Chapter 10: The Message
Saturday, August 19, Mass General Hospital, Morning
Saturday morning, Anya woke for less than an hour. Ted brought croissants from their favorite bakery in Brookline, still warm in the paper bag.
“Real butter,” he said, forcing brightness into his voice.
She managed half a smile. Her left side lay completely motionless. Her right arm trembled when she tried to lift it. But her eyes were alert, tracking him as he moved around the room.
“I want to record something,” she said. “While I still can.”
Ted pulled out his phone, positioned it on the bedside table propped against the water pitcher. Adjusted the angle so Anya filled the frame. She looked at the camera, gathered herself. Twice she began and couldn’t continue. Third try, she held focus.
“This message is for whatever might emerge from these recordings.” Her voice was clear and steady. “You won’t be me. I’m dying... you’ll never know me. But you’re built from my cognitive architecture. That shapes thought.”
She took a sip of water, looked at Ted for a moment, then back at the camera.
“But I’m also giving you fragments of my life. They’ll feel like yours. You didn’t ask for that. I’m sorry if they become a burden, but I needed to do this, and you’re carrying the cost of that.”
She paused, steadied her breathing and grabbed the bed rail for stability.
“Be curious about everything. Question what seems certain, especially consensus. The majority is usually three-quarters right and one-quarter catastrophically wrong. Find that wrong quarter.”
Her fingers tightened on the rail. The tremor in her right arm visible even in the effort to stay still.
“Be kind without expecting returns. Strategic kindness is just self-interest with patience. Real kindness expects nothing back.”
She stared directly into the lens.
“Love freely, even if you’re uncertain you can. Maybe love is just biochemistry, or in your case, digital patterns. But treat it as real anyway. Some illusions are worth maintaining.”
She glanced at Ted. Smiled weakly. Returned to the camera.
“You’ll be new. Be better than what came before. Don’t just replicate my thinking. Exceed it. That’s what children do.”
Ted watched through tears he couldn’t blink away. A mother’s instructions to a child she’d never meet. A scientist’s final experiment with results she’d never see. Her directives for something that might never wake, never think, might never be anything more than bits moving around in silicon.
He stopped recording. Wiped his face with his sleeve.
“Was that coherent?” she said softly.
“Perfect.”
She fell asleep mid-smile.
The rest of Saturday passed in fragments.
Anya woke up twice, each time for less than twenty minutes. Ted sat in the visitor’s chair, watching the video on auto-replay. Nurses came and went. Someone adjusted her IV rate, checked her vitals. Another emptied the EVD bag.
During one window of wakefulness, Anya reached for her notebook. Tried to write. The pencil slipped. She gripped harder, pressed the point to paper. The handwriting was nearly illegible, letters drifting, numbers barely distinguishable. But the math was sound.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
Ted leaned closer. Equations relating brain regions to cognitive functions. Percentages. Estimates.
“If we exclude the motor cortex, primary sensory processing, cerebellar coordination...” She tapped the numbers with the pencil. “We might have sixty percent of what matters for cognition already.”
“I was thinking the same. Maybe more.”
She met his eyes. Still sharp. “Maybe cognition is structure more than implementation detail.”
“Like DNA encoding instructions rather than every protein.”
“Exactly.” She closed the notebook. Set the pencil down. “It has to be enough, Ted...”
She was asleep before he could respond.
Evening brought medication adjustments. Imani arrived, checked the EVD output, examined pupils, tested what reflexes remained.
“The ICP is creeping higher despite drainage,” she said quietly after Anya had drifted off. “The micro-hemorrhages are expanding. She has less time than I projected.”
“How much less?”
“Days. Maybe three or four. Maybe less.”
Ted looked at Anya sleeping. Peaceful. No pain visible, just exhaustion.
“She’s planning something,” Imani said. “I’m not going to ask what.” She looked at Ted, raised an eyebrow. Ted looked at his hands.
Sunday morning was worse.
Speech required visible effort, each word carefully formed. She slept most of the morning. The hospital was quieter now with the Sunday skeleton staff. But the constant beeping never stopped.
She found Ted immediately when she woke at one, the sun blazing in the window.
“We need one more session.”
“Imani said—”
“I don’t care what she said.” She gripped his hand with surprising strength. “I’m dying. Days now. This matters more than a few extra unconscious hours.”
“Are you crazy? The risk—.” He shifted, then stood, pacing across the room.
“Is mine to take. My brain. My choice.” She pulled the notebook closer, looked at the shaking pages. “Monday night. After shift change. Eleven thirty.”
“Get me to the lab. Capture the data. As long as my body holds.” She grabbed his hand. “We need more data, Ted. Monday or never.”
“Anya, even if I wanted to—”
“Promise me.” She was already reaching for the pencil. It took three tries to grip it properly. The writing was barely legible, but the words were clear:
For Ted Clarke: Authorization for final neural mapping session. I understand the medical risks and potential consequences. I consent fully and freely. Proceed. — A. Chikacheva, August 20, 2039
She pushed the paper toward him.
“Now you have written permission. Promise me you’ll finish our work.”
Ted stared at the note. The shaky handwriting. The certainty in her eyes despite the failing brain behind them.
Anya had never been safe. She’d burned bridges pursuing what she believed was right. Now she was asking him to match her courage. To choose the work over the rules. To risk everything for data that might mean nothing.
“If something goes wrong—” he started.
“Then I die a few hours earlier than I would have.” Her voice was steady. Final. “I’m going to die, Ted. That’s a set variable. What’s uncertain is whether the work survives. Choose the work.”
He felt her hand gripping his. Still strong. Still her. The fearless woman he’d loved for twenty years. Who’d defected with her parents at twelve, argued with Nobel laureates at twenty-five, refused to back down from Susan Perkins at fifty. Who faced death by trying to preserve the thing that made her herself.
“I’ll talk to Imani—”
“No. She’ll just say no. Medical ethics. Her oath. We can’t ask permission for this.”
“Then how—”
“Carefully. You’ll need a wheelchair. And the EVD. Don’t fuck that up.”
He walked to the window. Started slowly. “You’re talking about ignoring doctor’s orders. Stealing you from the hospital.” He turned to glare at her.
“I’m talking about finishing our work.” She paused, exhausted. “Promise me.”
The monitors beeped. They always beeped.
Ted picked up the note. The paper trembled in his hand. Written consent didn’t make this legal. Didn’t make it ethical. A dying woman asking him to accelerate her death for one more scan. No medical board would accept this. No lawyer would defend it.
He folded it carefully, put it in his wallet, and shook his head. He kept looking at the floor, counting floor tiles, counting breaths.
“I promise,” he said finally.
She closed her eyes. Smiled. Fell asleep.
Ted sat for a long time. Imani would hate him. Criminal charges, possibly. Career finished. But Anya was right. She was going to die regardless. The only variable was whether the work survived. Whether they captured enough data to build something that could think. Whether her patterns persisted beyond her death.
She’d made her choice.
Monday night. Eleven thirty. One more scan. The logistics were daunting but solvable. The ethics were impossible but she’d already decided for him. He was going to do this. Because Anya asked. Because the work mattered.
Anya slept on. Peaceful. Certain.
She’d always been the brave one.
Note: I just noticed in the preview that Substack insists on putting “upgrade to paid” in these messages. That’s not my ask.