Cara MIA - By Book One of the Immortyl Revolution - By Denise Verrico Page 0,27
to think your dream centers are stimulated. Push the right buttons in the brain and you can get all kinds of weird responses. The question is, what component in the blood carries this message to the brain, and so rapidly?”
She mulled over this idea. Someone had taught her a little science. Her vocabulary revealed that. “How can it help us, or you, for that matter?”
“Anything that helps us to understand the function of your brain is important. Clearly if you’re decapitated, you die. Obviously the brain is vital to your survival. It’s perhaps the source of your immortality. Other parts of your body can be injured and heal rapidly but not the brain from what you’ve said. Why not? This is something we need to find out. Also how does the brain control your behavior? The brain is like a computer, hardwired to perform specific tasks in a specific manner, some believe from birth, but other evidence points to crucial windows of development open to stimulation in the first years of life to form the neurons vital to normal human behavior and intelligence. However we’ve also observed individuals suffering severe injuries being able to regain functions that should have been lost because other areas of the brain have taken over the work, indicating that maybe the hard wiring isn’t so hard and fast. The question for you seems to be where has the wiring been switched and where has it stayed the same.”
A tantalizing smile appeared on her moist lips. “You make me sound like a machine, not a creature of flesh and blood.”
He looked at her, all too flesh and blood for his comfort. “It’s just a way of looking at things. We’ve been accused of reducing the soul to a circuit board.”
One feathery dark brow inched up. “What do you believe, Joe?”
He was taken aback. Just what did he believe? Was there a soul beyond the firing of the neurons? He couldn’t believe in anything he couldn’t explain, going through the motions of religion not to offend his family, but he didn’t really believe in God or an immortal soul. Still, what made an individual unique and human? That was certainly some kind of a soul. “I’m not really sure,” he admitted.
“Only way to find out. Beats sex a hundred to one. Tempted to be my partner in joy?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Let’s make it a standing invitation.” A secretive little smile twitched the corners of her mouth. “Shall I continue?”
Joe nodded and resumed his seat.
“The intensity grew to be too much, we pulled apart, gasping with pleasure as we collapsed panting on the bed, our bodies wet with perspiration, barely touching but very aware of the other next to it. Then Ethan pulled over me and slid into my… ”
Joe spoke up, “We can skip the next part.”
“Jesus! Well, just let me say this, my darling doctor, no mortal male can compare, for sheer endurance or intensity, and Ethan was unbelievably skilled on top of that. There’s no human equivalent.”
“Then why bother with mortals?”
“Blood is everything with mortals.” She leaned forward, provocatively. “Unless of course we see our own qualities inherent in them… Well, the honeymoon was off to an arousing start. Honeymoons, however, have this habit of ending much too soon.”
Joe interrupted her again, “How old was he exactly?”
“As a mortal, he fought as a cavalry officer with Stuart and then became a confederate spy. Quite a history but I didn’t learn much about it until later. At this point, it only served to romanticize him.
When we left my apartment that night, I left mortal existence behind forever. We went to the top of the Empire State Building to view the city. It was like a dream, overlooking it all from afar. I no longer felt kinship to mortals around us. A veil shimmered between us, through which I saw and heard in the abstract, like in a different dimension, one of light and air. They were plodding earthbound creatures— voices babble and faces featureless. Only Ethan was real.
All that night, we walked and talked together, along the waterfronts and through the parks, full of each other. Then as the sky began to lighten, we went to Ethan’s brownstone on the Upper East Side.
Hated the place. Dark, grim, thoroughly Dickensian. All massive dark mahogany and stiff horsehair in muddy colors, overly embellished. As Ethan closed heavy oak shutters and velvet drapes, the realization I’d never walk in the sun again came over me. Rushing to