Authors: Gary Braver
GRAY MATTER (27 page)
L
ucius Malenko slid open the glass doors on the balcony and let the cool Atlantic breeze flush over him.
ucius Malenko slid open the glass doors on the balcony and let the cool Atlantic breeze flush over him.
From his perch on the granite cliffs a few miles below Portsmouth, the glittering blue filled his vision. In the gauzy distance, sailing vessels made their way toward the harbor past the small humps of Big Frog and Little Frog Islands. It was a million-dollar view. Or, more exactly, four million, bought and paid for by the upper end of the bell curve.
Malenko took in a cool deep breath of assurance that he had it all—a home by the sea, a remote country estate in the woods, and a fifteenth-century villa in Tuscany where in three weeks he would relax for a month. He had nearly every mode of transportation. On the walls behind him hung original seascape oils by Marshall Johnson, Thomas Birch, and Winslow Homer. Atop pedestals and on shelves sat various objets d’art from his foreign travels. Lighting up the computer monitor in the adjacent room were his investments showing cumulative capital valuations of over forty million dollars. What he called his “Smart Money portfolio”—pun intended.
His was the good life, to use the hoary old American expression—a life that was far beyond the meager earnings of a consulting senior neurologist working two days a week at Nova—and a life that was light-years beyond where he had come from in the Ukraine.
As he stood on the balcony sipping his morning coffee, with the sultry ocean air combing through his hair and the warm sun on his face, he recalled
the dark and twisted road that had led him here from the dismal, concrete-poured flats of the Kiev State Research Center of Neurosurgery.
the dark and twisted road that had led him here from the dismal, concrete-poured flats of the Kiev State Research Center of Neurosurgery.
It was the early 1970s, and he had headed up a project with the long-range goal of alleviating the effects of certain human neurological afflictions. The radically new approach involved the transplantation of healthy animal brain tissue into like regions in other animals with various neurological defects. The theory was that primitive rat or monkey brain cells could “reseed” those areas of nerve degeneration and take their cues from existing brain matter to mature into the needed cell types. This way, human neurological diseases—including multiple sclerosis, strokes, or multi-infarct dementia—might eventually be treated by neurotransplantation.
But in the early stages of his research, Malenko made a series of astounding side discoveries. He had located areas of the cortex and hippocampus that affect memory and cognitive performance and which energize other brain systems. When he treated those areas in a control group of newborn mice with a dopamine-protein mix that promoted neuron connections, he discovered that their long-term memory was superior to that of untreated mice. Not only did they run their mazes faster, but also they could speed through complicated new structures as if radar-guided.
An even greater surprise came when he injected a cocktail of growth factors and neural tissue from one maze-whiz mouse into that of an untreated cousin. The injected cells did not produce a glob of cells in one place in the brain. Instead, they migrated to underdeveloped areas of the brain. Remarkably, the recipient mice ended up solving complicated maze problems, shooting through the structures instead of blindly poking their way. He repeated his experiment several times using different control groups until he was absolutely certain of his results: The enhanced neurological circuitry had been passed from harvest to host animals. He had transplanted high-intelligence animal brain matter into the skulls of dim-witted cousins and produced a smarter mouse.
Over the ensuing months, he all but abandoned the Parkinson’s project and moved his experimentation to rhesus monkeys with the similarly amazing results. Once the word got out that his lab had boosted animal intelligence, the Soviet government stepped in to raise the sights.
As always, the interest was purely political. For years, the government had been concerned over the “brain drain” of homegrown scientists to other
countries as well as the precipitous drop-off in the number of young people interested in science and mathematics. While blaming the “techno-lag” on the corrupting influence of Western culture, it was clear that the Soviet Union was losing its competitive edge in the world. And for the Defense Ministry, technical inferiority would surely accelerate the decline of the republic’s world status and internal solidarity. That could not be. So, in desperation to salvage the country’s intellectual viability, the Malenko Procedure was given top secret priority. People would be made smarter.
countries as well as the precipitous drop-off in the number of young people interested in science and mathematics. While blaming the “techno-lag” on the corrupting influence of Western culture, it was clear that the Soviet Union was losing its competitive edge in the world. And for the Defense Ministry, technical inferiority would surely accelerate the decline of the republic’s world status and internal solidarity. That could not be. So, in desperation to salvage the country’s intellectual viability, the Malenko Procedure was given top secret priority. People would be made smarter.
