhouette
of the Lieutenant’s body cast against the wall by the soft blue
glow of the TV. “Hey Fritz,” the Lieutenant said, weak from his
breathing mask. He was unrecognizable. He was only 34, but his body
had already been wracked with the decay of age. The contorts of his
bones were perfectly visible though the thin wrinkly wrapping of his
flesh. Dark yellow liver spots covered his body like marks of death.
His shallow cheeks and hollow eyes sat behind the translucent plastic
of a breathing mask, and on the night stand next to his bed, was a
menagerie of prescription pill bottles.
“Dotson,”
Sean answered as he looked down at the floor.
“Sit
down,” said the Lieutenant. The nurse pointed to a small chair
against the wall. Sean sat down, and the nurse left the room closing
the door behind her and leaving only silence.
”How
has...”
“What
the fuck do you want, Fritz?” Dotson interrupted Sean.
“I
heard you worked for the S.S.G,” Sean said. Dotson was silent. “I
understand you signed a non-disclosure agreement. I just want to...”
“Yeah,
I did operative work for them,” Dotson said, cutting Sean off
again. He talked almost like he was being choked. He pointed at Sean
with his trembling hand. “Don’t worry, Fritz. I remember... I
remember you... a guy like you is going to do fine.” Sean didn't respond. “I can see the scar on your forehead, Fritz,” Dotson
continued. “It’s just like mine.” He turned his head. His
large, unblinking eyes fixed on Sean’s as he pointed a bone thin
finger at an identical horizontal scar on his forehead.
“Start
counting backwards from 100,” the dentist said as he strapped the
mask in place. The moment in Allen Dotson’s bedroom raced to the
back of Sean’s mind as internal white noise. Sean could hear the
hiss of the gas being released from the tank, and he breathed deeply.
As the creeping darkness of unconsciousness began to engulf the world
around Sean, his head tilted back and his eyes began to close. The
last thing he saw, surrounded by the bright examination light, was
the oral surgeon’s face. His mouth was covered in a surgical mask
and a horizontal scar identical to Sean’s ran across his forehead.
Sean’s last thought was “fuck, it’s Drennin!”
Drennin
proceeded to drive the screeching head of a dental drill through
Sean’s left eye and into his brain killing him. Drennin watched
Sean’s body convulse in the chair as his eye spurted blood. After a
few minutes, Sean’s tremors became more infrequent, and he stopped
moving entirely.
Drennin
took out a phone and dialed. After a few seconds, he said, “we’re
off to see the wizard.”
This story was printed in Skive Magazine's "Farewell Edition". Unfortunately it was the publication's last collection, and it does not disappoint. Here you will find dozens of pieces from across the literary spectrum that come together to celebrate the life of one of the world's most fantastic independent publications.
http://www.skivemagazine.com/
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