What A Tale My Thoughts Could Tell

"What A Tale My Thoughts Could Tell"

Galvin surfaced from the remnants of his dream, savouring the few
remaining images. He recalled the bar, the garish retro neon
illuminations and the endless pulse of the background music; the first
bitter-sweet cocktail on his tongue, and the alcohol-driven warmth that
spread through his body.

Then the girl; tight black dress, short slicked back hair, vast dark
eyes, the vivid red slash of her mouth. Galvin remembered the looks and
whispered promises; the cold night air against his skin as they left,
giggling as they slipped past Burek, the Corporation security escort?
then the warmth of her kiss and the strange, chemical taste on her lips
that he thought was her lipstick? and then? then the fall into
darkness.

Galvin snapped awake. The girl was still there, but had undergone a
strange and sinister change. Instead of the clinging dress, she wore a
taut black synthskin top and urban combat trousers; the warm alluring
smile that had drawn him to her was replaced by a look of cool clinical
examination. She knelt before him, his head held in her hands, looking
closely into his eyes. Then she nodded, and straightened up; "He's
awake; major brain functions seem unimpaired. Signals from the central
nervous system haven't kicked in yet; you should see them register on
your monitor within the next minute, Alain. At the moment, he's still
offline. All yours, Cope."

Galvin tried to speak, and emitted an odd gagging noise; to his horror,
he found he could not speak, nor move. He felt totally numb, as if his
body were disconnected from his brain. He stared about him, eyes
rolling wildly; he appeared to be in a cellar, judging by the exposed
brick walls surrounding him and the harsh white fluorescent strip
lighting that provided the only source of illumination. Apart from the
girl and himself there were two others in the room; a teenage boy,
perched upon the skeletal frame of a chrome pipe chair, laptop perched
precariously on his knees, and a middle aged man sitting astride an
identical seat. Both of them watched him with a curious detachment, as
if he were a strange and dangerous animal that was securely
confined.

Suddenly, there was a peculiar jolting sensation at the base of his
skull, as if he had received an unpleasant low voltage electrical
shock, and Galvin realised he could feel his body again. He was sitting
upright in a high backed chair; there were tight restraints around his
wrists and lower legs, whilst a harsh plasteel collar dug into the soft
skin of his neck, holding his head firmly in place. There was something
on his head, like a net covering his skull; from the corner of his eye
Galvin could see a thin, clear strand of micro-fine optical cable
trailing along the side of his face. He shook his head to dislodge it,
and uttered a peculiar thin yelp as the collar bit into his skin.

The older man rose out of his chair, his hands raised in
discouragement. "No, don't try to talk; the sedative you were given
when Elizabeth kissed you has paralysed your vocal cords. The effect is
only temporary, I assure you." He turned and picked up the chair,
placing it directly before Galvin before sitting astride it again.
Galvin stared at him, registering every detail; thinning brown hair,
fleshy face with no definition around the chin or cheekbones, and oddly
contrasting long thin nose and full, almost Cupid bow lips. The eyes
were the most startling feature; a peculiar slate-blue, set within a
mass of crows feet and emphasised by a peculiar affectation: thin black
rimmed spectacles, like those worn in the last century before
corrective eye surgery was an accepted part of life. Then the man spoke
with a light, reasoning voice.

"There are two questions running through your head right now. The
first, and most urgent one, is what the hell is happening. That's easy
enough to answer; you've been drugged, and abducted. Elizabeth, whom
you met earlier, slipped a chemical into your drink at the bar. It's
odourless, tasteless, colourless; on its own, it's perfectly harmless.
However, when you give it a catalyst - like the compound mixed into
Elizabeth's lipstick - it forms a powerful sedative. Alain and I have
always said Elizabeth is a knockout kisser." The boy emitted a short,
low laugh; Elizabeth permitted herself a thin smile.

"The second question is probably more important; you're thinking what
is going to happen. The answer to that is a little more complex, and is
probably best explained by posing a question of my own; why would we
want to abduct you?" The man rested his arms on the top of the chair
back, and then rested his chin upon the knuckles of his hands.

