Eternal Memories, by Kevin P. Kilburn

In life, John Crandall’s father reveled in manipulating others. Naturally, John suspected he was up to something when he started calling more frequently and reminiscing about the past. Had their relationship been more amicable, maybe he wouldn’t have been so cynical. Perhaps he would have realized his father’s condition had become terminal and paid more attention to what he was saying.

Thad Crandall made sure John would return home one last time. John had received an overnight delivery with a hardcopy of his father’s will and a brass key.

The will read like a bad joke:

To my only son, I bequeath The Crandall Homestead, minus the possessions within already endowed to others, and the most precious gift of all–the key to a lifetime of memories to possess for all eternity, for no amount of money or earthly goods can equate to their value or longevity.

John cringed at the antiquated wording, not to mention the literal key enclosed in the package.

Written in modern English, the will meant:

To my greatest disappointment, I bequeath you a dilapidated house and decades of hoarded junk that will take you forever to dispose of, along with a lifetime of memories to haunt you forever.

###

John dropped his bags by the front door and checked the time. Thirty minutes before he had to leave for the airport to catch the early morning flight back to the States. He had already missed his father’s memorial ceremony, but wanted to get there as soon as possible. His stepsisters wasted no time sending the old man to the crematorium, and with that formality settled, they’d descend on the house and ravage it like locusts.

He sat on the couch and turned on the MultiComm Service. The front wall lit up and soon offered the usual hypnotic mosaic of thumbnail videos. The main news ticker scrolled across the bottom with the predictable daily stories–murder, global economy, war.

Kami came in and placed two mugs on the table, hazelnut-flavored coffee for him and decaf green tea for her.

She sank into the couch next to him and kissed his cheek. “You okay?”

She knew when he wasn’t, but he tried to hide his mood anyway by faking a yawn. “Yeah, just not awake yet.”

Before she could protest, her eyes widened and she flinched. “Wow. That was a strong one.” She took John’s hand and placed it on her belly. At only twenty-six weeks, the twins were already competing for room and were at their most active in the early morning. Kami rarely slept past four-thirty, but she never complained. They had tried for almost ten years, and now they were doubly blessed.

“I think they like you,” she said.

“How do you know?”

She put her other hand over his and held still. “See? They’re calm now.”

She put her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around him. “I could still come,” she offered. “Meet you there in a couple of days?”

“It won’t take long,” he reasoned. “I just want to see what Dad left for me before it disappears. Could be something of my mother’s.”

“Okay,” she said. “But if you change your mind…”

John was already feeling the apprehension of leaving her in Tokyo, but he didn’t want to drag her into the mess his father had left behind. Her pregnancy was high-risk, and getting upset if the step-family came around and started their usual antics wouldn’t be good for her or the babies.

John picked up his coffee mug and held it under his nose. As always, the aroma triggered the memory of the little coffee shop back home where he first met Kami. She sat alone at a corner table adjacent to John, sipping from an oversized mug and positioning chess pieces on the table’s inlaid board.

John eyed the opposing ranks–anything to avoid looking directly at her, which became harder by the second. Her dark hair had blonde highlights and was pulled into a ponytail. Her skin was light brown with faint freckles across her nose. Even her slightest movements had grace and confidence, which intimidated John to keep his distance. She wore a pastel sweatsuit, the jacket unzipped halfway exposing a white tank top underneath. John let his eyes fix on her for a moment too long and she caught his gaze. He snapped his head away and ended up staring at the brick wall before him.

He was about to collect his things and leave to avoid any further embarrassment when he noticed she was staring at him with a welcoming smile. He cautiously inched her direction, and she motioned to the chess board. They exchanged one-word introductions and started the game. John ended up getting trounced, a lesson he deserved for underestimating the pretty girl in his game. Kami continued to teach him that lesson for many years to follow.

A dialogue window on the MultiComm caught John’s eye. It flashed New Message.

“Who the hell’s up at this hour,” John muttered, hoping it wasn’t his boss trying to dump some last-minute task on him before he left.

John swiped his hand at the MultiComm display, bringing up the message queue. It displayed one unviewed:

FROM: Antonio Petrelli

TO: John Crandall

SUBJECT: Something from your father.

“Petrelli?” John whispered, sitting up. “Can’t be.”

“You know him?” Kami asked.

“Yeah, a long time ago. Back in Kindergarten, First Grade. Grandma used to take me along to his uncle’s place. Tony used to stay there during the summer, but we lost contact after his uncle died.”

John felt his stomach knot up. What could Tony want after all these years?

“MC, message info,” John said. The MultiComm chirped in response and displayed:

Antonio D. Petrelli, M.D.

NeuroTech Global Research Laboratories

“NeuroTech Labs,” Kami mused. “looks like your father kept some pretty high-class company.”

“Yeah, right. Look at the subject–something from your father–he’s trying to collect on a debt.”

Kami elbowed him in his ribs. “No you didn’t, mister.”

John held his side in mock pain. “What?”

“He’s your friend from Kindergarten. Maybe he just wants to send his condolences and give you something that belonged to your father.”

“Doubt it. Dad never liked the Petrellis.”

“Why not?”

“I asked my grandma once, but she never really gave me an answer. It was adult business, so I didn’t think much more about it. Looking back on it, though, I think Dad was envious.”

“Of what?”

“Probably wished he hadn’t remarried into such a dysfunctional family.”

John opened the message, curious to see what Tony Petrelli had to say about the late, great Thaddeus John Crandall Senior.

A man in his mid-40s appeared on the screen and smiled. He looked nothing like the pudgy kid John used to visit. His face was carved from hardwood, sanded to smooth perfection, and aged in the Mediterranean sun to a golden hue. Only a slight hint of grey streaked his black hair on the sides.

“Ciao, John,” Tony said. “It’s been a long time, so I apologize if I’m intruding. I wanted to say that I was really sorry that your Dad passed. I expected to see you at the ceremony, but your stepsisters said you got tied up with work and would be in later.”

John felt his face flush. Liars. No one even bothered to call until the day after he died. Kami knew he was getting wound up, so she squeezed his hand and placed her other atop his.

Tony leaned forward. “Listen, I really need to meet with you when you get here. Your father gave me something, but I don’t know what to do with it. He said you’d know.”

Tony held up a metal tag with numbers stamped on it, similar to the dog tags soldiers wore. His father was never in service, so he wasn’t sure what it was for.

The message continued. “Anyway, my card’s attached. Call me as soon as you arrive.”

Kami looked at John and smiled.

“What,” he asked, already knowing what she was going to say.

“He’s cute.”

John put on a mock serious face. “Now I know you’re not coming with me.”

She laughed and put her arms around him again, squeezing hard. “See? I told you he wasn’t trying to collect on a debt. You need to be more trusting of people.”

She was right, but the situation had Thad Crandall’s brand of manipulation stamped on it. He apparently wanted John and Tony to meet, and had used some trinket to make it seem necessary.

Even in death, that cantankerous old bastard got his way.

###

Empty residences lined one side of the single-lane road leading to Thad Crandall’s house. Abandoned when their elderly occupants passed away, they now sat empty, their colors barely recognizable on the weather-worn wood.