The project had first struck him as foolishly naïve—another scheme of a few old-fart Cold War—niks who measured scientific progress in terms of how to beat the Americans. Two decades earlier, like-minded KGB idiots squandered millions of rubles to finance research in ESP with the dream of creating telepathic superspies. There was no limit to their creative fantasies.
But as the social theoreticians worked on him, pounding him with the bleak statistics on Soviet society, scales seemed to melt from Lucius Malenko’s eyes: Stupid people were toxic to the Soviet system. They were responsible for three-quarters of the crime, poverty, drug and alcohol abuse, homelessness, higher teenage pregnancies, and diseases. And they produced children destined to create more of the same
ad infinitum.
Intelligence was the panacea. And he possibly possessed the magic elixir.
ad infinitum.
Intelligence was the panacea. And he possibly possessed the magic elixir.
Of course, the step from rhesus macaques to the top of the Great Chain of Being was forbidding. The first problem was the lack of human neural cells. At the time, there had been some success in grafting brain tissue from aborted fetuses into adults with Parkinson’s disease. Although there was no shortage of aborted embryos, there were fundamental unknowns such as which regions of the fetal brain to extract from. With pea-sized mouse brains, the challenge was minimal. But human intelligence was a matter of memory and the retrieval of that memory, and those connections ranged globally throughout the brain. He tried extracts from numerous loci, but after four agonizing years of experimentation, he concluded that fetal grafts lacked environmental adaptability and, thus, were ineffective in enhancing human intelligence. Three years later, that failure led him to the needed breakthrough.
Unfortunately, the Soviet Union was in the throes of collapse. So Malenko found himself playing “beat the clock” with perhaps the most extraordinary discovery in the medical world—if not in all of science: a project on par with the splitting of the uranium atom, the discovery of the DNA
molecule, and the first moon landing. There he was, a modern-day Paracelsus, converting base materials to gold—only to watch his lab close down.
molecule, and the first moon landing. There he was, a modern-day Paracelsus, converting base materials to gold—only to watch his lab close down.
But all was not lost. A year later, in 1987, he was granted a work visa to the U.S., whose government, hampered by the tenets of democracy, would not approve of his project—at least not publicly. Secretly recruited by a clandestine cell of the National Security Agency, he was eventually given full-citizen status. In exchange, Dr. Lucius Malenko labored to perfect human enhancement—a project that lasted two years until the agency closed him down, claiming the risk factor was too high. Three subjects had died.
In the intervening years, he worked his way up from research assistant in neurology at the Commonwealth Medical Center in Boston to chief surgeon until his eye failed him.
Ironically, he had discovered the keys to the kingdom, unlocking one of nature’s great black boxes—human intelligence—and, except for a handful of people in the world, nobody had a clue, including his colleagues at Nova Children’s Center. He was simply mild-mannered Dr. M. who came in twice a week to consult with his patients.
What they did not know was that he had moved his kingdom underground, which was fine since Lucius Malenko was beyond the need for recognition. Years of clandestine Soviet research had conditioned his ego to darkness. Besides, nothing about enhancement was fit for public consumption. So he did his public persona thing, while on the side he quietly played Shiva.
The telephone rang, bringing him back to the moment. It was Vera asking about the Whitman case.
“We’re still working on that, but it’s moving in the right direction.”
“Good. By the way, this last one is on yellow.”
As usual, Vera was being discreet in her word choice. What she meant was that little Lilly Bellingham was being readied for preop. “I’ll be up tomorrow,” he said. “There are a few things that need to be attended to on this end first.”
“Of course,” she said. “And I assume the package arrived.”
“Yes, it has.”
“I’m sorry I’ll miss all the fun.”
“Likewise, but I’m sure we’ll hear about it.”
B
rendan felt ridiculous in the tuxedo and white shirt that was required of the wait staff on party nights—like some exotic partridge. He moved through the crowd with trays of fancy dips and canapes.
rendan felt ridiculous in the tuxedo and white shirt that was required of the wait staff on party nights—like some exotic partridge. He moved through the crowd with trays of fancy dips and canapes.