"The reason, Mr.Galvin, is that you are an exceptional individual. You
possess talents that you yourself are not aware of - but which your
employers are. You've been with the Moroder Corporation for? nearly 8
months now. Recruited straight from university. Head hunted, you could
say. Given a prime position developing constructs within the internal
Moroder network, using processor-to-cortex transfer technology. Were
you aware that the technology was originally developed for the
pornography industry, to transfer audio, visual, touch and scent
impulses directly to the brain? 'Now you can really get inside her' was
the lead line, if I recall. It made the originators multi-millionaires
within a week. And then, just when everyone started getting really
interested, along came the first burn-out cases. It seemed that in a
high proportion of users, the brain simply couldn't tolerate the
intensity of electrical impulses being pumped in. People were literally
losing their senses - visual, audio, smell, touch - sometimes after
just a couple of uses."

"The originators vanished - along with the millions - and there was the
usual outcry. Compensation for the burn-out cases, government
legislation, even talk of banning the technology. The latter was
nonsense, of course; everybody assumed there was far too much money to
be made from it. So Corporate pressure was applied, and the government
allow key institutes to research and refine the processor-to-cortex
technology with the express intent of making it safe - all strictly
monitored by the government, of course. And the Moroder Corporation was
one of those key institutes."

The man sat upright again, bringing his hands together so that the
fingertips of each hand touched the other. "One of the first things
they confirmed was that the majority of people couldn't use the new
technology; their brains simply couldn't handle the overload. However,
there was a small minority that could tolerate it for short periods of
time with no ill effects. And you, Mr.Galvin, are one of those
fortunate people. You are an exceptional individual."

Galvin tried to speak again; all he could utter were dull gutteral
noises. It felt like his throat was coated with thick glue. The man
nodded with satisfaction; "That's excellent. Your voice should be back
to normal very soon." He folded his arms, and smiled at Galvin,
revealing slightly uneven cream-white teeth.

"Having discovered that the technology could not be used for general
consumption, the majority of corporations shut down their funding. But
not Moroder. They looked at the technology and said, 'if it cannot be
used for its original purpose, what could it be used for? What possible
use is a technology that can only be used by a small proportion of the
population?' And then, they realised that they were looking from the
wrong perspective. They turned the question around and asked, 'what
possible use is there for a technology that only a small proportion of
the population can use?' And the answer they fell upon was a very
simple one: secrets."

"Corporations are built upon secrets, Mr.Galvin; the core information
relating to product development, to finances, is closely guarded. There
is a battle being waged between the multi-national corporations that
run our society, to prise secrets from each other. Most of those
secrets are kept in memory banks, and are protected by high-tech
software controls, and there is a battle being fought on the Net, day
in, day out, to defeat those controls and gain the precious secrets
concealed behind them. I speak from experience; I myself have been a
foot soldier in that battle."

"Napoleon," the boy murmured behind the man. If he heard him, he did
not show it, but simply continued.

"What the Moroder Corporation realised was that the new technology
could be used to conceal those secrets within the greatest data bank of
all - the human mind. The technology that could transfer audio and
visual impulses directly to the brain could also transfer data streams.
And then they made the real breakthrough; they discovered that, with
the correct electrical stimulus, they could trick the brain into
holding those data streams for an indefinite period. They had
discovered how to give people memories. It was brilliant; here was a
way of holding critical data in a totally secure environment, one that
could not be accessed covertly unless you had control of both the
carrier of the data and the correct sequence of electrical impulses to
access the stored memories."

"One problem remained; how to prevent the carrier of the induced
memories from accessing the critical data, either deliberately or
inadvertently. The answer was supplied by Uwe Natho, an American
researcher into higher brain functions. His research was based on the
assumption that memories are triggered by external stimuli; for
example, if you smelt a certain perfume, it might trigger the
recollection of an event or a person that had lain dormant for many
years. Those memories might previously have been locked away within the
brain, and the external stimulus acted as a key. Natho realised that
external stimuli are translated into electrical impulses within the
brain, electrical impulses that could be monitored, recorded and - most
importantly - reproduced. When Moroder got hold of Natho's work, they
engineered their technology so that when they tricked the brain into
holding data streams, they also implanted a key memory, a set of
impulses that had to be triggered before the main data stream memory
could be accessed. That key could be any numbers of things; a colour, a
sound, an image, a sensation of touch or taste? the chances of cracking
such a key would be infinite. So now, not only did you have to have the
carrier for the data, and the technology to access that data, but you
also need the key memory to trigger the data download. It was
brilliant."

