The Second Ship Page 8

  Her mother’s concerned voice preceded a knocking on the bathroom door. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”

  “Fine, Mom. I’m just fine.” That was what she intended to say, but the words never made it to her lips, as another bout of violent nausea overwhelmed her. The room swam before her: the toilet, the sink, the shower curtain, the tile floor, the ceiling, and then her mother’s terrified face looking down at her. And swimming next to it all, an endless stream of numbers and equations.

  Then, as her mother cradled her head in her lap, yelling for Gil, Heather’s world went black.

  “Give me that back, you wascally wabbit.”

  The sounds that greeted her return to consciousness could not have been more reassuring. Surely Elmer Fudd could not have made it to heaven or hell, so perhaps she was still alive.

  The bed didn’t feel right. When she tried to move, she found a needle imbedded in her left forearm, secured by white tape. Without opening her eyes, she knew that the needle was attached to the end of a long rubber IV tube, into which fluid dripped from a bag dangling from a mobile steel rack.

  Moving her right hand across her body, she confirmed that her assumption was correct. She took a deep breath through her nose. Hospital smell.

  Heather kept her eyes firmly closed, unwilling to face the possibility that upon opening them she would see, not only the physical things that occupied the room, but also the accompanying equations. The thought of going through her life with that dual view terrified her. Better to be blind than that. Better to be dead.

  Savant. The thought came unbidden into her brain. Three months ago the whole family watched a PBS special on a British man, a high-functioning autistic savant. He had the uncanny ability to answer all sorts of mathematical questions without doing any calculations, at least not in any way most people thought of calculations.

  While his abilities were incredible, they left him so distracted and impaired that he had great difficulty performing the day-to-day tasks that give normality to life. Heather did not want to live like that.

  From the way someone had stuffed her mouth with cotton and pasted her lips together, she guessed it had been a good while since any liquid had made it over those lips. With effort, she managed to work up enough saliva to wet them with her tongue. God, she was thirsty.

  Screwing up her courage, Heather slowly opened her eyes. At first she thought that the equations and numbers were gone. Then, as she thought about it, they materialized, a set of three-dimensional symbols that swam through her brain, near whatever object she focused on. Heather squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying to calm her hammering heart.

  Afraid that the rising panic would overwhelm her, Heather fought it with a tide of anger. Why was she just giving up without a fight? Several years ago, her parents had encouraged her to take the Myers-Briggs personality type test, and the results had been most enlightening. She was a rare bird, an INTP personality, a type that loved theory, problem solving, and scientific work. INTPs were normally risk takers, blissfully uncaring of what others thought of their chances for success.

  Whatever the reason for her fear, she wasn’t going to allow herself to curl up into a fetal ball and surrender. It was a problem. Problems had solutions. Simple as that.

  Clearly this was connected to her breakthrough on the ship. It could be that her initial connection had activated the neural pathways that made such thinking possible and that on her last trip she had merely discovered the trick to turn it on. If so, then it should be possible to turn it off.

  She opened her eyes, holding her dread firmly in check and setting her mind to experimentation. As she looked at the bedside lamp, she could clearly visualize the equation describing its three-dimensional shape. She changed her focus, thinking about the lamp’s volume, and the symbols in her head morphed to create the equation for volume. Even that small change left her feeling empowered.

  Once more, she changed her thoughts—this time to surface area—and again the equations changed. In her mind, she imagined the lamp rotating, and a set of rotation matrices cascaded through her brain.

  Encouraged, she again focused upon the lamp. She let herself relax and unquestioningly accepted its physical existence and appearance. The symbols faded. Then, as she was about to congratulate herself, they reappeared.

  The effect was very similar to subvocalization, she thought. Like when a person looks at a chair and thinks the sound “chair.” Or when a person reads the symbols c-h-a-i-r, but sees a picture of a chair and hears the sound of the word “chair” in her mind. Heather could look at something and know the equation for it in much the same way.