Nicole DaFoe was there with her parents, looking void of affect as usual. She was wearing an ice-white dress with white high heels. It was the first time Brendan had seen her dressed up.
“Would you like some hors d’oeuvres, Ms. DaFoe?” he whispered. “We have m-m-mushroom caps stuffed with dog vomit and road pizza on a stick. The yellow dip is p-pus, and the brown sauce is—”
“You’re not funny,” Nicole said under her breath. She took a mushroom cap and popped it into her mouth. “Too bad you’re not in school, or you’d have gotten one of these scholarships. You’re poor.”
Brendan’s mind flooded with comebacks, but he did not respond. She started away. “Congratulations, by the way,” he said.
She snapped her head toward him. “What for?”
She was playing coy. It was in the local newspaper. “I guess you got your A in history.”
“Pardon me?”
“You won the Andrew Dale Laurent Fellowship Award. F-first in your class. A perfect four-oh. You aced out Amy Tran.” Amy got honorable mention in the story, which ran with pictures including one with Nicole shaking hands with her history teacher, Michael Kaminsky. Amy’s photo was
separate, and he recognized her as the girl in the field-trip photo on Nicole’s wall. The one with the holes in her eyes.
separate, and he recognized her as the girl in the field-trip photo on Nicole’s wall. The one with the holes in her eyes.
Nicole studied Brendan’s face as if trying to gauge his attitude. Then she said simply, “Thanks.” She started away, then stopped. “What time do you get off?”
“Eleven. Why?”
“Come to my place. I want to show you something. My parents are going to friends’ house after this. I’ll let you in the back way.”
Brendan could not read her expression. “What’s up?”
“Just be there.”
Yes
,
mein Führer,
a voice inside said. “Okay.”
,
mein Führer,
a voice inside said. “Okay.”
“I’m out of here. By the way, who’s that woman in the green?”
Vanessa Watts was standing with several people, including a woman with a long green dress with her back to them.
“She visited the school the other day.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Don’t move.” She slipped behind him. “I don’t want her to see me.”
“Her n-n-name is Rachel Whitman. She’s new. Moved here about seven months ago. Her husband’s the guy in the olive d-double-breasted Armani. He owns an egghead recruitment company called SageSearches. It’s the same suit on the cover of last month’s
GQ
with Keanu Reeves. It’s in the m-men’s lounge—”
GQ
with Keanu Reeves. It’s in the m-men’s lounge—”
“I don’t care about his suit,” she snapped. “They were on a parents’ tour. She must have a kid who wants to be a Bloomie.”
“They have a six-year-old son, Dylan, but he’s not Bloomie material. A nice little kid, but he’s kind of 1-1-limited.”
“Do they have other kids?”
“None listed on her m-membership application. Just Dylan—signed up for day care and tennis lessons. Has a good swing. Also sings like an English choirboy.”
“Then how come they were on tour?”
Brendan shrugged. “Maybe the old B-B-Bloomies are becoming more liberal with their standards. A kind of n-noblesse oblige, like the Dellsies with the poor-boy scholarships.”
“Tell me another.”
“Nice perfume, by the way.”
“It’s my mother’s. It’s called Joy.”
“Ah.” And the magazine ads lit up his mind. “Jean Patou. The world’s most expensive fragrance. By the way, do you know how many flowers go into one two-ounce bottle of
eau de parfum?”
eau de parfum?”
“No, and I don’t care,” Nicole said.
“Six hundred and seventy-five.”
“Where do you get all this useless information from?”
Before he could answer, somebody called for him—some guy in a grotesque maroon houndstooth sport coat and baby-blue gabardine pants was waving him over for some food. “Have to g-go.”
“Even if Dylan qualifies, I don’t think they’ll send him. There was an accident in psych lab.” She did not explain but flashed him a cool, sly look and headed for the rear exit, while Brendan headed for the houndsteeth.
Rachel watched Brendan LaMotte wend his way through the guests. He was quite dashing in the tuxedo. And, for once, his hair looked washed and neatly bound behind his head. She was tempted to go over and compliment him, but he’d probably discorporate. Or worse, tell her all the ingredients of his canapes.