The man sat upright now, his hands pressed together, finger
interlocked, as if in prayer; "And now for the pay-off, Mr.Galvin.
You're it. You're the carrier. Moroder spotted you at university, got
access to your medical records even before you graduated. Do you
remember the interview? It was almost cursory. But the medical? didn't
it strike you that two days of medical examinations, including one day
dedicated purely to brain analysis, was something unusual? But of
course, you believed the company line. They'd already told you about
the work you'd be assigned, using processor-to-cortex technology. It
must have given you a warm, safe feeling, knowing you were employed by
a company that took such stringent care of its staff. After a while,
you must have begun to look forward to the monthly brain scans they
sent you for."

"But what if they weren't just brain scans, Mr.Galvin? What if, during
the three or fours hours you were wired up, supposedly having your
brain checked for abnormalities, Moroder were channelling data into
your head, storing terabytes of data? You didn't even know it was
happening. And to make absolutely sure, Moroder placed you on a project
where your entire workload revolved around a restricted internal
network, never the external. And consider this; you're physically tied
to Moroder with golden handcuffs. You are dependent on the Corporation
for credit, accommodation, sustenance, comforts? it is a true symbiotic
relationship. Moroder provide you with an existence, and in return you
hold their secrets - albeit unknowingly."

"My colleagues are in the business of acquiring secrets, secrets that
the Moroder Corporation would like to keep concealed. With your
assistance, and our craft, we shall endeavour to obtain those
secrets."

Galvin stared at the man. There was no indication of insanity in the
slate-blue eyes; Galvin opened his mouth, tried to speak, and found he
could talk. "You are out of your mind," he croaked.

The man smiled again, this time a wide, warm smile that suddenly
illuminated his entire face; the slate-blue eyes nearly vanished within
the wrinkled masses of lines around the eyes. "Nearly right, Mr.Galvin.
At the moment, I am out of your mind. But very soon, I hope to be in
it. But please, don't worry; you won't remember a thing about it." The
smile vanished; it was as if someone had suddenly thrown a power switch
as any expression drained from his face. He glanced over his shoulder
to the boy; "Alain, I trust you have an adequate map of Mr.Galvin's
brain functions?" Alain nodded, his eyes fixed on the laptop; "Got it.
Good readout from all of the sensory areas, and I've got a complete log
of all impulses since you've been talking to him." The man nodded
approvingly, then turned to the girl; "Elizabeth, could you please make
Mr.Galvin comfortable?" Galvin stared wide-eyed as the girl approached
him with a hypodermic gun. "Get away from me, you bitch," he croaked
unconvincingly. The girl tutted; "Language," she murmured, then brought
the needle tip to Galvin's neck. There was a thin, sharp crack as the
needle point punctured his skin; Galvin hissed expletives, then went
limp.

"Offline," Alain announced.

"Let's dance," Cope announced, and levered himself from his chair. He
nodded towards the wall behind Galvin; unlike the other naked brick
walls, this was entirely covered by a dull grey metallic screen.
Micro-thin optic cables traced a line from it to Alain's laptop. "Let's
see the road map."

There was a faint blur, then the entire screen sharp focused into an
immense, three dimension pattern; it looked as though sheets of complex
wiring diagrams had been overlaid upon each other, with only the unique
colour of each sheet to distinguish itself from the others. Sections of
the pattern would briefly illuminate, highlighting a particular section
of circuitry, before fading again. Cope glanced towards the unconscious
Galvin; a thin rubber membrane was stretched over his skull, and
glistening silver electrodes lay embedded in the plastic, drawn taut
against his skin. Micro-fine wires linked the electrodes, and drew
together into a single strand of fibre optical cable that trailed down
Galvin's face, along the floor and into the back of Alain's laptop.
"What's the display rate?"

"Currently we're on a 2 second delay second cycle," Alain murmured.
"I've filtered out essential brain function traffic; the laptop's
memory is good for another 30 minutes at the current rate of mapping."
Elizabeth raised one quizzical eyebrow; "What exactly does that
mean?"