Dandelions and other weeds choked the lawns that once won Yard-of-the-Month awards. Wisps of pollen floated from the trees and lingered in the air. John sneezed repeatedly and wiped his nose with his handkerchief. He chewed an antihistamine hoping it would work faster before his eyes swelled shut.

Thad Crandall had been the last to hold on to life in the secluded river valley of John’s childhood. Now that he was gone, there would be no more visitors to Glen Falls. It would never be the idyllic community John once imagined retiring in.

He turned onto his father’s private alleyway. The loose gravel sucked the rental car down and John hit the accelerator to plow through it.

A weathered sign warned Trespassers Will Be Shot. Below that was the more traditional Beware of Dog notice. John scoffed. You never even owned a gun, Dad. Or a dog. Who the hell would want to come out here anyway? Besides, it wasn’t the sign that had kept him away for all these years.

John eased the car through the open gate and parked. As expected, the MultiComm dish was missing from its pole. John envisioned his stepsisters and their perpetually out-of-work husbands immersed in 24-hour sports and soaps. He made a mental note to shut off the MultiComm service. They could pay their own bills from now on.

He retrieved his bags and a six-pack of beer from the trunk, and lugged them to the house.

The front door was ajar. John pushed it open cautiously and looked inside. Seeing no one, he activated the lights and went in. Bare spots on the walls and carpet indicated the recent removal of pictures, appliances, and most of the furniture. John kicked aside the piles of magazines and papers strewn about the room and sat down his belongings.

He took a bottle of beer from the pack and surveyed the damage. The bottom feeders of the family couldn’t wait for the old man to die. They ransacked the house for the treasures bequeathed them, then disappeared in order to avoid the real work.

John went to his father’s bedroom. The stench of stale tobacco smoke and antiseptic pervaded the room. Dozens of empty medicine bottles and half-packs of unfiltered cigarettes lay on the nightstands. John opened the windows and turned on the ceiling fans.

He stared at the empty hospital bed and wondered what his father’s final days were like. Deja vu, he thought. All eight of Thad Crandall’s beloved stepdaughters at his side, their greedy hands extended, ready to receive their final rewards from the ailing benefactor. Just like they did when their mother died the year prior. “Bastards,” he mumbled through clenched teeth.

He twisted the cap off his beer and took a long drink.

If his father were still around, he’d chastise him for it.

“Ya still drinkin’ that shit,” he’d ask between fits of coughing and drags from his cigarette. “You’re just like your grandpa. That stuff killed him, ya know.”

John raised the bottle. “Cheers, Dad,” he mocked and took another drink. One thing he could say about his father was that he never touched alcohol. Maybe he would have been a happier man if he had.

John finished his beer and tossed the bottle onto the floor. The old man would have had a fit. “Ya just gonna leave that there? You think you don’t gotta respect this house no more?” John forced himself to ignore the ghost of Thad Crandall in his head and left the trash on the floor. The house would be abandoned soon, so there really wasn’t any point worrying about it.

John wanted to send Kami a message, so he emptied the ashtrays and cleared the leftovers of the post-funeral feast from the dining room table. It was the only piece of good furniture left in the house. He was surprised the family didn’t take the monstrosity, but apparently disassembling it was too much work. Thankfully they left the chairs, too.

He set up his PortaComm terminal on the table and mounted its dish on the pole outside. He opened another beer and checked his messages. Aside from the usual work traffic, he had a message from Kami. He smiled instinctively and opened it.

She appeared, brushing her hair. “Hey, baby. How’s it going?” She put the brush down and reached for something off camera. “I decided to go to the fundraiser, but wanted to send you a quick note to say ‘I love you’. She smiled, “Did you run into any of your sisters yet,” making a double quote motion with her hands.

John laughed and tapped the reply icon. “Fortunately not. I don’t think they’ll come around. Too much work to do.” He removed his finger from the screen and his reply flew to the out queue.

His wife’s message continued, “I’ll have my mobile if you need me. Talk to you later. Love you.”

“Love you, too” he replied and hit the send icon. Hearing her voice made him feel better, but the nearly 200 square-meter house had already become eerily lonely and quiet. He played the message again.

The reminder flashed to call Tony Petrelli, but John put it off until the morning. He suddenly wished he hadn’t drunk beer on top of chewed antihistamines.

###

John drifted in and out of sleep. He was used to the city noises, but it had been years since he had heard cicadas and the incessant barking of neighborhood dogs. He finally closed his eyes…
“Damn it, Pepper!” John yelled. He untangled himself from his sleeping bag and stood. He wandered around the room for a moment until he shook off his half-awake stupor and realized where he was. Kami would have laughed at him for talking in his sleep, which always happened when he was under stress.

The constant barking sounded like it was just outside the door, though obviously not Pepper, the neighbor’s dog when John was in grade school. Thankfully the coal trains no longer ran through the area. “Their horns could wake the dead,” John’s grandma used to say every time one came by.

John checked the time. A little past two in the morning. He wiped the sweat from his face and adjusted the thermostat. He knew he’d never get back to sleep, so he went to the kitchen, found a jar of instant coffee in the cabinet and prepared it.

He retrieved the envelope containing his father’s will from his messenger bag and the key that had come with it. It most likely went to something inside the house, so John checked the rooms until he found one with a small safe.

The carpet between it and the wall was torn and the door had pry marks, probably from a crowbar.

“Rubes,” John muttered.

He tried the key and the safe door popped open. Inside, he found a metal tag with five numbers stamped on it, a memory drive, an acrylic-metallic disc of some sort, and a sapphire necklace. Thankfully, whoever had tampered with the safe wasn’t smart enough to take it and find a way to break into it later.

John picked up the blue gem and let the platinum chain dangle. He removed a picture of his mother from his wallet and confirmed the necklaces were the same. Surprisingly, his father hadn’t sold it with the rest of his mom’s possessions after he remarried.

John brought everything back to the dining room and set it on the table. He watched the message from Tony and compared the tags. Identical.

John plugged the memory drive into his terminal. The computer displayed the icons for various documents, pictures, and videos. John raked his fingers across the screen, moving the clutter away to focus on the more interesting items. He found a folder of SferaScan360 pictures and browsed through them until he came to one of his mother.

It was the same picture John had in his wallet, the last one taken before she died. It never occurred to him that his 2D version came from an original 360 Scan. It was such a new technology back then, and lived a short life. He couldn’t remember his technophobic father ever owning a SferaScan camera.

Ellen Crandall stood in front of the apple tree that used to grow in the front yard, the grass bright green beneath her bare feet. She was smiling, her lips as red as the enormous apple she held up as if advertising it. The photo could have graced the cover of any glamour magazine.

John put his finger on the terminal screen and swiped it horizontally. The picture moved slightly to the left and John’s heart raced as he saw new parts of the picture. He panned around it, observing the apple tree’s high limbs and the lush carpet of grass. He stopped suddenly when he noticed his Grandma standing on the sidewalk, holding an infant wrapped in a blue-checkered blanket. John wished he could remember even a fragment of that time, just to see himself and his mother together.