  Apparently, quieting her inquisitive mind was going to take some effort and a good bit of practice. But she had managed to do so, even if it had been for just a short time, which relieved her immensely.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of her mom and dad.

  “Heather. Oh, thank God you’re awake. Your father and I have been worried sick.” Her mother moved to sit on the side of her bed, wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

  “Good to see you back in the land of the living,” her father said, his own eyes glistening with moisture.

  “How long have I been here?” Heather asked, her raspy voice reminding her of how thirsty she was. “Dad, could you get me some water?”

  Her dad was out the door before she finished asking.

  “You’ve been unconscious for three days,” said her mother. “We rushed you here when you passed out. The IV is to rehydrate you. So far they still have no idea what made you sick. At first we thought it was food poisoning, but the tests ruled that out. The doctors' best guess is some sort of allergic reaction, but it’s just a guess.”

  At that moment, her father reappeared with two tiny, cone-shaped water cups in his hands.

  He shrugged, causing some of the cold water to spill on Heather’s hand as she reached for a cup. “Sorry. It was the best I could do on short notice. I did ask the nurse to get you a tall glass of water, though. She was quite upset that she didn’t already have a jug in here.”

  Heather downed both cupfuls of water, equations coming and going as she lost and regained her concentration. Smiling, she crushed the small cones of paper in one hand and handed them back to her father. “Thanks, Dad. That was so good.”

  “You’re welcome. Glad to see you looking so much better—awake, for one thing. Mark and Jennifer stopped by several times, along with Fred and Linda. They wanted to stay, but we sent them home saying we’d send word once your condition changed.”

  At that moment the doctor walked in. Heather’s mother moved aside as he leaned across the bed. Pulling a small penlight from his pocket, the doctor promptly began doing his best to blind Heather by holding her eyelids open and shining the bright light in first one eye and then the other.

  “Good morning, young lady. I’m Dr. Johanson,” he said, pulling out his stethoscope. “You gave us quite a scare.”

  Heather gasped as Dr. Johanson applied the stethoscope to her chest. Did he store it in the freezer between uses?

  “Nice, deep breath. Now, give me another. Okay, again. Very good.” The doctor grinned and straightened up, revealing a handsome face complete with blue eyes and a shock of unruly blond hair. He looked not a day older than twenty-five, though Heather figured he had to be at least in his thirties.

  If she had to have a doctor, Heather thought, it could be worse.

  Doctor Johanson pulled the clipboard from the end of her bed and scribbled something down.

  “I was going to schedule a CAT scan and an electroencephalogram today, but it looks like that’s no longer necessary. I’ll have the nurse swing by and get your vitals, and we’ll keep you around for another night. Barring something unusual, you’ll be home tomorrow.”

  Heather pushed herself up into a seated position as her mom stacked pillows behind her. “Can’t I get out of here tonight? That gives you all day to watch me.”

  Dr.
Johanson smiled. “I don’t think one extra night here will hurt you. I like playing things safe.”

  Her mother patted her hand. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll stay with you until they kick me out.”

  “And I’ll pass word to the Smythes,” her father said. “After school, I’m sure Mark and Jennifer will camp out here.”

  After a meal of the hospital's finest cuisine, something vaguely resembling a veal cutlet, Heather slept again.

  The remainder of the day passed slowly. In those rare moments when her mother was not beside the bed chatting with her, Heather practiced controlling her visualizations. She found relaxing her mind to be a very tiring activity. Apparently, in its natural state, her mind was full of mathematical questions, which were now being automatically answered. She would have to work to make the natural tendency stop.

  Luckily, by the time Mark and Jennifer swept into the room to deliver big hugs, Heather felt in better control. The vertigo effect was gone. Unfortunately, with parents and doctors constantly walking in and out of the room, any discussion of the starship was out of the question.

  At last, as the twins turned to depart, Mark called over his shoulder, “We’ll see you at school tomorrow, right?”

