A hundred and twelve political prisoners later, Malenko had perfected surgical methodologies and had experimented with unilateral and bilateral implantation, using different harvest sites, different implants, different proportions, different postoperative drug therapies, and so forth. With each operation he learned something new about transplantation and the brain’s capacity to respond.
But the hope that tissue grafted from high-IQ brains into duller ones to produce smarter people was dashed. No enhanced cognitive powers were detected in the recipients. Thirty-three subjects had died, most of the rest had been rendered brain-damaged. After four years the project was terminated.
The magnitude of that sacrifice had bothered the young Malenko early on. Here he was a physician attempting to bestow benefits on human life, not eliminate them. But the reality was that each of the prisoners had been scheduled for execution; so, in effect, they were making heroic self-sacrifices for the state. And after his fifth or sixth transplant, he was too absorbed in his quest to be bothered by higher moral issues. His concern was enhancement not ethics.
Within the last two years of his tenure in the Ukraine, and while the Communist system was beginning its death rattle, Lucius Malenko made his ultimate breakthrough—and one which would carry him to this day.
The reasoning was exquisite in its simplicity. As had been empirically evident, the transplantation of embryonic tissue had failed to establish specific nerve pathways because they were too new to take cues from the existing host brain to produce cells and connections in those areas associated with intelligence. Likewise, mature brain matter was too old to reseed target sites. That left the inevitable option.
“This one’s a goddamn little tiger.” Phillip turned his head to show the scratches on his cheek and neck.
“Occupational hazard,” Malenko said. “How’s she adjusting?”
Across the hall, Oliver pulled up the blinds on the one-way glass to another dormer. “As good as can be expected.”
Her name was Lilly Bellingham, and she was sitting on the bed staring at a piped-in video of Roger Rabbit. She was wearing Farmer John bib blue jeans over a yellow T-shirt, and her long yellow hair was held back in a ponytail. Because of the sedatives, she was docile. On the table beside her sat a tray of macaroni and cheese, salad, milk, and chocolate cake—all untouched.
As Malenko watched her, he thought how at seven Lilly was still at the optimum age. In spite of popular claims, the turbo production of brain-nerve cells did not decrease after the third year of life, creating a permanently hardwired organ. On the contrary, the gene that stimulates axonal growth—that increases communication throughout the brain—is active up to age eleven. After that, the ability to make gross anatomical changes diminishes—which is why a prepubescent child can still learn a foreign language without an accent while his parents can’t, though they might learn fancier vocabulary. Because children of higher intelligence possess brains of greater neuroplasticity, they have a greater capacity to learn, better memory storage, and better access to those memories.
At this very moment, behind those big green eyes, little Lilly Bellingham’s cortex was busily wiring itself for increased neurotropic functions, making of itself a faster, smarter CPU while her hippocampus, like the hard drive of that computer, was organizing that memory for easy access—and all the while taking in the foolish antics of Roger Rabbit.
“She’s not eaten,” Malenko said.
Phillip shook his head and showed him the clipboard schedule of meds, feedings, and her vital signs. Malenko studied the charts then slipped the board into the tray by the window. “If she doesn’t by this evening, we’ll have to go with the drip.”
Phillip nodded. “She wants her daddy. When he shows, she’ll eat.”
She had been picked up last week at a swimming hole in upstate New York. Phillip and Oliver had done well. They had snatched her from a beach using as decoy one of the other children from the camp, effectively fooling the mother long enough to make the switch.
Were she to grow to maturity, Lilly would be brilliant. But she was dirtpoor. And in spite of good Samaritans and all those financial-aid programs, chances were that dear sweet Lilly would end up filled with drugs and booze and living on welfare, festering at the bottom of the social compost heap, raising trailer-park brutes. What good was genius when tethered to the bed, the bassinet, and the kitchen stove?
Besides, she was also worth a million dollars.
Malenko took the clipboard. Lilly Bellingham. Age seven. From Henley, New York. Forty-eight inches tall. Forty-three pounds. And she had an IQ of 168.
And tomorrow, little Amber Bernardi.
Malenko bid a silent night-night to little Lilly and moved down the corridor to the window at the end.
Travis Valentine. He was asleep on his bed, a book on butterflies lay open beside him. The TV monitor flickered mindlessly.
According to the tests and functional scans, he had very high language proficiency—ninety—ninth percentile, in fact. Left-brain incandescence. He would probably grow up to be a first-rate writer or lawyer.
And if the parents decided not to keep him a dim bulb, so might young Dylan Whitman.
43
Because he was now on night shift, Greg didn’t get to bed until around seven A.M. So he was in a deep sleep when the phone rang at nine-thirty that Wednesday morning.
A female identifying herself as Patty Carney from the medical examiner’s office in Boston said she had read his bulletin from last Thursday. Greg was still too furry with sleep to register the name. The forensic pathologist.
“We had a homicide victim two days ago. You probably read about it. A kid from Hawthorne, killed by his mother who then killed herself?”
“Yeah, sure.” The story was all over the media.
“Well, we did an autopsy on the kid, and when we removed his brain we found that he had the same skull perforation clusters as in your bulletin. Thirteen along the left side of his head from the frontal cortex above the eyebrow to over the ear. But there’s a difference from the others. He had eight other holes on the right side of his head, too. And they were clearly done in a medical neurological procedure, probably when he was very young, from the healing signs. But I can’t tell you what for.”
“What’s his name?”
“Julian Watts. The obit’s in today’s paper. The funeral’s tomorrow.” She gave him some of the details. “I sent you a scan of the photo taken from the inside of his skullcap. I don’t know what they’re from, but I thought you’d be interested.”
Greg was suddenly very awake, and his heart was pounding. He thanked the woman, saying that he would get right to his computer for the scan.
“Oh, yeah. One more thing,” Patty said before hanging up. “His brain was over one point six kilograms.”
“Is that significant?”
“Well, the normal fourteen-year-old male’s brain weighs one point four kilos. His brain was nearly half a pound heavier.”
“How do you explain that?”
“I can’t.”
44
Brendan sat by himself at the rear of the Hawthorne Unitarian Church trying not to lose his mind.
He recognized several people from the Dells and the surrounding towns, getting lost in naming each of them and their family members, addresses, the kinds of cars they drove, golfing handicaps, and other biographical junk. That was the danger of large crowds, and the reasons why he hated function nights at the club. To stem the data tide, he tried boxing himself into a single distraction, such as the organ music—except he found himself visualizing the score until the inside of his skull was a running video of endless musical staves and prancing notes. If he took any more medication, he’d go to sleep. What he needed was something in the moment to focus on and cut out all the noise.