He was the only kid in school without a mother. He hated having to make Mother’s Day cards in art class, so one year he made a “Happy Stepmother’s Day” card. He thought his stepmother would appreciate it, but when he gave it to her, she only pursed her lips and walked away. John heard her yelling at his father about it later that night and found the card torn-up in the trash. After that, he used to secretly make cards for his real mom and hope that no one found them.

One day, they did. His stepsisters’ monsters. Although technically his nephews, they were all his age or older, and they razed him about the cards. “Johnny misses his mommy. Johnny misses his mommy,” they sang, sending him crying to his room. His father said nothing, and from that day on John realized that he’d have to fight his own battles.

John slid his chair closer to the PortaComm. He dragged the pictures out of the way and opened the video folder. What if… His thoughts raced as he browsed through file after file until he found one video tagged with the SferaScan360 logo. He hesitated knowing that it may not be what he hoped. He tapped the screen and the video started.

The apple tree. Grandma. Himself lying atop the blue blanket in the grass playing with the apple.

A video of his mother. Tears blurred John’s vision and he wiped them with his sleeve, keeping his fingers on the screen.

His hands trembled and he tried to steady his fingers as he manipulated the controls. He rewound the stream and panned until he saw his mom. Squatting near the fence, she picked daffodils from the flower bed.

John followed her as she glided to his infant self and knelt down beside him, the yellow bouquet in her hands. She kissed him on his forehead and playfully poked the flowers into his belly, which triggered a fit of laughing followed by sneezing.

She suddenly got a pained look on her face and sat down, holding her head in her hands. Grandma entered the frame and sat down beside her, obviously concerned. He rewound the video and turned up the volume.

Ellen whispered, “…it’s bad, mom…call Doctor Petrelli…”

“…you’ll be alright…” Grandma reassured her, but her voice cracked, “…get your medicine…some rest…” She looked distant, her eyes glassy and focused on some far away object.

His grandmother held his mother and they both cried. She aimed the remote at the camera and the video ended. John watched it over and over, but couldn’t discern any more of the conversation.

John always knew the picture was the last one made of his mother, but hadn’t known the exact date. He pulled up the timestamp. 9 July. Just a few weeks before she died. He wondered where the video had come from. His father had never shown it to him or even mentioned it. He also wondered if Tony had something to do with it.

###

John checked the time again–seven o’clock. He figured Tony would be up. Too bad if he wasn’t. He had some explaining to do. John tapped Tony’s business card icon and the call window came up.

Scanning … found recipient [Charleston, WV] … connecting …

Tony appeared, holding a towel and sweating profusely, but not looking at the screen. “This is Doctor Petrelli–”

“Tony, it’s John. Sorry, I didn’t know your camera was on–”

Tony turned and smiled. “No, not at all. Just got back from a run.” Tony paused. “I’m glad you called. Listen, I’m really sorry about your Dad.”

John nodded and forced a smile. He had heard that a lot recently, twice from Tony. John appreciated the condolences, but they may not have been so sympathetic had they known his father like he did.

Tony continued, “I was hoping you’d have a connection out of that black hole down there. Can you meet me for lunch?”

“Sure. Where?”

“I’m staying at the Fontana Blu in town.” A map popped up on the screen with a hotel highlighted. “And here’s the restaurant. Nice Italian place just around the corner.”

John dragged the map to the save folder. Tony was doing well for himself if he was staying at the Fontana Blu. One night cost more than most people made in a month.

“So you don’t live here?” John asked.

“No, I live out west, but came in for the funeral. I do some work out of the hospital here, so you could call it a business break. Anyway, I’m headed back home in a few days.”

“I never knew you and Dad–”

“I’ll explain everything at lunch. Is noon okay?”

John didn’t want to sound rude before hearing what Tony had to say, but it sounded like he had buddied up to his father for some reason before he died. Thad Crandall wasn’t the type of man who had friends, especially not the Petrellis, so it was hard to fathom why Tony would associate with him on a non-business level.

John resigned himself to talk to Tony first. “Noon’s fine.”

“Okay, see you there. And bring those things your father left you. Ciao.” Tony disconnected the call.

John picked up the disc. It was about the size of a hockey puck, but heavier and clear with layers of metallic strips inside. One side had hundreds, if not thousands, of gold-plated indentations. It was obviously some sort of electronic component that plugged into a larger device. Other than that, John had no idea what it was. He was sure Tony put it there.

###

John met Tony in front of the restaurant and extended his hand. “It’s good to see you,” John said, hoping his uncertainty didn’t show in his voice.

Tony gripped his hand with both of his. “You too, man. You’re looking good.”

John tried to smile, but he knew Tony was just being polite. Years behind a desk and Thad Crandall’s half of the genes hadn’t been kind to him. He could feel the sun beating onto his head, the balding spot in back begging to be scorched.

Tony released his grip and escorted John to a private room in the back. A waitress brought a tray of antipasti–Italian appetizers–olives, bruschetta, various cheeses, and prosciutto slices arranged on the platter. She opened a bottle of red wine and filled their glasses.

“We’ll need some privacy,” Tony told the waitress, and she left. “My uncle used to come here a lot for business meetings, so I like to keep up the tradition. You’ll love the food.” Tony retrieved several folders and zippered leather sachets from his messenger bag on the floor and arranged them on the table. “Please understand that this is very sensitive information, so it has to be between us.”

John nodded, not sure what could be so sensitive after forty years.

“Have you had a chance to go through your dad’s things?”

“Some.”

Tony unzipped one of the leather sachets, removed the metal tag he displayed in his message, and handed it to John. “Look familiar?”

John nodded and produced his own tag.

“Your dad left one for you and told me to keep the other one in case you didn’t come.”

“What’s it for?”

“It’s a combination for a vault, but he wouldn’t say where. He said you’d know.”

“Sorry, I don’t.” Maybe his father hadn’t squandered his mom’s life insurance payout after all and had stashed it away. Maybe Tony wanted a cut? “How exactly did you meet my father, Tony? I take it he doesn’t owe you money, right?”

Tony laughed, “No, nothing like that. I met him by chance at the hospital. When he found out I was Franco Petrelli’s nephew, he said he wanted me to have something, but I’d have to talk to you first.”

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but my father has never mentioned you, and I don’t think he cared too much for Doctor P–”

“He wouldn’t have.”

John felt his face flush. He should have let Kami come along. She was better at diplomacy. “Why not?” Why had Tony had been hanging around his dad without his knowledge?

Tony held up his hands defensively and lowered his voice. “Just hear me out, okay? I promised him.”

John hesitated, not sure he wanted to hear any more, lest he get caught up in another of Thad Crandall’s games. “Alright…go on…” John folded his arms and leaned back in his seat.

Tony opened one of the folders, thumbed through the pages for a moment then stopped at one. “I printed a few of these, but there are thousands. For years, I had no way to read the discs my uncle had hidden away, but I finally found a guy who was able to build a reader and crack the encryption. Once I realized what my uncle had done, I picked up his work.”

“You teach college?”

Tony laughed again, which was getting a little annoying. “That was his retirement job.” He slid the folder toward John.

John stared at the paper. It was the first page of a contract marked Strictly Confidential in block red letters.