"It means that Alain has been monitoring Mr.Galvin's brain since he
came round, and has been recording the electrical activity on the
laptop. Each one of the layers on the screen is a map of a part of the
brain, and the highlighted areas represent electrical impulses in that
part of the brain - Mr.Galvin's thoughts. Obviously, his brain works
faster than the laptop, and so Alain has set the computer to show us
snapshots of the brain's activity every two seconds. What we are
looking for in that rats-nest of electrical impulses is the key memory
to the data implanted into his brain."

Elizabeth stared at the intricate layers of circuitry upon the screen;
sections briefly flared and faded, only to be vanish and be immediately
replaced by other, equally complex diagrams. "I think I'll stick to
abducting men from bars. I hope you're good at this; we haven't got all
day. Best guesstimate is that we've got an hour before Moroder internal
security notice he's gone walkabout; you've had 15 minutes already."
Cope looked at her; "You did check him for tracking devices?" Elizabeth
nodded; "Standard procedure; he's clean. Just make it as quick as you
can."

"OK." Cope turned his attention back to the boy. "Alain, you've got the
map of the brain traffic; give me a breakdown of the dead areas,
please." Alain's fingers flickered over the laptop; the complex wiring
diagrams were replaced with a light blue 3-D structural image of
Galvin's brain, with two areas highlighted in white.

"Excellent," Cope smiled again, the slate blue eyes practically
vanishing beneath a mass of wrinkles. "That narrows it down
considerably. Alain, could you please filter the monitor to display
just the electrical activity to those areas?" The boy nodded, and the
structural images on the screen vanished, to be replaced by two
separate complex circuit diagrams. Elizabeth frowned; "I don't get it.
Why would you want to monitor activity for a dead part of the
brain?"
"Because there should be no 'dead' parts of the brain," Cope explained.
"Memory is located in many different areas - there is no central
location where memory is stored. If Mr.Galvin were to remember his last
holiday, Alain would be able to see that memory as a wave of electrical
surges across his brain; each surge triggers part of the memory. We've
been monitoring his brain since you brought him in, and nothing has
touched those two areas. That means one of two things; either he's got
brain damage, in which case Moroder wouldn't have touched him - or the
memories locked in that part of the brain will only respond to a
specific electrical impulse, such as the key memory that I mentioned
earlier. The inability to conceal 'dead' areas of the brain is the
single flaw in Moroder's use of implanted memory, and I intend to
exploit it."

"I've been waiting for this," Alain spoke softly. "How are you going to
do it?" Cope reached into the top pocket of his shirt, extracted a
flat, golden data cartridge and tossed it to Alain, who deftly caught
it. "With a piece of code, gorgeously handcrafted by myself. Go ahead,
load it up." Alain slotted the cartridge into the laptop, and the three
of them watched as the wall screen acquired a new partition with a
single word title: Lightfoot.

"Lightfoot? What does that mean?" Elizabeth enquired.

"It's a private joke," Cope explained. "It's a key, if you like, just
like the key we're looking for in Mr.Galvin's head."

"He's into really old music? last century stuff," Alain murmured as the
program started to run. A sub-partition of the Lightfoot partition
displayed a constant stream of images, flickering through different
shades and hues, whilst the rest of the wall screen steadily monitored
the play of electrical currents against the dead areas of Galvin's
brain. Occasionally a single, white-blue line would trace across the
dead area, and the image sub-partition of the wall screen would keep
the image that had caused the activity upon the screen. Alain watched
with fascination; "What exactly is it doing?"

"It's generating a series of random sense pulses, transmitting them to
the dead area, and monitoring for a response. If it gets one, Lightfoot
homes in on the response and tries to magnify it. For example, one of
the dead areas is responding to a pulse of the colour red - see?" Cope
pointed to a sector within Lightfoot's partition on the wall screen; a
series of simple images flickered momentarily - a square, a circle, a
triangle. Elizabeth stared in confusion; "What's a sense pulse?"

"It's a series of electrical signals that can be fired into the brain
to trigger a memory relating to one of the five senses, " Cope replied.
"It can be a picture, relating to sight, a scent - relating to smell; a
sensation, relating to touch - and so on. The key memory that we want
is almost certainly a combination of some or all of these things. By
firing in a series of pulses relating to the senses, Lightfoot should
be able to determine the components of the key memory."

