Pulling The Dragon's Tail (12 page)

“Exactly,” exclaimed Nate. “Could we start by
using our first names?”

“Oh, please! Call me Campbell. So if we’re not
defining the relationship in those terms, then how do we structure
it?”

“Good question, doctor, I mean Campbell.” Her
first name rolled off his lips easily. “You have a very nice first
name
.” I hope that didn’t sound like a come on
. “It’s not
like we’re friends either. We just don’t have a lot in common. It
doesn’t take a CLUES assessment to figure that a dedicated follower
of Father Abraham probably wouldn’t hang out with an agnostic.”

“And yet here we are. I prefer the term atheist.
Agnostic implies some room for doubt. I’m sure in my beliefs that
there’s no supernatural reality. And I attribute Sister Sarah’s
vision to oxygen deprivation and hallucination.”

Nate was amazed at her bold statement, admiring
her honesty while he was also irritated at how easily she had
dismissed the sum total of his deepest beliefs. “Well…perhaps we
need to concentrate on what we do have in common, namely Mitchell
Hilliard.”

“All right,” agreed Campbell. “Let
me
summarize. I’m sorry if I still sound like a therapist. There’s
still so much I’d still like to change about you,” she deadpanned.
“We have a bit of a stalemate; but at least we are agreed that we
have a stalemate. We’re not friends. I’m not your counselor; you’re
not my patient.” Putting a confused look on her face, she
questioned rhetorically, “So then what are we?” She leaned back and
gave a long look directly at Nate.

“Want to change me, huh?” Nate returned the
light-hearted banter. “Perhaps it’ll be doubly difficult to resist
trying to change me as you’re both a therapist and a woman!”

“So? What’s next?” Sitting forward, her smile
had disappeared.

She’s all business again. Business! That’s
it!
Enthusiastically, he blurted out, “Okay, let’s approach
this like a business venture. For instance, I believe I have an
incredibly marketable product and you’re the venture capitalist.
Your job is to listen and ask questions and eventually decide if
you want to invest.”

“Great! Give me an idea what you’re
selling?”

“Well, I’m selling me, that is, the sum total of
my life and experiences, and the experiment that your grandfather
started to reverse the disease of aging.”

Her brow furrowed. “Fair enough. So if you can
prove the veracity of your story, why me?”

“Here goes. I’ve uncovered a number of clues
that your grandfather left behind. Piecing them together will allow
me to find the ingredients, if you will, of the anti-aging formula.
That formula holds the key to changing humans from living a few
measly decades to living for centuries. Inexplicably all the clues
to the formula location led to you. That formula must be found and
kept safe.”

“It led to me?” queried a dumbfounded Campbell.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t; that’s how safe your
grandpa kept it. I don’t mean to speak in riddles, but hopefully it
will soon be clear. So once I find the formula, my next goal is to
track down some of my cohorts with whom I’ve lost touch. And then
of course,” he said with a sly grin, “there’s the small matter of
trying to stop the End-Date from occurring.”

“Maybe the grandiose label does fit you.”

“I don’t think so. Grandiose implies
unrealistic. All these goals
are
attainable. I believe it
firmly. And I believe Father Abraham will help me achieve them all,
whether or not you believe in Him.”

I hope I can get over this religion thing of
his.
“Let’s stick to the business analogy. You have quite an
agenda, Mr. Kristopher.”

“Nate.”

“Nate, it’s an incredible amount of information
for me to swallow. You march in here and tell me my grandfather
instigated this experiment and that you’re one of the apparently
lucky recipients of this formula. Somehow you’ve sifted over more
secretive stuff, and now I’m implicated in your scheme to recover
this formula. How do I know that I can even trust you with the
contents of it, assuming we do find it? I want to believe you,
Nate, but even if all of your information’s accurate, there’s just
so much to sort out.” She got up to stretch and poured a cup of
coffee from the wall kitchen unit.

“Wanna cup?”

“No thanks.”

Campbell nervously stirred cream and sugar into
the cup with slow and deliberate motions of the spoon. She gathered
in a deep breath and stared into the cup. Reluctantly she continued
the conversation. “To be honest, I’d rather have a strong shot of
whiskey—works wonders when I get overwhelmed.” She looked over at
Nate and grinned sheepishly.

