“What do you mean?”
“We’re the NSA,” he said. “That’s not what we do.”
According to Andrew, since all our data was technically classified, I could be arrested if I held a press conference without the express blessing of the DIRNSA, which at this point, with Kilpatrick dead and Clarke MIA, was Terry Ronstadt. Ronstadt was, by Andrew’s description, the anti-Snowden: so security obsessed that “you could torture his mother, and he wouldn’t tell you his middle name.” Even so, Andrew promised to try to get permission.
While he was doing that, I left him with the number for my dad’s iPhone and drove back to the hospital to check Mei-lin’s progress with my father. My mom stood over the bed, clasping the rail with white knuckles. I came up next to her and wrapped my arm around her shoulders. She leaned her head against me.
My father’s eyes were closed. Mei-lin had sedated him, and his arms lay motionless against the Velcro restraints. “I wouldn’t have needed to,” she said. “The straps would keep him from hurting anyone. But he kept begging me to do it.”
I laid my hand against his forehead. His skin was papery and cold.
“As best as I can tell,” Mei-lin said, “the Alzheimer’s is attacking the fungus along with the normal brain tissue. Your father had an initial rush of memory and cognition improvement, because the fungal cells made connections that had long since been lost, imitating the intended brain function. Over time, however, the axons of the pseudo-nerves—the ones composed of fungal cells—have been affected just like the original.”
“How is that possible?” I said. “Fungi can’t get Alzheimer’s, can they? It’s like a maple tree getting dementia.”
“Remember the copycat quality of these fungal cells,” Mei-lin said. “They duplicate the cellular interface and a lot of the cells’ structure and function. Ironically, that makes them just as vulnerable to attack.”
“If it’s vulnerable, can we use that to our advantage? Is there some kind of drug or treatment that could push it back out of our brains?”
Mei-lin shook her head. “That’s just the thing. Those are vulnerabilities it gets from imitating the forms it finds in our own brain. Anything we did to fight it on that level would only harm our own brain cells.”
“So if we fight this thing,” I said, “it’s got to be by attacking the fungal nature of it. Attacking what makes it different, not taking advantage of the way it imitates our function.”
“That sounds about right,” Mei-lin said.
The iPhone in my pocket buzzed. I pulled it out and saw Andrew’s number on the screen. I turned away from the others and answered it.
“Hey, Andrew,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“They’re going to do it,” he said. “Ronstadt agreed to hold a press conference and tell them what we know about the epidemic. Though he’s actually going to brief the president, and the president is going to tell the nation.”
“That’s great,” I said. “What changed their minds?”
“I guess they know it’s leaking anyway. With our soldiers dying and American kids potentially affected, it can’t be kept under wraps. Better to release the information now, while they can still control the spin. Also, there’s some good news.”
“Good news?” That would make a nice change.
“We got our aircraft carrier back. The uninfected sailors, which apparently was most of them, staged a mutiny and took back the ship. No lives lost.”
“The first-ever mutiny on board a US aircraft carrier, and you call that good news?”
“Well, it’s better than it cruising up the Gulf of Mexico and attacking Miami.”
“True.”
“It’s a break, Neil. Maybe the first we’ve had. We’ll get these bastards yet.”
When I hung up, I turned back to see my mom staring at the television mounted high on the wall. On the screen, a pretty blond reporter interviewed a young man in a brown sport coat. The woman leaned forward, earnest and intent, while the man sat at his ease with one foot propped up on his knee.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.
Mei-lin looked at the screen and then back at me. “Isn’t that…”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s my brother.”
CHAPTER 23
Once I recovered from the initial shock of seeing him on-screen, I rushed to turn up the volume.
“…you believe the government is not just violating our rights, but actually harming the country by outlawing these ‘smart drugs’?” the reporter asked.
My brother smiled. “Nancy, I believe the prejudice against these drugs is harming humanity as a species. Our ability to reason, to debate, to communicate in abstractions and cooperate in large numbers: these are the advancements that have given us an unprecedented ability to thrive and dominate our environment. But it doesn’t end here. There’s so much more that we could do if we could overcome our ridiculous tendency for argument and distrust, jealous rivalry and selfish violence.”
“And you think Neuritol can solve this? It sounds like you’re talking about world peace. Isn’t that expecting a bit much?”
“Humanity can solve these problems,” Paul said, his voice ringing with earnest appeal. “Cooperation is a hallmark of our species. We just need to reach the next step in our evolution. Neuritol isn’t just a drug that wears off and leaves you wanting more. You can think of it like a brain upgrade. I’m serious about this. Those who are willing to go to the next level are going to be the leaders of society, in the sciences, in healthcare, in politics, in business. Those who aren’t willing are going to be left behind.”
“Wow. That’s quite a vision, Dr. Johns. After our break, we’ll return to this interview and our discussion of Neuritoclass="underline" Is it a genius drug, or is it just the latest harmful addiction to sweep through our schools? We’ll be back after these messages.”
“Well, that’s bold,” Mei-lin said.
My jaw worked a few times before I could make it speak. “No one’s going to buy that nonsense. It’s like he’s selling wizard oil from a traveling medicine show.”
“And thousands of people bought that wizard oil,” my mother said. “And still do, more or less.”
“What worries me,” I said, “is how much Paul seems to believe what he’s saying. That’s not really Paul talking. It’s the fungus, manipulating him.”
My mother’s expression was grave. “I think we have to face the possibility that what we see on that screen is who Paul is now. What he really believes.”
The commercials ended and the blond reporter reappeared on the screen. “With me is Dr. Paul Johns, a mycologist with the University of Maryland, who earlier today filed a lawsuit against the Department of Justice for violating what he claims is a public right to take Neuritol, the latest so-called ‘smart drug’ that promises increased mental capabilities.” She turned to Paul. “Dr. Johns, does Neuritol really live up to the hype? After all, it’s been through no formal safety testing, no drug review process.”
“Nancy, what day were you born?”
She hesitated a beat, not wanting to give up control of the interview. “November 21st.”
“What year?”
She blushed. “1998.”
“You were born on a Wednesday,” Paul said. “You are eight thousand, five hundred, and seventy-seven days old. Your last birthday was on a Sunday, and your next will be on a Monday.”
The reporter gave a little gasp of delight and clapped her hands. “Amazing,” she said.
“The last commercial break lasted one hundred and eighteen seconds. The man who touched up your makeup during the break is in love with you, but you don’t return his affections. You’re five foot eight and a hundred and twenty pounds, and you said the word ‘Neuritol’ sixteen times during our interview so far.”