The Descent

The  Digital  Satan  project  was  nearing  completion.  The  lab  was  getting  downright gamy with fast-food wrappers,  sixty-four-ounce  soda  cups  recycled  as  pencil  holders, and  mummified  birthday  leftovers.  The   bulletin  board   was   bushy   with  doctored snapshots  of  lab  personnel,  excerpts  of  articles,  and,  most   recently,   employment notices for positions here and abroad.

She  entered  without  double-gloving  or  a  surgical  mask.  All  kinds  of  lab  rituals  had fallen  by  the  wayside,  yet  another  sign  that  the  project  was  getting  short.  Vials  lay couched on a Taco Bell box. Someone had made a mobile  of  the  computer  chips  they'd fried over  the months.

Machine Two pumped out its endless hush-hush-hush nursery-room  rhythm. Except  for  the  head,  a  young  hadal  female  had  just  disappeared  from  existence, bones  and  all.  Yet  now  she  could  be  resurrected  with  a  CD-ROM  and  a  mouse.  She was about  to  become  electronically  immortal.  Wherever  there  was  a  computer,  there could  be  a  physical  manifestation  of  Dawn.  In  a  sense,  her  soul  was  truly  in  the machine.

For several  weeks  now, Yamamoto had been beset  with  awful  dreams  of  Dawn.  The hadal  girl  would  be  falling  off  a  cliff  or  getting  swept  out  to  sea,  and  she  would  be reaching  for  help.  Others  in  the  lab  related  similar  nightmares.  Separation  anxiety, they  self-diagnosed. Dawn had been part  of the gang. They  were  all going to miss her. All  that  remained  was  the  upper  two-thirds  of  the  hadal's  cranium.  It  was  slow going.  Machine  Two  was  calibrated  to  make  the  finest  slices  possible.  The   brain offered  their  most  interesting  exploration.  Hopes  remained  high  that   they   might actually  unravel  the  sensory  and  cognition  process  –  in  effect,  making  the  dead  mind speak. All they  had to do for the next  ten weeks  was baby-sit  a glorified bologna slicer. Patience was a matter  of Diet Pepsi and ribald jokes.

Yamamoto approached the metal table. The  top of  the  girl's  cranium  was  pale  white inside  the  block  of  frozen  blue  gel.  It  looked  like  a  moon  suspended  in  a  square  of outer  space.  Electrodes  fed  out  from  the  top  and  sides  of  the  gel.  At  the  base,  the blade sliced. The  camera fired.

The  machine had pared away  the  lower  jaw,  then  worked  back  and  forth  across  the upper teeth  and into  the  nasal  cavity.  Externally,  most  of  the  flared,  batlike  nose  and all  of  the  stretched,  fringed  earlobes  were  gone  now.  In  terms  of  internal  structures, they'd  shaved  through most of the medulla  oblongata  leading  up  from  the  spinal  cord, and  reduced  most  of  the  cerebellum  –  which  controlled  motor  skills  –  at  the  base  of the  skull  to  digital  bits.  No  lesions  or  abnormalities  so  far.  For  a  necrotic  brain,  all systems  were  remarkably  intact,  practically  viable.  Everyone  was  marveling.  Hope I'm that healthy  after  I die, someone had joked.

Things    were    just    starting    to    get    interesting.    From    around    the    country, neurosurgeons and brain and  cognition  specialists  had  begun  calling  or  E-mailing  on  a daily basis to keep  updated. Certain parts  of  the  brain,  like  the  cerebellum  they'd  just passed,  were  fairly  standard  mammalian  anatomy.  They  explained  what  made  the animal an animal, but did little to fill in what made the hadal a hadal.

No  longer  would  Dawn  be  just  so  much  subterranean  animal  carcass.  From  the limbic  system  upward,  she  would  once  again  become  her  own  person.  A  personality might  emerge,  a  rational  process,  clues  to  her  speech,  her  emotions,  her  habits  and instincts.  In  short,  they  were  about  to  peek  out  through  Dawn's  cranial  window  and glimpse  her  worldview.  It  was  tantamount  to  landing  a  spacecraft  on  another  planet. More than that, this was like interviewing an alien for the first time and  asking  for  her thoughts.

Yamamoto  feathered  through  the  electrodes,  sorting  the  right-side  wires,  laying them  out  neatly  on  the  table.  It  was  still  a  slight  mystery  why  Dawn  seemed  to  be generating  a  slight  electrical  pulse.  Her  chart  should  have  showed  a  flat-line,  but every  now  and  then  an  irregular  spike  would  jump  up.  This  had  been  going  on  for months.  It  was  a  fact  that,  if  you  waited  long  enough,  electrodes  would  eventually detect  vital signs even  from a bowl of Jell-O.

Yamamoto moved around the  table  to  the  left  side  and  fanned  out  the  wires  on  her palm.  It  was  almost  like  braiding  a  child's  hair.  She  paused  to  peer  down  into  the  gel block at what was left of the hadal face.

'Good morning,' she said. The  head opened its eyes.