"Clever," Elizabeth remarked. "Does it work?"

"I don't know," Cope replied. "This is the first time I've run it in
anger." They stared in silence as Lightfoot continued to refine its
search, diminishing and adjusting the base images it was transmitting
to Galvin's brain. "Ahhh?. look, Lightfoot has begun to identify the
sequence - red square, blue circle, green triangle? and it has detected
a white noise signal. That is almost certainly a test memory implanted
by Moroder, a simple sequence of shapes and colours and sound, to see
if Mr.Galvin was a receptive vessel". The symbol of a keynote appeared
within the partition, and Cope nodded his approval. "That means
Lightfoot has detected a pulse related to the key memory, relating to
sound this time. It's a common trick, to combine sense pulses so that
you need to relay all of them at the same time to trigger the key.
Lightfoot will start refining the sound pulse whilst working on the
image."

"Got something," Alain announced at exactly the same time as Lightfoot
issued a message : MATCH. A new partition appeared, displaying a
sequence of simple colour images and a single keynote symbol. "Minor
download; trapped 2 mgs. That's nothing. Let me see what we've got?"
Elizabeth, Cope and Alain all stared at the new partition that Alain
raised to display the results of the download from Galvin's brain? it
was an identical sequence of coloured images, only accompanied by a
short, shrill burst of white noise.

"Is that it?" Elizabeth asked incredulously. Cope shook his head; "No?
that's just a beginning. It means that Lightfoot can handle base memory
implants? now we need to see what it can do with the other one." A
second Lightfoot partition appeared upon the wall screen; again
Lightfoot started to generate its stream of images, a blur of shapes
and colours, constantly shifting? almost immediately the keynote symbol
appeared in the partition, intermittently flashing.

"Fascinating," Cope murmured. "A complex sound pulse? I've never seen
anyone use anything other than white noise. It will be interesting to
see how the sound routine handles it." The second partition almost
immediately produced a block of solid red; a series of symbols
flickered wildly upon the block of red, shifting from colour to colour
until it settled upon bright yellow.

"What is that?" Alain wondered, as the yellow symbol upon the red block
background became more distinct. "It looks like a crescent."

"It's a flag," Elizabeth announced flatly. "It's the union flag of the
old Soviet Bloc before its break up - hammer and sickle on a red
background." Alain looked at Elizabeth with new respect; "How did you
know that?"

"I do my homework," Elizabeth replied. "One of the lead programmers for
Moroder, Ilya Zhukov, has family history. His grandfather was a senior
Party official during the last Communist revival." As if to confirm
Elizabeth's comments, Lightfoot issued a message in the second
partition as the symbols of the hammer and sickle came sharply into
focus : MATCH. The keynote symbol with the partition kept flashing, and
they watched in silence until Cope shook his head. "Lightfoot doesn't
recognise the sound pulse. I don't understand it; it's programmed to
handle a complete range of harmonics. Alain, hit Pause for me; now go
to the Log menu, and give me playback on what we've got." There was a
brief pause, then an odd, distorted twittering noise emitted from the
Bose speakers built within the laptop. Elizabeth frowned; "What is
that?" Cope stood in silence, his head cocked to one side; "Birdsong, I
think. Lightfoot is only constructed to handle synthetic harmonics; no
wonder it can't handle it."

"Why can't we use the sound pulse we've trapped?" Alain asked. Cope
shook his head; "It won't do. In order to trigger the memory in his
head, we have to provide the exact sequence of electrical impulses.
It's like fitting a key into a lock; we've got a key, but it can't turn
all of the chambers." He stared intently at the image of the defunct
Soviet flag; "There's got to be a connection between the image and the
sound. If we can determine that link, we might be able to refine the
sound pulse. Alain, hook us into the American Ornithological Society
archives? there has got to be a link between the flag and the
birdsong."

"Perhaps the flag is a clue to the bird call we want," Elizabeth
thought aloud. Cope nodded; "Almost certainly. It should handle like a
standard two-part encryption key; if you take either the image or the
birdcall on their own, they're useless. Put them together, and identify
the common field between them, and the key is activated. All we have to
do is identify the common field, the common link between them."