Rachel was grateful for the party, because it took her mind off the enhancement option, which had left her ill at ease. Holding Martin’s hand, she moved through the crowd. There must have been a hundred people in the grand ballroom, some parents and friends of the scholarship winners, others, associates of Vanessa Watts. Also a few media people, including reporters from local TV stations. At the center of the room was a large table with an ice fountain sculpted as a swan, behind which waiters served champagne and other drinks. Nearby were tables of fancy hors d’oeuvres. In one corner sat a table artfully stacked with copies of Vanessa’s book, plus life-sized displays of the cover. Also behind the podium were blowups of each of the scholarship winners, all Dells caddies. The evening was a double-header billed as Dells’ Scholars Celebration.
At the far end of the room sat a huge television monitor for a video presentation for later. Sheila was by the equipment chatting with some club staffers. When she saw Rachel she fluttered a wave.
Vanessa, who stood nearly six feet tall, was in a clutch of people chatting
away. She was dressed in a striking black sheath with boat neck and capped sleeves that accentuated her long tanned arms and chest. A simple strand of pearls hugged her neck. Her golden hair had been elegantly styled with an upward flare adding to her stature. On her feet was a pair of pointy-toed black slides. She looked less like a professor of English and more like a fashion model. Rachel pulled Martin to join her.
away. She was dressed in a striking black sheath with boat neck and capped sleeves that accentuated her long tanned arms and chest. A simple strand of pearls hugged her neck. Her golden hair had been elegantly styled with an upward flare adding to her stature. On her feet was a pair of pointy-toed black slides. She looked less like a professor of English and more like a fashion model. Rachel pulled Martin to join her.
“Congratulations,” Rachel said with genuine admiration. Vanessa was a brilliant and accomplished woman, and now the pride of Middlesex University. She had taken several years off to raise Julian, and in her spare time she worked on her book,
Dark Visionary: A Literary Biography of George Orwell,
which was on its way to becoming an academic and commercial success, a rare accomplishment.
Dark Visionary: A Literary Biography of George Orwell,
which was on its way to becoming an academic and commercial success, a rare accomplishment.
Vanessa thanked Rachel and introduced them to her agent and editor. Before they moved on, Rachel mentioned how they had met Julian at Bloomfield and how impressed they were.
Vanessa nodded. “Are you still thinking of … your own son?” she asked in a low voice.
“Yes, very much,” Martin said.
Vanessa looked at Rachel for a response.
“I still have a lot of questions.”
Vanessa pulled her aside. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she whispered. “We have to talk.” The intensity on her face was almost startling.
“Sure,” Rachel said. “Is there a problem?”
Then somebody pulled Vanessa away to meet another guest. “I’ll call,” she said, leaving Rachel wondering at the urgency.
After nearly an hour of cocktails, a representative from the club announced that the program was to begin. There were ten scholarship recipients—nonmember caddies from area high schools—each of whom would receive a four-year fifteen-thousand-dollar scholarship to the college of their choice. The announcer read off their names and called them to the podium for an envelope and a framed plaque—nine boys and one girl who would be matriculating in the fall, most of them at A-list institutions.
Rachel watched the recipients receive their accolades, smile for the cameras, and return to the hugs and kisses of proud parents. As she scanned the crowd, her eyes landed on Sheila who was studying Rachel from across the room. Sheila smiled and held her gaze, nodding knowingly. If she could have read Rachel’s mind, she would have registered cross-currents of emotions—
yes, pained awareness that Dylan would never receive such a plaque and envy that she would never feel the elation of their parents.
yes, pained awareness that Dylan would never receive such a plaque and envy that she would never feel the elation of their parents.
Until two weeks ago she would have accepted such a fate.
So what? Scholarship isn’t the measure of us.
So what? Scholarship isn’t the measure of us.
But that had all changed now. And it wasn’t just the TNT story and the ragged guilt. It was Lucius Malenko. She wished she had never heard of him and his damned enhancement. She wished she had never said anything to Sheila, because all that had done was corrupt her evaluation of her own child and others. She could not go about her daily chores without thinking of people in terms of their IQs—from bank tellers to people stocking shelves at the supermarket. Who was to say that they weren’t happy, productive individuals? Who was to say that a fancy college degree and a fancy job were all there was to living a successful life? And it left her feeling ashamed of herself.