Department of Neurosurgery, Dr. Franco M. Petrelli.

Contract of Services for Ellen G. Crandall.

The first line read, “The undersigned hereby authorizes the experimental procedures contained in the appendices of this document…”

John let the pages drop and pushed the folder away. “My mother had a brainstem glioma. I didn’t know your uncle was treating her, but so what? That was almost forty years ago.”

“Your father insisted that I give these documents to you.”

John took a gulp of wine. “Why? To torture me? To remind me of the life I never had with my mother?”

It wouldn’t be the first time Thad Crandall had shown his cruelty. One Christmas he walked into the living room with an impish look and handed Kami a stack of old love letters from John’s high school days.

They had come up missing from John’s room his Senior Year. He had long forgotten about them, but apparently his father had not, keeping them for just such an occasion. When Kami dismissed them, his father then started reading them aloud. That was the last Christmas John spent with his father.

“Your dad wanted to reconcile his relationship with you,” Tony said. “He regretted the way he treated you–”

“Excuse me, but my relationship with my father is none of your business.”

Tony rotated the folder toward John and lowered his voice. “You’re right, but it’s important in order to understand this,” he said gesturing to the pages.

Schematics and technical data for some sort of apparatus filled page after page. Circuit diagrams, wiring schemes, terminal interfaces, digital computer code of some sort–all a foreign language to John.

Tony continued, “Your dad wanted you to know your mother.”

“A little late for that, isn’t it?” John’s father never talked about his mother, especially around the step-family. “What the hell is this stuff anyway? It looks more like engineering than medicine.”

“Both. It’s taken me years to go through my uncle’s notes and replicate some of his experiments. There was one thing missing, though…”

“Which is where my father comes in?”

Tony nodded. “I always thought about calling your father, but the omission of what I was looking for seemed deliberate. Dredging it up could have painful for him. He and your grandmother always disagreed on your mom’s aftercare. Your father had a complete breakdown when she died and never came to terms with her, let’s say, disposition. That’s what led to his chronic depression–”

“What are you, a psychiatrist?” John said without looking up, still trying to figure out what the diagrams had to do with his parents.

“Neurologist, actually.”

John clenched his teeth. How did Tony know more of his family history than he did? “Mom wanted to be buried. Dad wanted to cremate her, you know…to save money. End of story. My grandmother said it all the time.”

Tony took a breath and leaned back in his seat, rubbing his eyes. “John, this isn’t easy. It’s more complicated than that.” He cleared his throat. “Your mom wanted to donate her body to science.”

Tony was out of his mind. “Sorry, Tony, but that’s bullshit. She didn’t want to be cremated, so I know she sure as hell didn’t want to be carved up in some lab. Besides, my grandma wouldn’t have allowed it.”

“It wasn’t your grandmother’s choice.” Tony flipped through the pages again and held up the folder. “But she did support her in the end.”

John looked away. “I don’t want to see it.”

“Your mother arranged everything when she found out about the cancer.”

Several loose papers fluttered to the table and one caught John’s eye.

Certificate of Death.

Tony tried to grab it, but John got to it first.

As expected, it listed the cause of death, “hemorrhage due to rupture of pontine glioma”, but the date of death was listed as July 10th, signed by Doctor Petrelli.

“What the hell is this?” John yelled, shoving the Death Certificate in Tony’s face. “My mother died in August. I found a SferaScan video dated the ninth of July.” John slapped the paper onto the table. “And she mentioned your uncle in it!”

Tony nodded. “I know.”

The door opened and the waitress poked her head through. “Everything alright, Doctor Petrelli?”

“Everything’s fine,” he said, dismissing her with a hand wave then shifting his gaze back to John. He spread his arms, palms up on the table. “Give me the chance to explain–”

“How did my mom really die? What the hell did your uncle do to her?”

“W–what do you mean? She had cancer.”

Until now, Tony had been calm, collected, but the question obviously tripped him up. John pressed Tony. “You didn’t answer my question. How did she die, Tony?”

Tony regained his composure and planted his index finger on the diagrams. “This was my uncle’s life. He was a pioneer in neurology. He had an uncanny ability to see patterns that even computers couldn’t detect. Long before nanotech was common in the field, he developed techniques for imaging the brain that paved the way for some of the restorative processes we see today. But he was interested in far more than just imaging the neural structures.”

Tony picked up a piece of cheese from the tray. “The human brain has billions of nerve cells and trillions of synapses–connections between the cells that transmit signals through the neural network.”

He picked up the small slicer lying beside the tray and rubbed the cheese on it gently. “It’s tightly packed, dense, nearly impossible to image from the outside. But, if you slice off very thin sections while the brain is still functioning…” He emphasized the motion while slicing the cheese. “…and image those while capturing the electrical activity and differential output of the synaptic groups, you can feed the data into a computer and reconstruct a 3D representation of the original organic tissue.”

John took a gulp of wine. “Is that was Doctor Petrelli did to my mother, he and his students at the college?”

Tony continued without acknowledging John’s question. “If you think of the neurons and synapses of the brain as the hardware of a computer,” he said as he picked up the thin pieces of cheese. “Then the electrical activity and neurochemical levels are the software–the programming that makes us who we are. Our consciousness, our character…our memories.”

Tony tapped the diagrams with his forefinger. “These are the schematics for an artificial neural network designed to mimic parts of the human brain by replicating its hardware and software. It not only mimics brain function, but retains the memories of the original organic tissue.”

“And the good doctor designed this?”

Tony nodded. “He and a few close colleagues. He originally operated under a government grant, but they pulled the plug on his project. Individual investors continued to privately fund his research. Millions of dollars. They kept the project moving forward, but you can understand his need for secrecy.”

John felt lightheaded and rested his forehead in his palm for a moment. “People like my dad? But, he never had any money.”

“No…but your mom did.”

“So you’re telling me my mother is the one who spent her life insurance money on some quack medicine like this before she died? She paid your uncle to butcher her brain for research? What’s your take on this, Tony? You want some more money to continue research? I’m sorry, but it’s all gone unless Dad hid it in his secret vault.”

John waited for Tony to reply, but he said nothing. He held out the metal tag.

John held up his own tag. “I have one, remember?”

“I don’t want your money,” Tony said. “I believe the reticulum my uncle built worked. I’d like to see it for myself.”

John’s thoughts raced. “You’re saying that almost forty years ago your uncle designed and built an artificial neural network–”

Tony nodded. “From your mom’s cerebral profile.”

John scoffed. “Yeah, right. That technology didn’t exist back then–it doesn’t even exist now, or else we’d have artificial brains running computers–”

John stopped as Tony picked up the hockey puck. He held it by its edges, the light reflecting off its inner silvery surface.

“Like this?”

John’s throat clenched tight. This couldn’t be true. “No…this is crazy…what…why don’t we…”

“Why don’t we know about these? My uncle always believed it was possible to replicate a human brain, but got shut down by the government bureaucrats. They said it could never be done. When he proved them wrong, they finally admitted that it was too dangerous to possess such technology and outlawed devices that they deemed ‘too complex’. Imagine if our enemies acquired it and kidnapped our President. Now you see why this must be kept absolutely secret.”

