Lullaby by Bernard Beckett Read Free Book Online

saying in the brain sciences, that the easy problems turn out to be difficult,
and the difficult problems turn out to be easy. Before the breakthrough with compression
matrixes, it was always assumed that the transfer of brain data would prove impossible,
while the physical transplant of brains seemed to be just around the corner. Now
we are in the curious position of having managed the impossible task, while being
stumped by the easy one. Animal trials continue to provide hurdles to the task of
successful acceptance and interaction. So in the case of a dementia patient, even
if the reading and transfer of information were successful, we would be left with
a brain without a body, which would make it extremely difficult to verify the fidelity
of the transfer. To get to the point where transplant is feasible, a great deal of
funding is required, but funders are reluctant to back projects that remain so uncertain.
You and Theo provide a unique opportunity for us to demonstrate a proof of concept.’
    ‘We could unlock the money you need.’
    ‘Quite so.’
    ‘And the second problem?’ I asked. ‘You said there was a second problem.’
    ‘Experiments on animals also suggest a risk, to the brain being read.’
    ‘What sort of risk?’ I asked.
    I heard the tremor in my voice.
    ‘With animals, it is almost impossible to measure minor damage, specific memory loss,
subtle alterations in personality. But in some cases, there were more extreme reactions.’
    ‘Did any of them die?’
    ‘Two, from a hundred trials. One of those was almost certainly attributable to an
error with the anaesthetic.’
    ‘So there’s a one per cent chance this could kill me.’
    ‘No,’ the doctor answered. ‘With humans the procedure is markedly different.’
    ‘More complicated?’ I asked.
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘So more risky.’
    ‘Yes.’
    The doctor’s hands were mottled, veins and ligaments clearly visible beneath the
thinning skin. I wondered if this was the thing that kept him up at night, the fear
of losing his mind.
    ‘I don’t expect the procedure will harm you in any way, but that is not something
I can guarantee. Does that answer your question?’
    ‘Sure.’
    More risky than one per cent, but not so risky that it wasn’t just a number, waiting
for a story to be wrapped around it. The story I told myself was this: I would be
all right. I could trust these people. If I decided to go through with it, no harm
would come to me. I wanted it to be true, and I had no good reason to think it wasn’t.
Sufficient for belief.
    ‘Which brings us,’ the doctor said, ‘to the details of the procedure. Tell me what
you understand of this.’
    ‘I don’t know any more than what you told me earlier,’ I said.
    ‘That will do.’ He leaned slightly forward in his chair. ‘We need to assess your
understanding.’
    ‘You will take a scan of my brain.’
    I tried to mimic his cool detachment, but I’ve always been squeamish about brains.
I only have to think about my own, squeezed beneath my skull, to experience an intense
coolness at the base of my neck. If I visualise a particular spot, top centre, near
the back, the simple thought of it being touched brings on a gag reflex. There was
a time, when I was younger, when I would imagine my own death, and it always happened
the same way: sudden and unexpected, a great focussed force on the top of my skull,
pulverising everything I am. In a science class, the teacher told us the brain has
the consistency of a firm custard, that you could scoop at it with a spoon. I felt
so ill I had to leave the room. Later I tried to convince people Theo was the one
who’d fled.
    ‘You will use the scan to reconstruct my connectome.’
    ‘And what is a connectome?’
    I felt foolish. He was the world expert, alert to my every error. ‘Imagine you’re
explaining it to a friend,’ he said.
    I tried to be accurate and analytical, so that Maggie would consider me sane. Now
I can see how easy it would