The Curiosity by Stephen Kiernan Page A

“Superstition. Also, beside the point.” He faces the full staff, arms wide. “People. Aren’t you curious?” He laughs; it sounds like a bark. “This is the only thing that matters: Don’t you want to know what is possible? Aren’t you dying to find out?”
    He gives them a moment to digest his argument. Then he turns, and if the man had worn a cape he would have flourished it. “Borden.”
    â€œYes, sir?”
    â€œNow.”
    Borden raises his hand, presses one finger against the switch, hesitates.
    â€œNow,” Carthage repeats. And the little doctor flips the thing up.
    At once every gauge tips all the way to the right, overrun by voltage. There are sparks among the wires overhead. Several computer monitors turn off. The lights flicker, then the room goes black. And there we all are, dumb as a box of rocks, standing in the dark. There is not even the sound of ceiling fans.
    A few seconds later the lights blink back on, the fans start, computers reboot. Gerber pulls back his wild hair and faces Carthage. “Backup generator?”
    Carthage nods. “Always have a Plan B.”
    And the beeping starts again. There is no hesitating this time. It is steady, climbing, and sure. When it reaches 20 bpm Borden turns off that highest switch. The beeping continues. Now the progress is linear. One by one he lowers the switches, and Frank’s heart holds its pace, settling at ninety beats per minute.
    â€œThat’s it,” Borden says, throwing the last switch down. “He’s on his own.”
    Billings slumps against the chamber door. “God in heaven.”
    The counting clock shows 15:47 has elapsed since that frozen heart first started beating. At twenty minutes Gerber begins ventilator weaning, minuscule steps this time but reaching full withdrawal in half an hour. The other techs report steady blood pressure. Billings returns to the body and records his observations: finger twitches, eye motion.
    No one is celebrating this time. It is a solemn business. I ask Thomas for a copy of the procedure list and he hands me the original—can he have no idea what this thing will be worth?—and tosses the bare clipboard on a desk. Then I slump in a corner and wonder what has just become of my worldview.
    â€œRock solid.” Gerber sits back. “Sixteen respirations per minute, ninety-two beats give or take, zero life support.” He clasps hands behind his head. “Baby’s all grown up.”
    â€œWell . . .” Carthage tugs his collar like his tie is too tight. “I suppose I don’t need to tell you all how disappointed I am.”
    â€œWhat?” It’s Borden this time. “What are you talking about? What better result could you possibly expect? What do you want?”
    Carthage rubs his forehead with one hand, as if to say it is a shame the world is populated with imbeciles. Then he stares through the glass at the living, breathing, silent creature. “I want consciousness.”

CHAPTER 9
    The Ancient Dictionary
    (Kate Philo)

    W ithin hours of reanimation Gerber had designed a way to stream the frozen man online live. It was a massive invasion of privacy, but after I’d committed the apparently unforgivable offense of questioning Carthage’s ethics in front of the whole staff, I remained too far in the doghouse to make an effective objection.
    In fact he put me on the night shift. It was a clear comedown from supervising all the researchers on the ship, but truthfully I didn’t mind. I liked the quiet control room, the hum of machines, the silent body breathing away in its chamber. Whatever misgivings I felt about the project and my role, the frozen man had a reassuring presence.
    Often Billings was there, toiling with his small specimens. Sometimes I’d convince him to take a break from cataloging, the drudgery of organizing chaos before experimenting on it. He’d been right about that