“Don’t say that. Paul’s sick, just like you are. We’re going to get you both better.”
“I don’t need to get better. I’m just fine. You think you can do a mess of random science experiments and fix me? Most original research shows errors, you know.”
I frowned. “What do you mean? You don’t like Dr. Chu examining you?”
“Of course not. I’m not sick. Let me out of here.”
I turned to Mom. “Is this what he’s been like?”
She shook her head. “No, no. He’s been calm, reasonable.”
“I’m right here,” Dad said, hands slapping against the rails. “Don’t ignore me. I’m telling you, that doctor’s mockery of research should end!”
It was such a strange phrase. I started to reply, then hesitated, running his words through my mind… mockery of research should end. I had grown up with my dad hurling word puzzles at us across the dinner table, puzzles that could often be solved by noticing an odd sentence structure or word choice. Sometimes he would mix palindromes into his speech just to see if we would notice. I started running some of the awkward phrases he’d just used through my mind.
…my only real son, eh…
…mess of random science experiments…
…most original research shows errors…
…mockery of research should end…
I felt a chill go down my spine. The words in each phrase began with the same series of letters: M-O-R-S-E. My eyes snapped to my father’s hands, still tapping away on the bed rail. Three short taps, followed by three long ones. The letter S, then the letter O. My father, my real father, was in there somewhere. And he was trying to communicate.
Morse code was a common device in the simple ciphers and cryptograms my dad had taught us as kids, and Paul and I had spent a summer sending secret messages to each other using the buttons on a pair of cheap walkie-talkies. It had been a while since I’d looked at the Morse alphabet, but like riding a bike it came flooding back.
I expected three short taps again, completing an S-O-S distress code, but the next signal was one short, one long. The letter N. I snatched a pad and pen from the counter and started scribbling.
“What’s happening?” my mom asked, but I put a finger to my lips. “Wait.”
Three long taps. Another O. One short, one long. Another N. Then one short, two long, one short. P.
S-O-N-O-N-P. It wasn’t making any sense yet, but it was clearly intentional. I kept writing.
Another O, then a T, then a U. I stopped trying to figure out the message and just wrote down the letters as fast as he tapped them.
Without stopping, my father lifted his head, trying to see my paper. “What is this? What are you writing?”
I ignored him, continuing to write. My mom looked over my shoulder. “Neil? You’re making me nervous.”
When the pattern started repeating itself, I stood and beckoned for her to follow me into the hallway. Once we were out of earshot, I said, “He’s resisting, Mom! He’s still in there.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Morse code! He was tapping out a message. There’s a part of him that’s still unaffected by the fungal parasite.” I tried to work it out, talking to myself as much as to her. “The unaffected part must have some access to the speech centers, because he hid a message in his speech. But it must not have full control.”
My mother looked horrified. “You’re telling me there’s another mind taking control of his brain?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “In most people, the fungal cells and their original brain seem to harmonize. One mind, one set of thoughts and intentions, only skewed toward what benefits the parasite. But Dad is holding onto some part of himself, actually splitting his mind, like in a multiple personality disorder. Maybe it’s the Alzheimer’s that makes it possible, I don’t know. Or maybe the parts of his brain he used for word puzzles were so well-traveled, the fungal pathways couldn’t improve their efficiency.”
Mom raised her hands in frustration. “If he’s communicating with us, then what did he say?”
I flipped the pad around and showed her what I’d written:
“Open sea?” she said. “Does that make sense to you?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I started writing it down in the middle, so it wraps around.” I took the pen and hastily scribbled the full message, starting at the beginning and leaving blanks between words. I turned the pad around again to show her:
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What does it mean?”
“It means I need to warn the president of the United States.”
I called Andrew and told him about my dad’s message.
“But how could he possibly know such a thing?” Andrew objected. “He’s been tied to a hospital bed, right? You’re not going to tell me this infection makes people telepathic now, are you?”
“Nothing of the kind,” I said. “But I suspect if you analyze the broadcast of my brother’s interview with Nancy Sheridan on CNN, you’ll find the same message in Johurá whistle language or something similar. Maybe Paul hums a few bars of something, or whistles, or, I don’t know, pitches his voice up and down while he’s talking. I didn’t hear the whole interview. But take a look. I don’t know how many thousands of viewers that show has, or how many of those are infected, but I think we need to warn the president right away.”
Andrew gave a deep sigh, and I could hear the strain in his voice. “This isn’t happening,” he said. “I knew I should have taken that job with Boeing. I’d be in Seattle right now, and none of this would be my problem.”
“It’s going to be everybody’s problem, if we don’t find a way to turn it around,” I said. “There’s no reason what happened in Colombia and Brazil can’t happen here, too.”
“I know, I know. I’ll get the Secret Service on the phone.”
“Remember, anybody could be infected. There’s no such thing as a trustworthy individual anymore, not unless they’ve been scanned for the fungus. The Secret Service agents currently on duty with the president are probably okay, or they would have tried to kill him already. But anyone new coming on duty needs to be scanned. Anyone who talks to him needs to be scanned.”
“I know,” Andrew said. “This is bigger than just us, now. SecDef has a whole staff of Army docs working on a fast and accurate test now, so we don’t have to rely on PET scans. Ronstadt instituted the verified-command initiative at the meeting this morning. It’s an emergency system requiring all commands to be issued formally in writing and be verified by private key. That way all commands can be tracked, and we can be certain some rogue colonel, say, isn’t taking over a whole department as his own private workforce.”
It sounded like a terrible idea to me, certain to slow the quick communication of real commands and not actually prevent the bad ones. There didn’t seem to be any point in saying so, however. “Good luck,” I said. “I’ll see you soon.”
Back in the hospital room, my father’s hands lay still. I squeezed his shoulder. “Keep fighting, Dad.”
I gave my mom a hug. “Stay with him. Don’t lose hope.”
On my way out of the room, I felt a wave of exhaustion come over me. I checked my watch and was startled to see that it was seven o’clock. I realized I hadn’t eaten a bite all day. I wanted to get back to Fort Meade, despite the hour, but I knew if I didn’t get some food I was going to crash sooner or later.