roommate from Princeton, George Styron, had a daughter who’d been recruited, and he assured them it was all on the up-and-up.
But Wyatt had no interest. She could think of nothing more unpleasant and aggravating than being locked in close quarters with people her own age full-time. She indulged her parents and accompanied the officers to the Pentagonal Spire, though, only vaguely curious about the stronghold of power that directed the war effort. The entire idea of World War III seemed silly, and a waste of money to her. The USA never seemed to hold the territory they won in space, which seemed to be the point of war in the first place.
Then the Pentagonal Spire officials told her about the neural processors.
Wyatt didn’t even care about seeing the facilities. She sat down in the infirmary and viewed a meshlike web of fine metal, a computer that interfaced directly with the human brain. The man who worked in there, Doctor Gonzales, seemed confused about why she had so many questions, but he answered all of them. The technology was decades ahead of what was officially used by the public, and the possibilities of enhanced brainpower made her head spin.
What could she do if she was machine-fast, if she had the precision of a computer, if she could slice through problems that still continued to elude her, elude the rest of humanity?
She could determine whether the Euler-Mascheroni constant was irrational.
She could find an Euler brick whose space diagonal was also an integer.
She could solve all the mathematical mysteries that the greatest minds in the world had yet to vanquish.
Suddenly, joining the Intrasolar Forces wasn’t an odd or irrational choice, but rather the only choice, the only way to achieve things beyond her capabilities, to become better than she could ever hope to be on her own.
W YATT HAD JUST swallowed her sedative when the large, uniformed man with short, dark hair burst into the infirmary.
“Don’t sedate her yet,” the man snapped, and Wyatt recoiled from the intruder.
But he was in uniform. He looked like an officer.
The newcomer brushed aside Doctor Gonzales’s objections that the infirmary was a sterile environment, and seated himself on the foot of her bed. There were two thin, white lines of scarring down the right side of his face. She looked at those rather than meet his penetrating, gray eyes.
“I looked at your fMRI,” he told her. “You’re not neurotypical, are you?”
Wyatt stared at him. “So what?” This wasn’t news. She was very aware her brain didn’t function the same way most people’s did.
“Your brain isn’t the standard, unlike most of the kids recruited for this program. That means someone in top brass”—he gestured upward with a big finger—“authorized your admission to this program as an experiment to see how a brain like yours will tolerate a neural processor. Did anyone tell you what these machines can do to a human brain?”
“She was warned about the risks, Lieutenant Blackburn,” said Doctor Gonzales. Then, to her, he whispered, “He takes these things very personally when it’s not his concern.”
Blackburn shot him a look that made Gonzales mutter something and leave them alone in the room. Wyatt was tempted to feel alarmed, but a haze began to creep over her brain as the sedative she’d swallowed kicked in. Blackburn’s voice kept lashing into her ears.
“Your brain is all you are, Ms. Enslow, and there’s nothing wrong with yours, whatever they might’ve tried to tell you. Most kids who come here, the neural processor is a tweak. With someone like you, the neural processor will register that your brain isn’t in homeostasis—within normal limits—and it will try to adjust it more in line with a typical human brain.”
“I know there are risks,” she mumbled.
“You won’t be you anymore. This could fundamentally alter you, do you understand that?”
“I know. I don’t know what you think you saw on my fMRI,
But Wyatt had no interest. She could think of nothing more unpleasant and aggravating than being locked in close quarters with people her own age full-time. She indulged her parents and accompanied the officers to the Pentagonal Spire, though, only vaguely curious about the stronghold of power that directed the war effort. The entire idea of World War III seemed silly, and a waste of money to her. The USA never seemed to hold the territory they won in space, which seemed to be the point of war in the first place.
Then the Pentagonal Spire officials told her about the neural processors.
Wyatt didn’t even care about seeing the facilities. She sat down in the infirmary and viewed a meshlike web of fine metal, a computer that interfaced directly with the human brain. The man who worked in there, Doctor Gonzales, seemed confused about why she had so many questions, but he answered all of them. The technology was decades ahead of what was officially used by the public, and the possibilities of enhanced brainpower made her head spin.
What could she do if she was machine-fast, if she had the precision of a computer, if she could slice through problems that still continued to elude her, elude the rest of humanity?
She could determine whether the Euler-Mascheroni constant was irrational.
She could find an Euler brick whose space diagonal was also an integer.
She could solve all the mathematical mysteries that the greatest minds in the world had yet to vanquish.
Suddenly, joining the Intrasolar Forces wasn’t an odd or irrational choice, but rather the only choice, the only way to achieve things beyond her capabilities, to become better than she could ever hope to be on her own.
W YATT HAD JUST swallowed her sedative when the large, uniformed man with short, dark hair burst into the infirmary.
“Don’t sedate her yet,” the man snapped, and Wyatt recoiled from the intruder.
But he was in uniform. He looked like an officer.
The newcomer brushed aside Doctor Gonzales’s objections that the infirmary was a sterile environment, and seated himself on the foot of her bed. There were two thin, white lines of scarring down the right side of his face. She looked at those rather than meet his penetrating, gray eyes.
“I looked at your fMRI,” he told her. “You’re not neurotypical, are you?”
Wyatt stared at him. “So what?” This wasn’t news. She was very aware her brain didn’t function the same way most people’s did.
“Your brain isn’t the standard, unlike most of the kids recruited for this program. That means someone in top brass”—he gestured upward with a big finger—“authorized your admission to this program as an experiment to see how a brain like yours will tolerate a neural processor. Did anyone tell you what these machines can do to a human brain?”
“She was warned about the risks, Lieutenant Blackburn,” said Doctor Gonzales. Then, to her, he whispered, “He takes these things very personally when it’s not his concern.”
Blackburn shot him a look that made Gonzales mutter something and leave them alone in the room. Wyatt was tempted to feel alarmed, but a haze began to creep over her brain as the sedative she’d swallowed kicked in. Blackburn’s voice kept lashing into her ears.
“Your brain is all you are, Ms. Enslow, and there’s nothing wrong with yours, whatever they might’ve tried to tell you. Most kids who come here, the neural processor is a tweak. With someone like you, the neural processor will register that your brain isn’t in homeostasis—within normal limits—and it will try to adjust it more in line with a typical human brain.”
“I know there are risks,” she mumbled.
“You won’t be you anymore. This could fundamentally alter you, do you understand that?”
“I know. I don’t know what you think you saw on my fMRI,
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