Tony placed the disc in John’s hand. “These are prototypes I’ve created in my labs,” he explained. “Miniature neural networks, similar to the reticulum my uncle built, but using modern technology. The one you’re holding can simulate a dog’s cerebral cortex.”

“A dog?”

“They have over one-hundred sixty million neurons, which makes them intelligent in many regards. It’s nothing new. Every research lab in the world has designed something similar.”

John ran his fingers over the disc. “Which means they’re probably doing things in secret…”

“Exactly. Just like my uncle. His original device replicated a human cerebral cortex. That’s over sixteen billion neurons with trillions of connections. No one has been able to do that, even today.” Tony nodded at the tag. “That’s the combo for the vault where it’s stored.”

John hesitated. He barely managed a whisper. “Where?”

“That’s one thing I didn’t find in my uncle’s notes–intentionally deleted–and it’s one thing your father wouldn’t tell me. He said I had to contact you. He said you were the only other person who would know where to find it… something about a childhood nightmare you used to have?”

###

John bolted out the door. He’d settle the bill with Tony later.

He sped down the narrow two-lane highway swerving around the slower-moving vehicles and farm tractors creeping along the pockmarked road. Why didn’t Tony just come to the house? It would have saved a lot of time.

“Get out of the way,” he yelled to no one in particular.

Something about a childhood nightmare you used to have. The dream. There was always something about that damn dream. He always told himself it was just the product of old horror movies, but parts of it seemed so real, yet bizarre. He never came to fully accept that it was just a nightmare. Now he knew there was something more to it…

One summer day, six-year-old Johnny Crandall decided to go exploring.

“Don’t ever go down into the basement alone, son,” his father used to warn him.

Johnny later discovered that the old kitchen appliances in the basement wouldn’t really come to life and electrocute him. His fears were nothing more than the vivid imagination of a young boy intimidated by his father’s threats of what would happen if he disobeyed.

Johnny crept down the basement stairs, careful not to wake Grandma, who was napping on the couch. Her shift at the hospital didn’t begin for another five hours, and Dad wouldn’t be home for at least another three. Plenty of time for adventure, as long as he remained quiet.

Johnny reached the bottom of the steps and slid his plastic sword into his belt loop. He gripped his flashlight in one hand and pried open the basement door with the other. The basement was unusually bright and organized, not like the dungeon he expected. A slight musty odor mixed with the scent of laundry detergent filled the air. Sunlight shone through the ground level half-windows, filtered by translucent pink curtains. An empty hamster cage sat atop an old stove, recently placed there by either Dad or Grandma after Furry died a few days before.

Johnny wandered to the far end of the basement where a short hallway ended abruptly at a curtain. A curtain on a wall could only mean one thing–a secret passage.

Johnny drew his sword and parted the curtain with it, revealing a door. He sheathed his weapon, unbolted the latch, and pulled the door open. A cool, musty scent wafted from the darkness. Johnny noticed a thin chain dangling in front of him and pulled it. Light flooded the narrow, oblong room.

Preserved fruit jars filled a row of shelves and two steps led upward through a square cutout in the sheetrock wall. Johnny turned on his flashlight and put it into the opening. Sheet plastic covered a compacted dirt floor in the crawlspace. He entered and panned the area with his torch. Beyond a cluster of cardboard boxes at the far end, the ground sloped downward through a tangle of cobwebs.

Johnny walked half the distance stooped over. He hit his head on one of the floor joists and decided to belly crawl the rest of the way. He made it to the end and slid down the incline, hacking away cobwebs with his sword.

“Johnny,” he heard his grandmother calling. “Where are you, honey?”

His heart pounded and he looked around for a place to hide. Before him was a metal door with a light switch next to it. His grandmother’s voice grew louder and closer. She was in the basement.

Johnny looked up the slope and then at the door. Grandma would be there in no time. He had to see what was behind the door before she caught him. He’d be in trouble anyway, so it only made sense to open the door. Maybe there was treasure inside.

He twisted the knob and pushed the door inward. He flipped the switch, but it didn’t work. He entered anyway.

“Johnny! What are you doing in there?” Grandma sounded closer, as if she was in the crawlspace.

Johnny stepped into the room, which remained dark except for a faint blue glow coming from a gas heater in the corner. It hissed gently and cast weird shadows around the room.

Johnny saw someone standing to his left. He gasped and retreated. He aimed his flashlight at the figure hoping to scare it away. He realized that it was a plastic wig head sitting on the corner of a dresser along with a row of perfume bottles and a jewelry box. Johnny noticed the bed at the far end of the secret room. He edged closer, trying to discern what lay on it.

“Johnny, you come out of there now!” his Grandmother yelled. She had never raised her voice to him before.

He stood at the foot of the bed and noticed a pair of women’s shoes. His heart pounded even harder as he forced himself to follow the flashlight’s spot toward the head of the bed. He saw what he thought was another wig head lying on the pillow, but then recognized the red hair, glossy lipstick, the sapphire necklace…the same as in the picture of his mother. He moved to the side of the bed and realized that what he saw was his mother’s body, preserved just like the stuffed animals at his friend’s house next door.

Johnny screamed and turned. His grandmother stood before him, her hands covering her mouth, eyes wide. She grabbed him and pulled him from the room…

John reached his father’s house and rushed inside. He stripped off his slacks and shirt and changed into an old pair of jeans and t-shirt. He found a flashlight in one of the kitchen drawers and headed to the basement.

Cardboard boxes piled at the foot of the stairs barred his way. John pulled the door, forcing it open just wide enough to squeeze inside. The pink curtains were gone, replaced by sheets of plywood. He turned on his flashlight.

Cobwebs gripped his face as he made his way around stacks of paper cup boxes, 25-kilo drums of popcorn kernels, and a cotton candy machine–remnants of his father’s failed concession business years ago.

John slid several more large boxes out of the way, exposing the door to the crawlspace. Scraps of the curtain obscured a padlock mounted on the door. John paused for a moment, wiping sweat from his face.

He yanked the door. Debris rained on him, but the door remained closed. He jerked it again, harder, and the hasp broke free from the rotted wood.

John’s flashlight made a bright beam in the dust. Shelves lay on the floor with broken jars and rusted lids. The sheetrock wall had long since crumbled and fiberglass insulation hung over boxes crammed into the crawlspace. John crawled through the maze, the pungent earth and tattered plastic scraping his arms.

He reached the sloped area and slid down it. He touched the metal door before him. Even while facing what he now knew to be real, he still couldn’t distinguish between the dream and his memory. He leaned against the door and caught his breath. Set in the center was a dial. On the left side, a handle.

John retrieved the tag from his pocket and spun the dial around several times to loosen it. It was a standard lock, so it would be easy to open. Right 51, Left 34, Right 82…

John stopped on the last number and pulled the handle. A loud click echoed from inside and the door cracked open. He pushed it fully open with his shoulder, the hinges squealing loudly, and went into the vault.

The floor was smooth concrete, as were the walls and ceiling, remarkably clean from having been sealed for presumably decades. There was no cobwebs, perceptible odor, or visible mildew, so the vault must have had some sort of air purification system.

