most were aware of what to expect—barring any unforeseen circumstances, of course. In fact, her generation was so comfortable with the concept of revival that immediate interaction had become more the norm than the exception.
But for this revive Neela had done her homework. Since she hadn’t expected Hektor to waltz in and almost waltz away with her patient, she had begun her research immediately. So when she did get the call from Mosh, she was ready. She’d sorted through her old college notes, as well as the university archives, looking for the information she’d need, paramount of which was Ettinger’s seminal work developed over three centuries earlier to deal with patients for whom revival was a shock. After reading and reviewing hundreds of pages, one theme seemed to emerge: Patients had to reintegrate at their own pace. Too much proaction on the part of the revivalist risked setting into motion all manner of psychotic trauma—too little and the patient might have permanent abandonment trauma. The mind reborn was as vulnerable and helpless as that of a newborn child. And until it had a chance to acclimate to its new reality, great care would have to be taken. On this, all the founding experts had agreed, and so, too, did the experts of her day. But until this find, now her find, it had all been theoretical.
So she waited and read her “book,” whose exterior was quite authentic, down to the creaking sound a bound volume would make. It was the interior that was different—a cleverly concealed, encased holodisplay. Neela’s support team in the wings was also simultaneously viewing on their linked displays the various readouts emitting from the book. The players included the room specialists who were not privy to the actual goings-on, a standby resuscitation team, and, of course, Mosh and his associated staff. Of all the players only Mosh, Dr. Wang, Neela, and Hektor knew the subject’s recent history. The information on the display gave the patient’s vitals, eye movements, and, to some extent, thoughts. Neela could tell by the brain scan what emotions the patient was feeling and to what extent they were being felt. The display also contained her vitals. For any number of reasons, her stats were just as important as his. This reawakening would be a delicate dance between two strangers from two worlds, and any major fluctuations in either of them could lead to a disaster.
Though Justin’s feelings were now running amok, he was making a conscious effort to suppress them. Every fiber in his body yearned to grab the woman he saw, give her a great big hug, and scream with joy at the top of his lungs. He had a million questions, but by virtue of personal experience and business savvy, he had learned that self-answered questions always added leverage. And he didn’t yet know what type of leverage he was going to need.
Time for answers.
Justin again scanned the room, but this time more methodically. He was looking for anything that would give him an inkling about the type of world he’d willed himself into.
The readings Neela was getting were positive. Very positive. The patient’s endorphin response was through the roof, as expected. All areas of the brain associated with contentment were hot, and his heartbeat was rapid, also as expected. This was indeed a happy man. She noticed, too, that her joy levels were up as well—not an uncommon reaction. After all, the best revivalists were naturally sympathetic, and to some extent even empathetic, having been suspended themselves as part of their training.
Then something strange happened.
What the…? Neela kept her face and reactions perfectly normal, but her brain was working overtime trying to figure out the anomaly.
The patient’s readings had leveled out almost as if someone had turned off her display. Too fast, she thought. Her eyes glanced subtly to the through-view wall, wondering if her staff was experiencing the malfunction as well.
For a
But for this revive Neela had done her homework. Since she hadn’t expected Hektor to waltz in and almost waltz away with her patient, she had begun her research immediately. So when she did get the call from Mosh, she was ready. She’d sorted through her old college notes, as well as the university archives, looking for the information she’d need, paramount of which was Ettinger’s seminal work developed over three centuries earlier to deal with patients for whom revival was a shock. After reading and reviewing hundreds of pages, one theme seemed to emerge: Patients had to reintegrate at their own pace. Too much proaction on the part of the revivalist risked setting into motion all manner of psychotic trauma—too little and the patient might have permanent abandonment trauma. The mind reborn was as vulnerable and helpless as that of a newborn child. And until it had a chance to acclimate to its new reality, great care would have to be taken. On this, all the founding experts had agreed, and so, too, did the experts of her day. But until this find, now her find, it had all been theoretical.
So she waited and read her “book,” whose exterior was quite authentic, down to the creaking sound a bound volume would make. It was the interior that was different—a cleverly concealed, encased holodisplay. Neela’s support team in the wings was also simultaneously viewing on their linked displays the various readouts emitting from the book. The players included the room specialists who were not privy to the actual goings-on, a standby resuscitation team, and, of course, Mosh and his associated staff. Of all the players only Mosh, Dr. Wang, Neela, and Hektor knew the subject’s recent history. The information on the display gave the patient’s vitals, eye movements, and, to some extent, thoughts. Neela could tell by the brain scan what emotions the patient was feeling and to what extent they were being felt. The display also contained her vitals. For any number of reasons, her stats were just as important as his. This reawakening would be a delicate dance between two strangers from two worlds, and any major fluctuations in either of them could lead to a disaster.
Though Justin’s feelings were now running amok, he was making a conscious effort to suppress them. Every fiber in his body yearned to grab the woman he saw, give her a great big hug, and scream with joy at the top of his lungs. He had a million questions, but by virtue of personal experience and business savvy, he had learned that self-answered questions always added leverage. And he didn’t yet know what type of leverage he was going to need.
Time for answers.
Justin again scanned the room, but this time more methodically. He was looking for anything that would give him an inkling about the type of world he’d willed himself into.
The readings Neela was getting were positive. Very positive. The patient’s endorphin response was through the roof, as expected. All areas of the brain associated with contentment were hot, and his heartbeat was rapid, also as expected. This was indeed a happy man. She noticed, too, that her joy levels were up as well—not an uncommon reaction. After all, the best revivalists were naturally sympathetic, and to some extent even empathetic, having been suspended themselves as part of their training.
Then something strange happened.
What the…? Neela kept her face and reactions perfectly normal, but her brain was working overtime trying to figure out the anomaly.
The patient’s readings had leveled out almost as if someone had turned off her display. Too fast, she thought. Her eyes glanced subtly to the through-view wall, wondering if her staff was experiencing the malfunction as well.
For a
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