In fact, the earliest clear image to take shape within her visual cortex-the first one consisting of more than simple geometric forms-rippled and finally resolved into a wavering headline from the top-ranked MediaCorp virpaper, The Guardian. It showed a grainy, wavering, animated image that had to be a zeppelin, wounded, with a gaping, burned area smoldering along its top. A battered ship, but still proud and eager for the sky. Below, one could make out specks that were evidently passengers, spilling down escape slides and dispersing to safety.
Well, the picture’s not as historically dramatic as the Hindenburg documentary. Still, it’s quite a sight.
There was something else, next to that brief animation. Without eyes to physically turn, it took some effort for Tor to divert her cone of attention toward what lay to the right… and another few seconds of concentration before it clarified and meaning sank in. Then, abruptly, she recognized a picture of her own face.
Or, what used to be my face. I’ll never see it in a mirror again. Nor will anybody else. Strangely, none of that seemed important, right now. Not compared to something much simpler.
The picture’s caption swam into focus, and then stayed there, clear as day.
HERO WHO SAVED HUNDREDS.
A sense of joy filled Tor, briefly.
I can read!
Not all patients who regained vision in this way recovered their full suite of abilities. It was one thing to stimulate an array of pixel dots to form images. It was quite another to connect them to meaning. That required countless faculties and crucial subskills, resident in widely dispersed parts of the brain. Weaving together all that vast complexity, artificially, was still far beyond the reach of science. For that, you required an essentially intact brain.
Hence, her feeling of almost overwhelming relief. She had both recognized a face and deciphered a string of letters, first try! Tor laboriously tapped out the news, sharing this milestone.
Even if I get nothing else back, I’ll be able to read books. And I will probably be able to write, too.
I’m not dead. I can contribute.
I’m still worth something.
Then it was back to work. Tor even began to enjoy the process a bit, plumbing intricacies of her own nervous system, helping to guide an inside-out self-examination, unlike anything her ancestors could have imagined, picking at the bits and pieces of a mechanism that nearly everybody took for granted-the most complex machine ever known.
To her surprise, it also meant reliving memories that flared suddenly, as the ignition spark from one probe briefly relit a particular bright autumn day, when she was six years old, sneaking up behind her brother with a water balloon dripping in both hands, only to have her footsteps betrayed by the crackling of dying kudzu leaves-a moment that came rushing back in such rich detail that it felt intensely real. Certainly more real than this muffled, drug-benumbed existence. For a minute or two, it almost seemed as if that little girl was the real Tor-or Dorothy Povlovich. Perhaps all she had to do was concentrate on just the right happy thought in order to wake fully into that moment, and leave this nightmare…
… another probe kicked in. Attempting to find one of Tor’s muscle-control centers, it instead set off a sad emotion from adolescence, unassociated with any facts, or events, or images, but glowering like a cloud, still fresh, for a minute or so of passionately miserable regret-before the probe moved on and found its proper target site.
Later, there erupted from some memory cache the sudden recollection of a treasured keepsake that she had lost, long ago, its forgotten location now suddenly rediscovered. I could tell Mom. She could find the keychain. Forgive that I misplaced it. Only… she wouldn’t care at all. Not with her daughter in a place like this.
It made Tor realize-if this kept up, perhaps she might have visitors. Not to her ravaged body, which could not see or speak, but in here, to the mind that lingered on. It should be possible, via virspace, to make a pleasant room, an animated version of herself that could talk, or seem to, driven by her coded thoughts. She still had family, a brother, some friends. And Wesley might even come-though why should he? Tor found it implausible, given how shallow he had been, before that ill-fated zep voyage.
Probably not. Still, she rehearsed some things that she might say-to ease his embarrassment, or to make it easier… or angry words to express her disappointment, if he never came.
Mostly, she thought about such things to help pass time, as the process of establishing the shunt went on and on. It was all so transfixing and boring, so mesmerizing and painful, she almost failed to understand, when the doctors asked for her full attention.
The quality of sound had improved.
Tor, we think your subvocal pathways should work now. Could you try to speak?
She wondered, in the passive stillness.
Speak? What are they talking about? With a mouth that’s wired shut, a lipless, skeletal grimace… how am I supposed to do that?
Of course, subvocal inputs had been standard nearly all her life. You pretend to be about to say something. Sensors on the jaw and throat track nerve impulses, turning them into words via the virtual realm, without requiring any labor by the physical larynx, nor by the tongue to fashion phonemes. Most users emitted only faint grunts, and Tor never even did that. But always, there used to be the physical sensations of a real tongue, a real voice box that would almost start to make real sounds.
Now, without feedback from those organs, she must imagine, envision, and pretend well enough to cause the same nerves to-
A strange, blatting sensation startled Tor. It seemed to reverberate inside her skull, down auditory pathways that she used to associate with ears. Recovering from surprise, she tried again-and was rewarded with another “sound,” this one seeming guttural and low in tone. They’re taking my efforts and routing them back to me… so I can “hear” my own voice production attempts. So I can start the process of correcting.
After a few more tries, she managed to remember, or else re-create, how to send signals. Commands that used to form the simplest sounds. The crudity felt embarrassing, and she almost stopped. But sheer obstinacy prevailed. I can do this!
Bit by bit, the sounds improved.
Eventually, she managed to craft a message-
“H-h-hi… d-docsss…”
Naturally, they were lavish with praise and positive reinforcement. Indeed, it felt satisfying to be helpful, to make progress. To be an essential member of a team, once again. All of that-and the prospect of no more Morse tooth-tappings-helped to mollify Tor’s sense of being patronized, patted on the head, with no choice in whatever came next.
Soon, I’ll be able to assert myself. Declare my autonomy. Get judged competent to make decisions. And maybe-if I wish-stop all this.
It was a biting thought-one that seemed ornery and ungrateful, amid such notable medical progress. But, still, the thought was hers. Tor had very little else that she could call her own, other than thoughts.
Anyway, the notion did not take root for long. Because Tor soon was thoroughly distracted by the very next thing that they tried…
… when they linked her to the Cloud.