He shone his flashlight to the left and his heart skipped when he saw the wig head sitting on the vanity dresser along with the perfume bottles. He pulled one of the drawers open. Inside was various articles of costume jewelry, hair ornaments, and a coin purse. On the purse was embroidered EGC, his mom’s initials. John hesitated, averting his eyes from the far end of the room. The dresser seemed so much like a shrine that he began to wonder if he would actually discover his mother’s body in the makeshift tomb. He tried to swallow, but had no saliva. The walls seemed to move toward him. He gripped his flashlight tighter, trying to steady his shaking hands.

He swung his light toward the back of the room, but instead of the bed he had dreamt about, there were two cylindrical objects standing on end, confirming that parts of the dream were in fact a combination of distorted memory and boyish imagination.

John inched closer to objects and saw that they were actually hexagonal. The one on the left was a near-exact replica from the conceptual drawings in Dr. Petrelli’s notes. The top was almost half a meter above John. He slid his hand across the gray surface of the reticulum, which felt like the non-stick material used for cooking utensils. Each edge was highlighted with a thin chrome strip.

The other object looked similar, but was squat with aerodynamic-style fins on all sides. Cables connected the two devices together.

The idea that the human brain could be recreated in hardware was unfathomable. The scientific community announced so-called breakthroughs in neurology periodically, but nothing even remotely close to what Tony’s uncle had done nearly four decades ago.

John noticed a rectangular recess on the front of the larger device and pushed it. It gave slightly with a click then swung downward revealing a keyboard with a trackball set into it. An unseen panel above the keyboard slid upward, but the LCD screen behind it remained dark. Only a single red LED flashed above it indicating power was present, but apparently not enough to operate the computer.

John walked around to the rear of the machine shining his light on the various connectors and switches. He dared not touch them for fear of irreversibly damaging the reticulum and potentially never finding out if it still worked, if it ever did in the first place. Surly Doctor Petrelli would have safeguarded against such a problem, but John didn’t want to take chances.

He found a cable labeled “power” and followed it to the smaller device. A luminescent sticker caught John’s attention as his flashlight passed over it. At first he didn’t believe the circle with three fan-like projections was what it appeared to be. He studied it and quickly realized that it was in fact the symbol for nuclear radiation.

John recoiled, fearing that radiation could be leaking.

“Damn it,” he yelled and scrambled from the vault. He slammed the door closed, made his way back upstairs, showered, and called Tony.

Tony appeared on the screen, but held up his hand before John said anything. “You found it?”

“Yeah, but it has a radi–”

“I know. Don’t worry, I’ll be there in an hour.”

John tried to tell Tony about the radiation symbol he found on the reticulum, but Tony had already disconnected.

###

Tony arrived almost an hour later than promised and spent another ten minutes backing a moving van down the private drive onto the lawn.

John called to Tony as he stepped down from the rig. “I was wondering if you were going to make it. Would have been nice to know it was here. Could have saved us some hassle.”

Tony wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. He held up a device that John recognized as a Geiger counter wand. “Yeah. You left so fast, I didn’t have time to tell you about the power source. There shouldn’t be anything to worry about, but let’s go check it out.”

They crawled to the vault, entered, and stood before the devices. Tony ran the wand around the machines. It clicked only once every few seconds indicating no hazardous radiation at all.

Tony laid the wand down and stood with his hand on his hips, studying the machine. “Remarkable isn’t it?”

John wasn’t sure how to respond. It looked impressive, but was nothing more than a giant paperweight if it didn’t work.

Tony touched the smaller device. “It’s a thermoelectric power source–he acquired it from war salvages–they powered unmanned communications sites,” he explained as if he had to justify where it came from. “If it would have ruptured, then the counter would have gone wild as soon as we entered the basement.”

John edged closer, convinced that the reticulum wasn’t spewing radiation. “Still kind of dangerous isn’t it?”

“Hmmm…” Tony muttered, and then turned to John as if snapping out of daze. “Not really. It’s not like you could build a bomb out of it, but if someone were dumb enough to open it and screw around with the plutonium, it could cause a lot of damage.”

Tony turned to John, his eyes piercing. “Let’s bring the equipment in and get it connected.”

John and Tony spent several hours unpacking the shipping containers, moving the equipment into the crawlspace, and connecting the various electrical and data cables. Some of it appeared to be standard off-the-shelf components like computers and monitors, but the rest looked custom made. Although new, they had the same aesthetics as the machine.

Tony gestured at the assembled components and smiled. “I took the designs from my uncle’s notes. Kind of a retro-futuristic look.”

John sat down on an empty shipping box and wiped the sweat from his brow. “It’s a lot of stuff.”

“Be thankful we waited forty years. Back then it took an entire lab full of equipment to retrieve and process the data. I was able to scale it down to this.”

“Yeah, I’m thankful.”

Tony smiled and turned on the components in what appeared to be a predetermined order. The monitors came to life, and electronic chirps accompanied the multicolored flashing LEDs on the other components, producing an almost musical rhythm and light show.

John edged closer and for a moment the flickering lights reminded him of the gas stove in his dream. A chill rippled down his spine.

The motion on the screens stopped and the lights remained solid except for a few that blinked about once per second. Tony exhaled loudly. “It’s ready,” he said and clicked a button that caused the video display on the reticulum to illuminate. “I just switched on the primary power.”

“What next,” John asked.

“I’ll activate the program and we should see a series of diagnostics followed by the command interface.”

“How do you know it’s going to work?”

Tony cleared his throat. “I don’t.”

“Your uncle didn’t test it?”

“Yeah, of course, but I didn’t find anything specific to his tests in his notes, only generalities of how it works. I had everything built to the exact specs in my uncle’s notes. That much I’m sure of.”

John was beginning to wonder if this was all a wasted effort. He didn’t want to get his hopes up in case the device didn’t function properly.

Tony continued, “It’s like building a radio or television. You only need to know how the signals are constructed and what protocols are used. If you design everything properly, then it’s practically guaranteed to work.”

John looked around the vault. “Why put it here?”

“To hide it for one,” Tony said, tapping the power source. “His notes indicated that his ultimate vision was to have memorial halls with these devices. Families would go there to interface with the memory uploads of their loved ones–in essence communicating with the dead. It’s what your grandmother wanted for you, but…”

“But, things changed, right?”

“Yeah. I suspect my uncle neglected his health in order to finish building it. He died shortly after he installed it here.”

Even if Doctor Petrelli would have lived, there was no way he would have been allowed to finish his project in this house. It was around the same time that John’s father remarried, kicked Grandma out of the house, and started a life with his new family.

“I remember,” John said, recalling the Doctor’s enormous backyard that merged into the forest. “That was one of the last times I saw you. After the funeral, remember? We were playing with that old bear trap we found in the shed.”

Tony looked at John, his eyes gleaming. “You’re right. I do remember that! It was so cold that day. I don’t remember catching any bears though.”

They both laughed then sat silent for a moment.

“Listen, Tony. I want to apologize if I was rude earlier–”

Tony held up his hand. “No, no, no. Not at all. I know this is hard. I just hope it works. It’s what your mother wanted.”