  “I’m planning on it,” Heather replied.

  “Well, plan again,” her mother said. “You’re staying home for a couple of days. At least until I am satisfied you are fully recovered.”

  “Mom!”

  “That’s final.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jennifer said. “We’ll stop in every chance we get.”

  “Thanks.”

  With a wave, the twins disappeared out the door.

  As Heather’s parents prepared to leave for the night, the gorgeous Dr. Johanson stopped by and removed her IV. Then, after her mom and dad had kissed her good-bye, for the first time in a long while, Heather fell into a comfortable, deep, dreamless sleep.

  16

  The school day started inauspiciously enough. The morning was bright and clear, and Heather had arisen at her regular time to await the sunrise. Numerous friends and acquaintances stopped her in the hall to ask about how she was feeling and to tell her how happy they were to see her again. Even the teachers went out of their way to tell her they were glad to see her back—except for Ms. Gorsky, whom Heather doubted knew the concept of happiness.

  Heather’s ability to maintain a relaxed state of mind that eliminated the mathematic equations from her head was improving in fits and starts. She had almost messed up and blurted out “1,123” when her dad spilled salt on the breakfast table while trying to fill the shaker. She had just known that there were 1,123 individual grains and another 465 that had spilled off onto the floor. It was weird, but as easy as people could glance at a group of oranges and think “3,” she could glance at a pile of salt and think “1,123.”

  When she had started rubbing her temples, her mother had asked if she had a headache and suggested that perhaps she should stay home another day or two. Heather managed to mollify her mother with a quick grin and an explanation that she was just dreading having to tell everyone at school that she had passed out for no apparent reason.

  During lunch break, Heather and the twins made their way outside to the football field to sit in the bleachers, so they could be alone. By the time Heather finished explaining the developments on the ship and its ongoing impact on her life, Jennifer was wide-eyed.

  Mark just grinned. “Cool. You hear that, Doc? We have our own Rain Girl. Maybe we could set her up at a casino blackjack table. I’ve been wanting a new set of skis.”

  Jennifer glared at her brother. “Is that all you can say? Can’t you see this is causing Heather problems? God! Are you even related to me?”

  Heather laughed. “It’s okay, Jen. Anyway, I could never pass for twenty-one, even in Vegas.” A serious look settled back over her face. “Are either of you having any issues with thinking?”

  Mark shook his head. “Nope. Same as ever, except the memory thing.”

  “Don’t let him kid you,” said Jennifer. “His reflexes, balance, and coordination have improved drastically. And based on his recent grades in Spanish class, his foreign language aptitude is off the charts.”

  “And you?” Heather asked.

  “I really haven’t noticed much.”

  Mark snorted. “Right. ‘Data’ here has scanned every book in the school library into her memory. But then her memory was getting cluttered, so she came up with a Dewey Decimal scheme to mentally organize the books.”

  Heather’s mouth dropped open.

  “But here’s the kicker. She even rescanned every book she’d already memorized. I swear, I laughed my ass off watching her do it too. She just sat there, eyes closed, for hours. You’d have thought she was Gandhi.”

  Jennifer’s face turned beet red. “Mark! That’s not fair. I have to be able to find the information when I need it.”

  Heather nodded. “Jen, don’t let him get your goat. I think your solution is brilliant.”

  Jennifer turned back toward Heather, excitement shining in her eyes. “I figured something else out too. Even though we have these perfect memories, we can’t understand data we have no background for. We still have to learn the material in order to utilize it. We just learn things way faster than normal. But it’s more than that.

  “What happened to you these last few days just confirms what I was already thinking,” she continued. “The ship affects us differently depending upon our natural strengths. That’s why Mark’s physical and language skills are surging. It’s why you’re the math goddess and I’m a data machine.

  “There’s one other thing,” Jennifer said. “We can’t afford to show off our new skills.”