Carefully carrying the hot brew across the room
she reacquainted herself with her chair. Even as the coffee brought
pleasure to her taste buds, she was simply not feeling any better
about their situation. “I want to believe you, but this is going to
take some time. I still don’t understand why you came to me? Okay,
I’m the granddaughter of Mitchell Hilliard. So what?”

“Because only you have the essential information
that I need to carry out my plan.” He rose from his chair and
paused at the window, trembling with anticipation. A half-moon was
rising over the East River.

He returned to his seat, took a deep breath,
peering earnestly into her eyes. “All right, here goes. When you
were a child, your grandfather implanted a memory circuit deep into
your brain. And I believe that it contains some aspect of the
formula.”

Campbell’s hands trembled, and she set her cup
down hard enough to spill some onto the table. Hastily wiping it
off with her hand, she felt her pulse racing.
What did this man
just say?
Her body felt cold and clammy. “Sorry. I’ve got to
g—g—go,” she stammered.

“I’m sorry, but there’s just no other way of
saying it. I know it sounds bizarre, but that memory chip is at the
heart of why I came to see you.”

Campbell retreated to the door, staring
wordlessly at him, wide-eyed.

“Where are you going?” he asked, fearful she
would never return.

“I don’t know, but I’ll be back”, she promised
weakly.

The door closed. She was gone.

The once cozy office now seemed cavernous.
What if she doesn’t return? Oh man, did I blow it?

He jumped up and peered into the hallway. The
bathroom door down the corridor was gently closing. “That’s gotta
be her.”
Father Abraham, please let her stay
! He walked down
the hallway, pacing back and forth. Nervously, he returned and
propped open the door ever so slightly. He peeked out, waiting and
watching.

Meanwhile, Campbell stared into the bathroom
mirror, hands on the counter, leaning forward. Her glare was
intense, but she wasn’t evaluating whether any crow’s feet had
begun to creep in next to her eyes. With all her being she
concentrated, trying to sense the physical presence of the memory
chip
. He knew! How could he have known? Except for…

She had grown accustomed to the existence of
this chip buried deeply in her right front cerebral cortex.
Discovered by routine brain scans as a young adult, it had baffled
medical personnel. Long ago she gave up trying to uncover the
mystery. Now this man had brought it all back.

The rational part of her wanted to march back to
her office and follow the rest of the story, wherever it would
lead. But the emotional side wanted to run and hide, leave this man
and his robot dog, leave New York City, just get away. Speaking to
the ghost of her grandfather, she asked, “Grandpa, somehow this all
goes back to you. What would you have me do?”

A swirl of hazy memories toyed with her
conscious mind. It was a warm summer day at Lake Saskatchewa, a
perfect day. Family members laughing, the smell of a barbecue, a
sunset, starlight, moonlight. Then physical pain. She cringed,
recalling the head injury. A bumpy trip to a hospital. Throwing up.
A doctor talking with her grandfather. Then...that was all.

She found herself again staring into the cold,
naked bathroom mirror
. I gotta get out of here!
She headed
to the waiting room and put her hand on the door handle leading out
of the office complex.

Suddenly she felt her grandfather standing
beside her. A voice spoke inside her head. “My darling, Campbell,
wherever you go in this world, always remember your promises.
Promise yourself to be a good person, to help other people, to make
the world better, to care for your mind and body, and to be true to
your ideals and friends.”

Mesmerized, she released her hold on the knob
and turned around. “Good night, Grandpa. I love you.” She headed
back down the hallway toward her office.

Entire lives, entire communities, entire
civilizations can turn on one small decision. When Campbell
Devereaux opened the door and confronted Nate, little did she know
the implications. And it was still an open question whether she and
Nate could ever be friends.

Psychobiologist Campbell Devereaux lay
comfortably on her office couch in the International Trade Center
in lower Manhattan. Her eyes were closed and her brain was in a
state of deep hypnosis. The small hypnosis feedback machine,
borrowed from a colleague’s office, sat on her desk. Only an hour
earlier, Nate Kristopher had informed her that he had known of the
small memory chip imbedded in her brain.