“Assuming it does work, what does it actually do?” John said, pointing at the equipment.

“One of the components is a natural language parser. These screens,” Tony said as he pointed to left and right-most monitors, “show the internal cerebral activity. You could almost equate them to the two hemispheres of the brain. The info will be disjointed–most of it unrecognizable. The middle screen will have the user interface. It’s where you’ll type to communicate with it.”

“Type? Why–”

“It’s going to be a bit weird interfacing with your mother’s cerebral upload, so I think it’s best for now to do it manually. At least until you get used to it.”

Tony closed his eyes. “Would you believe I passed up an eight-figure offer for the Petrelli Algorithms?”

“The what?”

“When I was in med school, one of the professors approached me and offered me ten-million for what he called the Petrelli Algorithms. I later found out it was legend in the neuroscience community–the algorithms that defined human consciousness. Supposedly developed by my uncle.”

“You obviously didn’t sell them?”

“I thought he was crazy. Surely I would have heard of such a thing if they existed. How wrong I was…”

Ten million. John couldn’t comprehend that amount of money. He and Kami were comfortable, but he could only imagine what they could do with that much money. College for the kids. More time to spend with them. Charity donations.

Tony took a deep breath and exhaled. “Thank God I didn’t, right?” He didn’t give John a chance to answer. He dragged his fingers across the monitors, positioning icons and windows in various locations. He paused, his finger hovering over an icon. “Maybe I’m the one who’s crazy,” he whispered. “Ready?”

John nodded and Tony tapped the icon.

The screens once again came to life. The leftmost monitor displayed a 3D web of geometric shapes, sort of like a flowchart, but interconnected with thousands of lines. Inside the nodes were words, phrases, and seemingly random letters and numbers. Nodes illuminated with different colors, disappeared, reappeared, and split.

The right monitor at first displayed random pixels that flashed and changed color. The colors soon merged into distinct gradients that ebbed and flowed across the screen like liquid. The activity on the right screen seemed to mimic the activity level on the left.

The middle screen was less interesting. On it beckoned a lone prompt and flashing cursor.

>_

“What do I say?” John asked, not really sure where to begin, or if he really wanted to. Please let this work, he thought.

“Just say hello, like you’re chatting with someone on the MultiComm. You should be able to type anything and get responses, just as if you were talking to a real person. It will be a Turing Test.”

“A what?”

“You won’t be able to tell the difference between a real person and this.” Tony gestured at the keyboard and diverted his attention back to the monitors.

John typed the letters and hit the return key.

>Hello

The peripheral screens increased their activity for a brief moment. Several nodes glowed bright green then disappeared.

{Hello} appeared on the screen beneath John’s query.

Not very impressive. Even the most basic computer programs could mimic conversation convincingly. At least it was doing something. Tony seemed more impressed. He clapped his hands together and bit his lip.

John spent several minutes typing and getting responses, again nothing to indicate anything other than a basic artificial intelligence program.

Tony pointed at the screen. “It’s working. Type something that no one else would know.”

“Like what?” John asked to be polite. He had already thought of doing it, but each step he took made him more uneasy. What if he asked something he didn’t want to know the answer to?

“Anything,” Tony said. “Something your dad may have said.”

John’s father rarely talked about his mother, but his grandmother always told him the same anecdotes. One of his favorites was about his grandpa, whom he had never met. He used to make his own blackberry wine and hide the bottles in the crawlspace of his house to “age” them. He’d usually retrieve them after only a few days and then rave about how good it was because it had aged. John laughed to himself and typed his query.

>Tell me about grandpa’s wine.

The left screen showed an enormous amount of activity. Several threads repeated over, mostly machine code, but also some word groups that went by too fast to read. Tony moved closer to the screen and mouthed something as his eyes darted around.

Nothing displayed on the response line for almost a minute, then a lone word appeared.

{Grandpa_

The underscore blinked, but the input cursor didn’t return. The cerebral activity monitor remained active. Tony hadn’t noticed the response so John tapped his shoulder.

Tony looked at it, looked at John, then back at the screen.

“What happened? Did it crash?” John asked, having had his own electronic gadgetry do it many times.

Before Tony could answer, a response appeared on the screen.

{You mean my Dad?}

“Your mom didn’t have any brothers or sisters, did she?” Tony asked.

“No, why?”

Tony pointed at the displays. “There’s a lot going on here. Thinking. Your question said ‘grandpa’ which confused it a bit. If she had any siblings, it would mean their grandpa, but she didn’t have any brothers or sisters. A son saying “grandpa” would mean her dad. The reticulum figured that out!”

John wasn’t sure if he wanted to continue. The reticulum was already demonstrating a higher level of logic that was disturbing. What were its limitations? Did it really harbor all of his mother’s memories and thoughts?

“Answer it,” Tony prodded.

John put his fingers on the keyboard. The input cursor disappeared and another response came up.

{Johnny?}

Tony turned to John, his mouth gaped open. John’s entire body trembled. It was like talking to a ghost. “That’s weird,” he managed.

“It’s remarkable. It’s…” Tony just stared at the screen.

“Is this real? I mean, maybe your uncle was just a good programmer…he interviewed my mom about things–”

“No, there’s no program in here, at least not like a database of responses. That’s what’s so amazing!” Tony was talking so fast his words were slurring together. “Everything is computed from the cerebral profile. The memories are stored in the reticulum just as they are stored in the human brain.”

Another response came up: {Is that you, Johnny?}

John typed, barely able to keep his hands from shaking:

>Yes

The right monitor displayed an unusual, but distinct pattern that repeated continuously. It appeared like one of the inkblot tests used in psychiatry. Tony rifled through one of his notebooks, flipping pages noisily and inadvertently tearing some. He stopped on one and ripped it from the binder, holding it close to the screen. He paused for a moment and then lowered it.

“What?” John asked.

Tony offered the paper to John.

The paper showed the same pattern as the screen. On top was printed: Emotional Response Catalog

Hand written in the margin was: Crying? along with some other indistinguishable scribbling.

John removed his hands from the keyboard.

“What’s wrong,” Tony asked.

“You didn’t tell me it felt emotions.”

“It was just theory. I’m not sure it feels–not like we do at least…”

The screen flashed:

{Still want to know about your Grandpa’s wine?}

Tony pointed at the screen. “See there? your–It knows who you are!”

John hesitated, then responded:

>Yes

The response came immediately.

{Dad used to pick blackberries all day. He’d come home sweaty and exhausted. He mashed the blackberries in a big crock to make wine…}

John put his hand on Tony’s shoulder and was about to ask him for some time alone.

Tony nodded. “I understand. This is personal, so I’ll meet you upstairs.”

The dialogue on the screen continued.

{…he’d check it every day, watching it ferment. He’d finally bottle it and store the bottles under the house to age them.}

The right screen flickered with a pattern. John didn’t have to look it up. Laughter. He laughed just like he did when his grandmother used to tell the same story.

{Mom used to get so mad. He ruined his Sunday suit crawling under the house to get his wine. That was after a week of aging it.}

>Tell me about Dad.