"Red?" Alain suggested. "Red flag? wasn't there a bird called a
redwing?"

"Try it," Cope replied. "Have you got that line into the American
Ornithological Society?" Alain nodded, his fingers barely skimming the
surface of the touch sensitive keypad. "I'm checking the main index
right now? looking for birds with 'red' in the name? damn. There are
hundreds? red grouse, red macaw, red throated diver, red kite..."

"Start bringing the sound files down," Cope ordered. "We'll start an
analysis."

"Isn't that going to take time?" Elizabeth queried. "We've nearly had
our hour, Cope; I can't guarantee anything after that."

"One minute." Cope stared at the screen. "Maybe we're being too
obvious. Maybe we're just looking at the image? not what the image
means. Maybe that's the common field."

"Whatever it is you're looking for, I think you need to find it fast,"
Elizabeth commented dryly. "Fifteen minutes, Cope, then its time to
leave." Cope kept staring at the bright red banner of the defunct
Soviet Union upon the screen, the intertwined symbols picked out in
brilliant yellow? and suddenly spoke. "Why should it be red? There is
nothing specific about the colour red, other than it is the dominant
background colour. The important thing on a flag are the symbols. It
could be yellow. It must be yellow. Alain, run that search on yellow
this time?" Cope walked closer to the screen, so close he could feel
the static raising the fine hairs upon the his hands; "What have we
got? A five pointed star. A hammer. A sickle?" Alain looked up; "I have
that. A yellowhammer. Emberiza citrinella, a familiar bird of farmland
and open country throughout most of mainland Britain and Ireland. In
spring, the male sings a well-known song, often rendered a little bit
of bread and no cheese."

"That's got to be it," Cope breathed. "Alain, download that sound file
and run it as a pulse." They watched in silence as a single thin line
arced across the screen? then involuntarily closed their eyes as the
screen flooded with columns of data, cascading in streams of zeros and
ones. Alain's eyes flickered open, and his hands moved with lightning
speed to the keyboard. "Damn? this is filling the memory, Cope. We've
going to have to lose everything we've mapped over the last hour if you
want to trap incoming data." Cope stepped back from the screen, one
hand raised to his glasses to protect his eyes from the glare of
millions of bytes of data pouring down the screen. "Cut it loose?
except for the mapping before we put him under. We'll need that to tidy
up later."

"Is that it?" Elizabeth asked. "Is that what we came for?" Cope nodded
slowly, and turned to face her; the same wide, warm smile he had worn
earlier now filled his entire face, the slate-blue eyes mere slits
within the masses of crows feet. "Yes. That is what we came for.
Secrets, corporate data from Moroder, held in binary format, as
memories, within Mr.Galvin's head. Secrets that Moroder's competitors
will give their eye teeth for. That," Cope gestured towards the screen,
"is El Dorado."

"I'm glad for you," Elizabeth commented dryly. "But can I just inform
you that you have exactly twelve minutes to get El Dorado into that
black box Alain is driving? After that, we are out of here." Cope
raised one placatory hand; "Whatever you say, Elizabeth; that's what we
pay you for. Get your people ready to take him back; the download
shouldn't take more than 5 minutes to complete. Alain, whilst we're
waiting, can you unpack the scrub program? We'll need to overlay
Mr.Glavin's memories of last hour or so. It would be unfortunate if he
remembered anything about us, to say the least." Elizabeth raised one
eyebrow; "A program that will remove any memory of us? Are you sure it
will work?" Cope grinned; "I don't know," he replied. "This will be the
first time I've run it in anger."

* * *

Galvin found himself in a dark alleyway. He was sitting against a wall,
in a cold puddle of water; thin rivulets of rain ran down his face and
into his eyes. He blinked, and rubbed his eyes; his head hurt, and he
felt oddly disorientated. He found himself looking at a pair of rain
spattered boots and, looking up, stared into the impassive face of
Burek, the Mororder Corporation's security escort.

"Where have you been?" Burek demanded.

Galvin rubbed his face again, and grinned slyly. "I'm drunk," he
announced glibly. "I was in the bar and then? you know, I can't
remember a damn thing."