Campbell’s goal was to access the chip, hoping
along with Nate that it would provide clues to the anti-aging
formula and her grandfather, Mitchell Hilliard. Electrodes ran from
the machine to her head, neck, chest, and right arm. Her blonde
hair lay loosely against a pillow. Her hands, clasped together on
her stomach, rose and fell slowly as her breathing reached a
peaceful rhythm. With her shoes removed, her lightly tanned feet
peeked out from under navy blue slacks.

Nate caught a slightly sensual mixture of
perfume and perspiration. Despite her stubbornness, he had to admit
she was an attractive woman. Forcing his mind off the contours of
her feet, he glanced past the curves of her breasts, and his
attention came to rest on her face.

With eyes open and looking skyward, Nate prayed.
“Father Abraham, guide us in this endeavor. Give Campbell safety
and comfort. Bless this child with the sweetness of morning dew,
the power of a supernova, the peace of a rainbow. This humble
servant of Father Abraham asks this in His name. Let it be so.”

He gazed down at her. “Wonder what she’s
thinking?”

“That is unable to be determined at the moment,”
responded Dugan, sitting on his haunches in front of the monitor.
The CCR then projected a large holographic image, representing
Campbell’s brain, into the air about a meter above her head. Deep
inside this projection a blue light flashed at the location of the
hippocampus. A red light, representing the current focus of her
attention, was located in the frontal lobes above her eyes. It was
snaking slowly downward deeper inside the brain structures.

Dugan continued. “Ms. Devereaux is making good
progress. Her attention is about to enter the thalamus which is
buried deeper in the cerebral cortex.”

“How much longer until the VR program helps her
enter the hippocampus?”

“Five minutes, twenty-seven seconds at the
present rate. Vitals are steady. Blood pressure is decreased by
twenty percent. T-helper cells have increased nineteen percent.
Hypothalamic activity is also increased. Ms. Devereaux is in a
state of—”

“Bliss,” Nate interrupted.

The last thirty-five minutes had been
nerve-wracking as he waited for Campbell to get to the deepest
stages of hypnosis. His reason for leaving the safe confines of the
CHOFA retreat in England lay before him on the couch. Interspersed
between worried looks was much floor pacing and constant questions
to Dugan. He avoided eye contact with the monitoring screens.
Finally, though, he did so
. How similar is this to what Dr.
Hilliard put me through?

They continued to monitor the data flowing
across the screen mounted on Campbell’s desk. He was glad she
hadn’t put up a big fuss when he insisted that a wired connection
provided the best contact. But he gave in to her insistence she
take medication to enhance her relaxation state, a medication she
assured him she had used previously with positive outcomes.

Nate nervously reviewed the protocols that he
and Campbell had agreed upon. He was to follow a scripted set of
instructions once Campbell had achieved the deepest state of
trance. Her brain pathways would then be ready to follow the
willful intentions of her unconscious brain, as prodded by the
commands Nate would give her.

He found his own pulse racing.
This is the
time that I want to be a robot. No panic attacks ever
. He
glanced over at Dugan.

Moments later, Dugan announced, “Ms. Devereaux’s
attention has arrived at the hippocampus.
He’ll never know what
anxiety is all about. But whatever intelligence this creature has,
I’m constantly in awe of him
.

Nate gazed into the brain hologram. The flashing
red light had been enveloped by the blue light, resulting in a
strong, steady purple light.

Nate checked his notes. “So that means the VR
relaxation program has helped guide her focus through the neural
pathways all the way into the seat of memory, the hippocampus.
She’s literally knocking at the door of the nanochip.”

“Ms. Devereaux is awaiting your next
instruction,” observed Dugan.

“Yes,” agreed Nate, hesitant to begin the next
step. “Campbell, this is Nate Kristopher. Please respond with a yes
or no. Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” Her voice was weak and bland.

“Campbell, we are in your Manhattan office along
with my CCR, Dugan. You will indicate a positive response with a
yes and a negative response with a no. Do you understand?”