Deep Space Station S-8
“You called it, Lieutenant. This man’s brain has been tampered with . . . in a manner consistent with the application of a neural neutralizer.”
Doctor M’Benga scanned Tilton in a private exam room in the station’s overcrowded infirmary. His bedside manner was somewhat brisker than McCoy’s, perhaps as a result of having interned on Vulcan some years ago; a specialist in xenomedicine, he spent much of his time aboard the Enterprise engaged in research rather than treating patients, while filling in for McCoy when necessary. At Sulu’s request, M’Benga had installed Tilton out of sight of the other patients, no easy task, considering the shortage of available beds; the last thing the station needed was for word of the manager’s condition to spread wildly before Sulu had a chance to confirm it. An opaque energy screen blocked light and sound from escaping the exam chamber, while Knox and Johann were posted outside the doorway to ensure that Sulu and M’Benga were uninterrupted. Tilton was stretched out on a diagnostic biobed, staring vacantly at the ceiling, as M’Benga continued to probe beneath the man’s skull via a handheld medical scanner. Restraints held the stricken manager in place.
“Refresh my memory, Doctor,” Sulu asked. “How exactly does a neural neutralizer work, again? I’ve witnessed its effects firsthand, but I’m a helmsman, not a psychiatrist.”
“I need to review the relevant literature myself,” M’Benga said, “but basically the device employs a specialized beam that, as the name suggests, effectively neutralizes the subject’s brainwaves, shutting down their thoughts and leaving them in a highly suggestible state. Depending on the duration and intensity of the treatment, the operator can erase or rewrite the subject’s memories, alter their emotions, even implant powerful posthypnotic suggestions.”
M’Benga put the scanner down on a counter after transferring its readings to the infirmary’s main computer. His gaze remained fixed on the diagnostic panel mounted above Tilton’s bed, monitoring the patient’s life signs.
“Apparently the late Doctor Adams developed the device in hopes of ‘curing’ the criminally insane by editing their memories, but the potential for abuse was always there—and quickly corrupted his experiments.”
Sulu nodded, remembering. Adams had ultimately employed the neutralizer on both his patients and his fellow healers, at the expense of their free will.
“Which is why Captain Kirk ordered the neutralizer destroyed,” Sulu recalled, “and Doctor Adams’s research locked up tight.”
“The right call, to be sure,” M’Benga said. “Alas, as history proves too well, once a new technology has been developed, it’s all but impossible to put the genie back in the bottle. Backup copies of Adams’s discoveries, some of them stored off Tantalus V, escaped into the wild and were traded by unscrupulous individuals who were quick to recognize its illicit potential.” He shook his head ruefully. “Despite the Federation’s best efforts to contain the technology, an illegal trade in neural neutralizers has sprung up in some of the more unsavory parts of the galaxy. They’re scarce and, mercifully, very hard to obtain, but they can sometimes be had on the black market . . . as proven by the condition of Mister Tilton.”
Sulu repressed a shudder as he contemplated the benumbed man on the biobed. Now that he understood what he was seeing, Sulu found the violation done to Tilton profoundly disturbing for reasons that hit far too close to home. At least twice in recent years, Sulu had been similarly brainwashed, robbed of his free will first by Landru on Beta III, then by those extragalactic “witches” on Pyris VII. He knew what it was like to be turned into somebody else’s robotic pawn. Tilton deserved his pity, not blame for what he’d been forced to do.
“Somebody did this to him,” Sulu said angrily, determined to track down whoever was responsible. Tilton may have been the saboteur, but the true criminal still eluded them. He looked at M’Benga. “Can I question him further?”
“You can try,” the doctor said, “but I should monitor him while you do so.”
“Understood.” Sulu approached the biobed. “Tilton? Listen to me. Do you understand what’s happening, what was done to you?”
“I have nothing to say,” Tilton murmured, not making eye contact. “Nothing . . .”
“Just tell me who did this to you. Give me a name.”
Tilton shook his head. “I . . . I can’t say . . .”
“Look at me.” Sulu took the man by the shoulders, earning him a cautionary look from M’Benga. “This station—your station—is under attack. Tell me who is responsible. Give me a name.”
The urgency in his voice drew Tilton’s gaze. He stared back at Sulu, who felt as though the man was truly seeing him, at least for the moment.
“I . . . it was . . .” Tilton struggled visibly to get the words out. An anguished expression twisted his face and his whole body tensed. Each word appeared to require a Herculean effort. “Want . . . to . . . tell . . . but . . .”
A groan cut him off in midsentence, much to Sulu’s frustration.
“Who was it, Tilton? All I need is a name!”
M’Benga eyed the life-signs monitor with concern. “His blood pressure and heart rate are rising, Lieutenant. Neurosynaptic activity is going critical.”
“Just a few more moments!” Sulu realized that M’Benga was bound to shut down the interrogation at any minute. “The name, Tilton! You can do it. Spit it out!”
Sweat drenched Tilton’s features, soaking through his clothing. His eyes bulged from their sockets. Sulu barely recognized the tired, soft-spoken manager he’d met when he’d first beamed aboard the station.
“It’s . . . it’s . . . I’m trying but . . .” Pain contorted his face. His body convulsed, struggling against his restraints. An agonized scream tore itself from his lungs, drowning out whatever revelations were trapped inside him. His head whipped back and forth. Warning lights flashed upon the diagnostic monitor as his life signs spiked dangerously.
“That’s enough.” M’Benga squeezed past Sulu to administer a sedative to Tilton. A hypospray hissed, and the manager’s face and limbs went slack. “I’m sorry, Sulu, but the man was in obvious physical distress. I couldn’t allow that to go on any longer.”
“Understood.” Sulu stepped away from the bed. He couldn’t blame M’Benga for intervening, given his Hippocratic oath, but it was still frustrating. “He was so close to revealing the truth.”
“But at what cost?” M’Benga watched Tilton’s life signs ease back into the safety zone as he checked the man’s pulse the old-fashioned way as well. “You want my instant diagnosis, Tilton’s been conditioned to hide the identity of whoever brainwashed him. To even try to answer your questions caused him enormous pain.”
Sulu had no reason to doubt the doctor’s appraisal. He recalled hearing that the neutral neutralizer could have that effect while the Enterprise was cleaning up Doctor Adams’s mess.
“Any way to get around that?”
“Short of a Vulcan mind-meld?” M’Benga didn’t look hopeful. “Honestly, I don’t know. We might eventually be able to pry the answers out of him, despite the conditioning, but who knows what toll that would take on his mind and body? We can’t risk putting him through that, not in good conscience.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Sulu said with a sigh.