Veil (21 page)

Expecting a fourteen-year-old boy to look
before they leap every time was like expecting them to use a condom
every time. All anyone could do was teach him, send him out into
the world
,
and cross their fingers. So, it
was no one’s fault but his
,
and he knew
it. All along he knew it and never blamed anyone else. He always
tried, although sometimes unsuccessfully, not to be a victim.
However, the accident was still very real and had very real
consequences for Brock Elsbeth.

Besides his parents, the only person who
remained at his side since the accident was Hunter Kennerly. People
came and went
.
He knew that was a fact of
life and had very little to do with his condition. He remained
realistic and figured his limitations made a lot of things
inconvenient for others. Youth often despised
inconvenience
,
so when Brock grew up,
friends didn’t necessarily stick around long. Still, no matter how
great the inconvenience, Hunter Kennerly was the one person that
stayed aboard from “childhood friend,” to “friend,” to damn near
brother, to one day becoming his doctor and no exaggeration,
savior.

Everyone else was already in the water, so it
really didn’t occur to him. No one was even paying attention; it
was simply his turn to dive. It wasn’t like they were all daring
each other to do it. It wasn’t that high off the ground and they
all dived off the same spot hundreds of times before. Besides, they
were fourteen, so of course, they were invincible.

Hunter was already in the water below. He was
splashing some girl and being flirtatious, which was funny because
… well … because it was Hunter. He knew what Hunter was before
Hunter really knew; it wasn’t any big deal. He didn’t think Hunter
understood that girls took things seriously. Like flirting. Girls
took flirting seriously. Very seriously. Brock used to fear one
day, gay or not, Hunter was going to lead on the wrong girl.
Anyway, it was Brock’s turn to dive.

He explained it so many times it became an
autopilot monologue:
I was fourteen.
It was a
split-second. My head hit something solid, and I knew right away
something wasn’t right. I saw all these stars and I sank to the
bottom. One of the guys finally pulled me up, but I couldn’t move.
That was it.

Oh, and at the end he always made sure to
stress how it all happened really fast
,
because that was how people usually wanted his story to end. As if
they took solace in hearing how maybe at least he didn’t suffer too
much because it happened so quickly. Like when someone instantly
died in an accident. Well, at least they didn’t suffer. Right.
Suuuure.

Brock’s brain wasn’t broken, only his body.
Technically—despite what people thought by looking at him—not his
entire body, only his spine. He still had motor functions and
sensations, just no way for his brain to communicate through his
spinal cord with the rest of his body beyond his shoulders. He
suffered no brain damage whatsoever
,
and
although people pitied him based on his appearance, chances were he
was more intelligent than them. Not Stephen Hawking genius or
anything, but still.

No, I don’t have whatever the hell Stephen
Hawking has.

Brock was never one to believe Hunter worked
so hard on the career path he chose due solely on their friendship
or because of the accident. Did it probably influence Hunter’s
interest and guide his passions? Sure. That was possible and it
made sense. However, long before the accident, Brock already knew
Hunter was different and not only because of the way he would
always check out guys. Hunter was crazy smart. Too damn smart for
his own good, Brock’s mom used to say.

For a period of time
,
she was right. Back when Hunter was really wild and
out of control. Brock always saw how Hunter had a lot of demons.
Ironically, more demons than Brock could ever imagine. He used to
joke how Hunter had the kind of genius where he could become a
brain surgeon or a serial killer, depending on which way the scales
tipped. The joke was they both knew it was true. If anything, Brock
liked to imagine their friendship was simply one of the things that
helped tip Hunter’s scales in the right direction. The good
direction.

Hunter’s trial-and-error technology was crude
and painful at first
,
but Brock was always
his willing guinea pig. In the beginning, it started off with wires
that were inserted into and protruded from Brock’s wrists. The
wires were connected to a computer. Using a joystick-type device
that detected movements from his mouth and tongue, Brock could
control the computer and tell it to send electrical signals through
the wires to Brock’s wrist, which caused him to move. His brain
couldn’t send those signals through the spine like it was supposed
to so Hunter used the computer and wires as a bypass. Hunter’s
device worked and changed Brock’s life, along with the lives of
hundreds of other
quadriplegics.
For
Hunter, it still wasn’t enough.

After years of unrelenting study,
research
,
and development, Hunter came up
with a device that could read and use Brock’s
electroencephaloblahblahblahs: the detection of electrical
signals emitted by his brain, which were recorded through his
scalp. He could tap into the potential of those EEGs by forcing
Brock to wear a device on his head
,
which back then looked like a colander with wires
coming out of all the holes, not unlike how Brock’s mom looked when
she frosted her hair.

The device was attached to the computer and
all Brock had to do, Hunter teased, was think hard enough and he’d
be able to control the computer using nothing but his mind. In
time, that was exactly what Brock did. And luckily, in time, Hunter
came up with a design that didn’t make Brock’s head look so
ridiculous in the process.

Advancements in technology developed rapidly
in every direction and Hunter was always there, trying to find ways
to incorporate those things to increase the quality of Brock’s
life. In time, with Hunter’s help, there was little Brock couldn’t
do or accomplish. Sure, he required assistance with things like
eating, bathing, using the bathroom, getting in and out of bed, and
cleaning his house.

