“That’s it?” Mattson said, and glanced over the body in the crèche. “He doesn’t look any different. He still looks like he’s in a coma.”
“They haven’t woken him up yet,” Robbins said. “They want to know how you want to do it. Normally with Special Forces soldiers they wake them up with their BrainPals switched to conscious integration. It gives the soldier a temporary sense of self until he can create one of his own. But since there may already be a consciousness in there, they didn’t want to turn that on. It might confuse the person in there.”
Mattson snorted; he found the idea amusing. “Wake him up without switching on the BrainPal,” he said. “If that’s Boutin in there, I don’t want him confused. I want him talking.”
“Yes, sir,” Robbins said.
“If this thing worked, he’ll know who he is as soon as he’s conscious, right?” Mattson said.
Robbins glanced over to Wilson, who could hear the conversation; Wilson give a half shrug, half nod. “We think so,” Robbins said.
“Good,” Mattson said. “Then I want to be the first thing he sees.” He walked over to the crèche and placed himself in front of the unconscious body. “Tell them to wake up the son of a bitch,” he said. Robbins nodded to one of the techs, who jabbed a finger at the control board she had been working from.
The body jolted, precisely the way people do in the twilight between wakefulness and sleep, when they suddenly feel like they are falling. Its eyelids fluttered and twitched, and flew open. Eyes darted momentarily, seemingly confused, and then fixed on Mattson, who leaned in and grinned.
“Hello, Boutin,” Mattson said. “Bet you’re surprised to see me.”
The body strained to move its head closer to Mattson, as if to say something. Mattson leaned in obligingly.
The body screamed.
General Szilard found Mattson in the head down the hall from the decanting lab, relieving himself.
“How’s the ear?” Szilard asked.
“What kind of goddamned question is that, Szi?” Mattson said, still facing the wall. “You get a screaming earful from a babbling idiot and tell me how it feels.”
“He’s not a babbling idiot,” Szilard said. “You woke up a newborn Special Forces soldier with his BrainPal switched off. He didn’t have any sense of himself. He did what any newborn would do. What did you expect?”
“I expected Charles fucking Boutin,” Mattson said, and shook. “That’s why we bred that little fucker in the crèche, if you’ll recall.”
“You knew it might not work,” Szilard said. “I told you. Your people told you.”
“Thanks for the recap, Szi,” Mattson said. He zipped and moved over to the sink. “This little adventure has just been one big goddamn waste of time.”
“He still might be useful,” Szilard said. “Maybe the consciousness needs time to settle.”
“Robbins and Wilson said his consciousness would be there as soon as he woke up,” Mattson said. He waved his hands under the faucet. “Goddamn automatic faucet,” he said, and finally covered the sensor completely with his hand. The water kicked on.
“This is the first time anyone’s done something like this,” Szilard said. “Maybe Robbins and Wilson were wrong.”
Mattson barked out a short laugh. “Those two were wrong, Szi, no maybes about it. Just not in the way you suggest. Besides, are your people going to babysit a full-grown, man-sized infant while you’re waiting for his ‘consciousness to settle’? I’d be guessing ‘no,’ and I’m sure as hell not going to do it. Wasted too much time on this as it is.” Mattson finished washing his hands and looked around for the towel dispenser.
Szilard pointed to the far wall. “Dispenser is out,” he said.
“Well, of course it is,” Mattson said. “Humanity can build soldiers from the DNA up but it can’t stock a head with fucking paper towels.” He shook his hands violently and then wiped the excess moisture on his pants.
“Leaving the issue of paper towels to the side,” Szilard said, “does this mean you’re relinquishing the soldier to me? If you are, I’m going to have his BrainPal turned on, and get him into a training platoon as soon as possible.”
“You in a rush?” Mattson said.
“He’s a fully developed Special Forces solider,” Szilard said. “While I wouldn’t say I am in a rush, you know as well as I do what the turnover rate for Special Forces is. We always need more. And let’s just say I have faith that this particular soldier may yet turn out to be useful.”
“Such optimism,” Mattson said.
Szilard smiled. “Do you know how Special Forces soldiers are named, General?” Szilard asked.
“You’re named after scientists and artists,” Mattson said.
“Scientists and philosophers,” Szilard said. “Last names, anyway. The first names are just random common names. I’m named after Leo Szilard. He was one of the scientists who helped to build the first atomic bomb, a fact that he would later come to regret.”