  “She wants us to throw tests,” Mark explained.

  “Not throw them. Just avoid acing them all. We need to keep our scores close to our traditional grade point averages.”

  “Which I don’t think is fair,” Mark said. “You two are straight-A students, but I get Bs and Cs.”

  Heather laughed. “Come on, let’s head back. Classes are starting. I like Jen’s plan. Just stay inconspicuous.”

  “That might be okay for you two, but I want to make some noise in high school,” Mark said.

  Before Jennifer could deliver a harsh retort, Mark headed off, leaving Heather and Jennifer staring after him.

  “It’s all right, Jen,” said Heather. “He'll be okay.”

  Jennifer shrugged. “I hope so. I really, really hope so.”

  17

  Inconspicuous.

  Mark Smythe moved down the hallway of Los Alamos High School with unnatural grace, slightly shifting his weight so that the stream of students flowed past without touching him, a feat that would have been regarded as phenomenal had anyone else been aware of it.

  He wasn’t stupid—he wouldn’t blow their cover—but he wasn’t about to hide his talents either. He didn’t have a problem with continuing to get imperfect grades, but at least one should jump to an A. The rest could remain Bs.

  Jennifer was not going to like the rest of what he had planned for the year. Not one little bit.

  Hopefully Heather would be cool with it, but if not, then the girls would just have to get over it together. Maybe he should have told Jennifer that he had already asked Dad for permission to go out for the basketball team, and Dad had enthusiastically signed the permission slip.

  “You know, at five-eleven, you’re going to have to work a lot harder than the bigger guys,” his dad had said. “Also, your schoolwork better not suffer. You sure you’re willing to make that commitment?”

  Mark grinned. Oh, he would practice all right, and keeping up with schoolwork wasn’t going to be a problem anymore.

  The gymnasium was empty when Mark walked in, something that wasn’t surprising since tryouts weren't going to start until next week.

  Mark grabbed a basketball from the rack against the wall and began dribbling it out onto the court, feeling the ball’s responsiven
ess to the movements of his hands. Like most of his friends, Mark had played sports since grade school. Basketball had been his favorite of the team sports. He had been good, but not the best. That was about to change.

  The ball felt different. Mark could feel every dimple in the ball’s skin, the lines where the sections joined, how the rotation changed as it struck the gym floor and returned to his hand.

  Left hand, right hand. Back and forth he worked the ball, adding different English to the spin, causing the ball to weave about crazily, but always bouncing to the spot he anticipated. Between his legs. Behind his back. Between his legs as he walked. Between his legs as he ran. He moved around the court—whirling, spinning—and always the ball bounced flawlessly from one hand to the other.

  Mark moved back to the free-throw line at one end of the court, bounced the ball twice, and then shot. The ball passed through the basket so smoothly that the strings at the bottom of the net made a gentle popping sound. Retrieving the basketball, Mark shot again and again. Ten in a row. Twenty. Fifty.

  He began moving around the court and launching jump shots. The first of these missed, although he immediately knew why. He had surprised himself with the height of his jump, his new muscle efficiency propelling him far higher than ever before.

  The next shot didn’t miss. Neither did the one after that. Left hand, right hand: it made absolutely no difference.

  He spun the ball up onto the middle finger of his left hand and then caught it and launched a shot, which landed the ball back in the rack right beside its fellows. He made his way out through the double gymnasium doors, giving one a flat-handed smack as he left. A broad smile spread across his face.

  Inconspicuous.

  18

  Heather had never studied so hard in her life. Considering she was ahead in all her schoolwork and had no tests coming up, her study load was nothing short of miraculous. But compared to the work Jennifer was doing, Heather felt like a slacker.

  Sometimes life drives you to do entirely new things, things you never believed you could do. Heather remembered when she first started skiing, midway through fifth grade. That was when she had met Bobby Jones. It had been forever since she had thought of him, but in fifth grade she thought Bobby Jones hung the moon.