Worse, her exposure to all the little geniuses threatened her appreciation of Dylan. Now when he rummaged for a word or came up with the wrong expression, she felt an irritating impatience, hearing a snippy little voice inside saying:
Lucinda or Julian wouldn’t do that.
It was awful. She was beginning to resent her own child.
Lucinda or Julian wouldn’t do that.
It was awful. She was beginning to resent her own child.
From across the room Sheila flashed her a thumbs-up sign.
“He can be fixed.”
(You bought this. Damaged goods. It’s yours to return.)
Rachel broke the contact and glanced at Martin. But he was grinning and returning Sheila the hand sign.
When the applause died, the host turned to the second part of the program. He made some brief congratulatory remarks about Professor Watts, the segue being a celebration of new scholars to a professional who was a model for the younger generation to emulate. He then introduced Vanessa’s editor who commented briefly on how impressed he was with the manuscript and how he knew instantly that it was an important work which would be appreciated by an audience beyond academia.
The host returned to the microphone. Before introducing Vanessa, he announced a special surprise congratulation. When the lights dimmed, the huge TV monitor was turned on. To instant applause, the screen lit up with the face of the governor of the commonwealth, who congratulated Vanessa on a fine book. Following the applause, the picture shifted to the department
chairman and the president of Middlesex who also added their congratulations and best wishes. Then a group shot of her colleagues in the department all saying “Congratulations” in unison and waving and blowing kisses.
chairman and the president of Middlesex who also added their congratulations and best wishes. Then a group shot of her colleagues in the department all saying “Congratulations” in unison and waving and blowing kisses.
Across the room Rachel could see Vanessa beaming and thanking people.
A scrambled void filled the monitor with snow as if the tape had been roughly edited. The screen went black for a moment, and somebody said “Is that it?” when the monitor again lit up, this time on the face of a serious-looking man about forty with a VanDyke beard. Nobody seemed to recognize him. And Rachel glanced at Vanessa who looked frozen in place.
“My name is Joshua Blake, and I was a graduate student of Vanessa Watts fifteen years ago at Middlesex University. At the time I was pursuing my doctorate in English, and Professor Watts was my advisor. My thesis, which was completed in 1988 and published in monograph form two years later, was entitled
In Defense of the Defensible: An Intertextual Study of the Dystopian Politics of George Orwell.
In Defense of the Defensible: An Intertextual Study of the Dystopian Politics of George Orwell.
“Some weeks ago, a reviewer for
The Modern Novel Quarterly
sent me an advance copy of Professor Watts’s book to inform me that she had plagiarized my dissertation.”
The Modern Novel Quarterly
sent me an advance copy of Professor Watts’s book to inform me that she had plagiarized my dissertation.”
A murmur rose up from the crowd. Rachel looked over to Vanessa who appeared stunned.
“At first I was incredulous, since I remember Professor Watts as a brilliant and honorable scholar. Yet, after reviewing her book, I can only conclude with shock and great disappointment that she had engaged herself in massive and deliberate theft of my research, my conclusions, and my words. In fact, there are pages of identical or parallel passages, including whole paragraphs lifted word for word.”
Across the room, Vanessa slumped into herself. Amazingly she did not protest but stood glaring at the screen in strange resignation. A stunned hush fell on the crowd, which stood transfixed at the split screen with pages from Blake’s dissertation juxtaposed with those from Vanessa Watts’s book.
“Aside from a few feeble attempts at rewording, large passages are nearly identical, as you can see,” Blake continued. “I don’t know what your motives were, Professor Watts. Perhaps you had just assumed that because I was a lowly grad student you could help yourself to my material while I disappeared into the world and my dissertation molded away in the basement of Middlesex Library. What amazes and saddens me even more is that nowhere in your book
am I acknowledged—not a single word of attribution. It pains me, but I accuse you of gross theft of intellectual property, and a violation of trust.”
am I acknowledged—not a single word of attribution. It pains me, but I accuse you of gross theft of intellectual property, and a violation of trust.”
Vanessa put her hand over her eyes, while her husband tried to comfort her. Meanwhile, the tape continued. “I have informed my attorneys to file suit against—”
“Turn the goddamn thing off,” Brad Watts shouted. “Turn it off!”
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