{Thad is one of the most wonderful men I know. He’s been so understanding about my illness_

The cursor stopped, but the monitors showed the high level of activity as they did before.

{He’s having a hard time_

{Did Dr. Petrelli’s procedure_

{Can Thad talk to me?}

Although John was talking with a machine, he couldn’t help feeling the anguish along with his mother. How could he tell her that his father–her husband–had died? That everything she knew was now gone–Doctor Petrelli, Dad, Grandma…herself?

>He’s not available right now.

The response took nearly 30 seconds.

{He’s gone, isn’t he?}

>I’m sorry.

John felt a knot in his stomach and looked away from the right monitor, knowing what it would display after he broke the news to his mother. He hadn’t been prepared for this. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but he knew that this was more than just a machine or a computer program.

{Johnny?}

>Yes?

{Tell me about yourself. Are you married now?}

>Yes. I’ve been married over 10 years now. You’d love Kami. She’s a wonderful woman. We’re expecting twins in a few months…

###

The morning sun streamed through the open windows upstairs. Motes of pollen drifted into the house covering the walls with yellow dust.

John came from the bathroom and took an antihistamine. He noticed Tony sleeping at the dining room table, a bottle of Champagne and two glasses beside his head. John crept to the table and picked up the bottle.

John wondered if there was really something to celebrate? Tony seemed to think so. From a technological standpoint, it was one of the greatest inventions ever created. But, from an ethical view, what exactly was the reticulum? Did Doctor Petrelli ever fully consider the implications of mimicking a human brain? Did he create a modern-day Pandora’s Box, only to be opened later by unsuspecting fools?

Careful not to wake Tony, John removed the foil and untwisted the wire. He twisted the cork to loosen it and then pushed it with both thumbs. The cork ejected into the air with a loud pop, hitting the ceiling. Champagne spewed from the bottle as Tony jumped from his seat, his eyes wide.

“Buongiorno, Tony.”

Tony rubbed his eyes. “Sorry,” he said through a yawn. “I put my head down and was out. I haven’t slept well for weeks.”

John filled the two flutes. The Champagne overflowed onto the table, but John no longer cared. After all, it was just a table, and an ugly one at that. He sat the bottle down, took the glasses and handed one to Tony.

“I’m not sure about all this, Tony. It’s like magic–and I’m grateful that you and your uncle gave me something I wouldn’t have had otherwise–but…”

“But?” Tony prodded.

“But…does that thing, you know, feel? It had emotional responses. It figured out things, like it was alive.”

“You mean is it sentient–is it aware of itself, is it conscious.” Tony paused for a second then shook his head and looked directly at John. “I don’t think so.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I grew up Catholic. Regardless of what science teaches me, I still have my conviction–no matter how fragile–that we have a soul. That is what makes us who we are. You can’t copy that with a machine.”

“What if you didn’t believe?”

“Then I’d trust the science. When we turned the machine on, we got normal responses–just as if we awakened a sleeping person. Had the reticulum been conscious all these years, I’d expect some severe mental disturbances, like a person gets with extreme sensory depravation or isolation. We saw crying as a specific emotional response to questions. In the brain, it’s nothing more that neurons firing and releasing chemicals. The reticulum simulates that, but nothing more. It’s not alive, John. It’s not…”

“I know. It’s still strange though.”

John felt his neck muscles relax and allowed his shoulders to sag. Tony had been forthcoming with him through the entire process, so there was no reason to distrust him. He wished he had been more trusting from the beginning.

“Thanks…Doctor,” he said, emphasizing doctor to hopefully show his respect for his old friend Tony. He raised his glass.

“No, John. Thank you. For letting me be part of this.” Tony raised his glass and said, “To Thad Crandall…and his wife, Ellen.”

“And to Doctors Franco and Tony Petrelli,” John said.

They both drank and set their glasses down.

Tony wiped his eyes with the palm of his hand. “Allergies,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” John lied, knowing that he had just taken an antihistamine.

“There’s one more thing,” Tony said. He dug into his bag and produced a memory drive. “This had explicit instructions that it be given to you only if my uncle’s device worked.”

“What’s on it?”

“I don’t know. The instructions also said that it was only for you.” Tony handed the drive to John and slapped him on the arm. “You’ll be okay?”

John nodded.

“You mind if I use your car? That truck’s a bit hard to handle.”

“Are you sober?” John tried not to laugh hoping to throw Tony off guard.

Tony looked puzzled. “I just had a sip–”

“I’m joking. Take it.” John tossed Tony the key.

“I won’t take it over two hundred.”

“It’s a rental. You’ll be lucky to go half that.”

“I’ll be back this afternoon to retrieve the reticulum and store it for you. We’ll have to dig up the front yard if that’s okay?”

“This whole place is going to rot, so have at it.”

“We also need to talk about what you want to do with it.”

“Okay.”

Tony paused in the doorway and pointed his finger at John. “And don’t forget, you owe me lunch,” he said and quickly disappeared.

John sat at the table and listened to the rental car trudge through the gravel driveway. Then it was silent. His thoughts were finally slowing down, the first hint at just how exhausted he was. He had pulled an all-nighter or two at the office, but that was nothing compared to his last few days–jetlag, lack of sleep, being away from Kami, and above all, speaking with his mother’s consciousness. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

He plugged the drive into his terminal. There was one video file on the drive. John tapped its icon.

Ellen Crandall sat on a leather chair in a cozy room adorned with mahogany and antique design, presumably Doctor Petrelli’s office. She appeared frail even though the video was made the same day as the SferaScan video beside the apple tree.

She tried to smile, but her lip quivered. The video skipped and she now held a handkerchief.

She took a deep breath and spoke. “My little baby. By the time you watch this, I’ll be long gone.” She dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief.

“Life isn’t fair, certainly not to you, Thad, and Mom.” She nodded toward something off-frame as if John’s father and grandmother were standing there when she mentioned them. “I wish there was some other way to fix things, but…” She suddenly cringed and leaned her head forward. The video skipped again.

“There’s not much time, so I have to be brief. Doctor Petrelli is going to do something–I don’t know if it will work–but maybe someday you’ll get to speak to me–well, not me, but you’ll have my memories. I know it sounds strange, but if you’re watching this, then you’ll already know what I’m talking about.”

Ellen began to cry, but the video continued. Between sobs she managed, “I love you so much, Johnny. I hope this works. Not for me, but for you. Take care of yourself. I love you…”

The video faded and John closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face. “I love you, too Mom,” he whispered.

John walked outside carrying his glass and the bottle of Champagne. He refilled the flute and surveyed the area. The apple tree was long gone. The carpet of grass was now nothing more than a wiry tangle. The houses would eventually disappear, too, taking with them years of history and memories. A decade from now, no one would even remember Glen Falls.

John took a drink of Champagne. He could hear Thad Crandall now. “Ya drinkin’ that shit this early in the morning?”

He laughed and raised his glass. “Cheers, Dad.” Maybe his father would overlook it on such a special occasion.

John had to agree with his father on one thing, something he hadn’t done for a long time.

The most precious gift of all is a lifetime of memories to possess for all eternity, for no amount of money or earthy goods can equate to their value or longevity.

{END}