But, things could’ve been
worse. He didn’t require a ventilator to breathe. He could speak
with minimal clarity if
absolutely
necessary, although he hated to speak because he
hated his voice and hated to repeat himself. Plus, speaking made
him run out of breath, and he was relatively certain his vocal
cords pretty much atrophied since he never used them. At least, he
hoped they atrophied, so he wouldn’t be expected to use
them.

Things could’ve been worse still: he
could’ve not had Hunter. Above and beyond the friendship and the
constant technological additions to his life, Hunter made sure
Brock had everything and everyone he needed. Hunter practically had
his own staff of people to assist him.

Brock lived alone and had a
job; he enjoyed freedom, friends, and a life. Hunter gave all of
that to Brock without ever asking for anything in return. Without
ever once saying anything about any of it. Hunter simply did those
things, not as if they were expected of him, but as if those were
things that
of course
he would do, because Brock was Brock, and Hunter was Hunter,
and they were Brock and Hunter.

After all those years, the
day he got the message from Hunter—who was asking for
his
help—became without
any doubt the happiest and proudest day of Brock Elsbeth’s life. He
loved Hunter like a brother, and he knew Hunter felt the same, even
if Hunter never actually said the word. God, to be able to do
something
for
Hunter other than be his friend…

Brock was happy. Brock was excited. Brock
was beside himself.

Ok, whatever, I’m in a wheelchair beside my
wheelchair.

Brock knew Hunter would point out that, if
Brock were beside himself … well, Brock knew what Hunter would
point out. Hunter was a jackass.

When the Terminal application suddenly
popped up on the monitor attached to his chair, Brock knew what it
meant. Hunter was the only one who could or would access his
Terminal and unless it launched by itself, it meant there was a
message. Except there was no message; there was only a black window
with a blinking white cursor.

Way before the accident, he and Hunter used
computers to send messages but that was prior to the internet and
subsequent email explosion. When they weren’t using online Bulletin
Board Systems, they used backdoor terminals accessed by a modem to
send messages directly to another computer. Sometimes they sent
messages written in what they considered at the time to be
‘encrypted code’ but what was more like basic juvenile cipher.

“GA
,
” Brock directed his computer to
type. It meant ‘go ahead.’

What he received in
response was his and Hunter’s code; they hadn’t used it since they
were in their teens. While he knew Hunter wasn’t actually using the
code itself to be covert, he knew what signal Hunter was sending.
By waiting for Brock to message first and by using their code,
Hunter was saying:
This is
serious
,
bud
…
this
is dangerous
.

The message he translated from Hunter was
simple.

“LOC INFO R PPL 4 ASN DOC Gensay R VAR. PRO
Neurosci. DMWM TMW. SK.”

A mixture of their childhood code and TTY
code used by interpreters to relay messages for the deaf, the
message Brock deciphered meant he was to locate information or
family for an Asian doctor named ‘Gensay’ or some kind of variant
of that name. The doctor’s profession was linked to neuroscience.
Hunter instructed him not to message and that he would message
Brock tomorrow. End of message.

Brock replied with, “SKSK.” That meant Brock
was ending the message and closing the Terminal, which also
indicated to Hunter that he received the message.

Brock’s heart raced. He
didn’t know what it was, but whatever it was, it was big. Hunter
contacted him the day he got the first call from the Department of
Defense. Hunter said the D.O.D. wanted him for some project
regarding neuroscience
,
but that was all the information they could give
him at the time. Hunter came to see Brock the day he left for D.C.
after his security clearance went through. The last thing he said
to Brock was to joke how he’d never hear from Hunter again, he’d
see Hunter on the news
,
or Hunter would hit something really big. It was
looking like maybe Hunter hit something big. Brock felt like he was
thrust into some old James Bond movie. Or a Bourne movie. Ugh no,
not a Bourne movie, because Hunter’s gay ass would go on and on
about how he could probably get Matt Damon to suck his
dick.

Gross, dude.

So, James Bond it was.

Twenty-four hours. That was how long Brock
Elsbeth had to find the information his friend desperately needed.
There was no way Hunter would’ve sent the signal of danger along
with his message if he wasn’t desperate for the information and if
he had absolutely no way of acquiring it himself. One way or the
other, Brock was going to get Hunter the information. Twenty years
of debt he owed that man … his friend.

Brock thought he’d have better luck if he
started with the field of neuroscience and worked his way backwards
from there. He figured if he compiled a list of significant
neuroscientists and combed it for a name that sounded like
“Gensay,” it would prove to be a lot easier than trying to tackle
all the different permeations of a name that resembled “Gensay.”
Unfortunately, after a few hours of going through every website,
every database, and every journal about neuroscience that he could
find, Brock hadn’t come up with a single name that sounded remotely
like “Gensay.”

Brock even paid to access the full-text of
several online journals. The only thing he found was an article
that happened to reference neuroscience. It was about a
role-playing game that contained a fictitious tribe called the
Jensai, based on a real city in Ghana. Other than that, Brock found
nothing usable by starting with the field of neuroscience as a
whole and working backwards from there. There were too many places
to start from and he would essentially have to read everything in
order to come across individual names.