Neuropath Read Online Free PDF Page B

their agenda.'
    A derisive glance. 'And what about Moscow?'
    'That has precious little to—'
    'You know,' Neil interrupted, 'it's hard not to feel sorry for them, sometimes, even when you know for a fact that they've had a hand in dozens of deaths. Our heads are just filled with so much crap. The older ones, in particular, think they're Captain Kirk or something. Our evil mind-scanning technology is no match for the human spirit . I even had one old theo-terrorist tell me that his soul was his citadel, and that God guarded the gate.'
    He paused for a moment, as though pensive with regret. His face was drawn.
    'What did you say?' Thomas asked lamely. He still couldn't believe he was having this conversation.
    'That I could give a rat's ass about his spirit. That it was his brain I was interested in. That his will was simply one more neural mechanism, and that once it was offline, he would quite happily tell me everything our field operatives needed to know. And I was right. We had moved far beyond sensory deprivation interrogations by that time. Using all the imaging data on the brain's executive functions—you know, Roach's famous experiments on the differences between weak-willed and strong-willed individuals—we simply isolated the offending circuits and shut them off. It was as easy as flicking a switch.' His laugh was more a breath-filled snort. 'Who would have guessed, huh?'
    'Guessed what?'
    'That all that evil mind-scanner stuff would be so laughably far from the truth. Why design a machine to read thoughts when all you have to do is shut down a few circuits and have your subject read them out for you?'
    Dumbstruck, Thomas stared at him. Neil, his best friend, was saying that he was one of the bad guys.
    Wasn't he?
    'I…' Thomas began in a thin voice. 'I don't know what to say… let alone think.'
    'Fucked up, huh?'
    Thomas studied the shot-glass before him, the ring of hard light across the rim. 'It's not so simple.'
    'But it is, Goodbook. Desires arise from the deepest of the brain's mechanisms. It's like plastic surgery. There's what? Five high-production channels entirely devoted to plastic surgery on the web now? Evolution has hardwired us to assess the fitness of prospective mates in terms of visual appearances. Once our tools and techniques allow us to manipulate skin and bone, desire does the rest. The old taboos are gradually rinsed away, and before you know it, the cosmetic surgery industry is producing a quarter of the country's bio-waste, and makeovers require bone-saws instead of dainty little pencils and brushes. Where once we used to paint ourselves to conform to desire, now we recarve ourselves. Same with designer babies. Or gene-doping in sports. You name it. Neuromanipulation. Neurocosmetic surgery. Are you telling me you don't think it's inevitable?'
    Thomas glared at him, breathing evenly. 'No. I'm telling you I don't think it's right.'
    Neil shrugged. 'If you mean that most people would disapprove , then you're correct.' He had looked away while saying this. Now his eyes flashed dark and menacing. 'But why should I give a fuck?'
    Thomas belted down another shot, not because he wanted it, but because it seemed safer than replying. It was funny how easily a lifetime of learning could be forgotten, how all the layers of sophistication could be stripped away, leaving a wounded boy, a hurt and mystified friend.
    'Have you an arm like God?' Neil suddenly asked, obviously quoting something. He laughed.
    'I don't understand.'
    'It's his program,' Neil had said. 'So why not just enjoy the ride?'

    Booze was never a good thing when having conversations like this. The content came through loud and clear; it was the emotional significance that was filtered. Booze had a way of making sharp things fuzzy and fuzzy things sharp.
    'Why tell me this now?' Thomas asked.
    'Because,' Neil said, reapplying his mischievous smile, 'I've quit.'
    'But…' Thomas paused. Suddenly it dawned on him that Neil was doing far