“I think that’s exactly what they’re doing.”
“Of course, you would,” Lipton answered, turning away from the cell door and a moving a few steps closer to Horton. “However, I caution you, never confuse instinct with intent.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, don’t confuse simple, natural instinct with conscious intent. And by that, I mean the type of intent that’s driven by complex emotions within established rules and protocols of societal norms.”
“That’s not how it looks to me, Doc.”
“Remember, most of our behavior is learned, which requires a social component and a specific desire to fit in and be accepted. It’s a dynamic that can only happen in a community setting.”
“Okay, I get that.”
“Now, aim that basis at what we’re witnessing and tell me, honestly, is there a specific desire of those Scabs to be accepted within their own social group, or is it purely instinctual? As in protecting one of their own?”
“Okay, I see your point.”
“It’s the same thing with a parrot, sitting on a perch in cage. Sure, some of them can mimic human speech, but it does not mean they are human. Far from it. It’s simply natural instinct, repeating the sounds they have heard over and over.”
“True,” Horton replied, keeping his eyes aimed at Helena and her kind. “But I still think emotions are involved, even it’s simply a primal thing.”
“Think what you want, but the data suggests otherwise.”
“Well, your data maybe.”
“Yes, my data. Taken from years of advanced learning and endless hours of empirical study.”
“Of Scab interactions?” Horton quipped.
“Mock me if you will, but a trained mind studies all the data points with a skeptical eye before germinating any theory. Without a proper foundation and a sufficiently large sample set, you cannot reach a conclusion. Not a reliable one, if that’s your goal.”
“Sure, if you say so, Doc. That’s for others to decide, not me.”
Lipton raised an eyebrow and firmed his voice. “Anytime a scientist narrows his focus and only studies a small portion of the available data, incorrect conclusions result. Usually widely inaccurate ones at that.”
“Okay, I get what you’re saying. It’s like flipping a coin five times and always getting heads.”
“Exactly. Those few coin flips are too small a sample set to then go on to assume that every time you flip a coin, it will result in heads.”
“Yes, faulty data.”
“It’s how conspiracies are born, even in the annals of science. More so when political bias and socio-economic factors play into some collective policy that results from the study, or lack thereof. We can learn from those mistakes. They’ve happened throughout history. Some of them just before The Event, and you know how that turned out.”
“Sure, that makes sense. You can’t fix stupid.”
“More so when there is an agenda behind it. Usually based on profit or control. Sometimes both.”
“Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. That used to drive me nuts on the news back in the day.”
“Fake news.”
“That, too.”
“Bottom line, Horton, if your goal is to reach a predetermined conclusion, long before you have enough reliable data, then your eyes will focus on the facts, and I use that term loosely, that will help support and achieve that predetermined goal.”
“Never thought of it that way.”
“I’ve seen it happen many times in my career. More so before The Event than now, but the observation still holds, regardless.”
“So what you’re saying is that if I want to believe Helena is more human than animal, then I will subconsciously focus on the aspects of her behavior that support that theory and ignore the rest.”
“Bingo.”
“Okay, I get that.”
“Good, because it also applies to those who are keeping us locked away, like some kind of murderous criminals.”
Horton took a second to consider what the Doc just said. “You think I want to believe that they will eventually trust us, so I’ll focus on that goal and ignore the rest.”
“Yes, even though the data suggests precisely the opposite.”
“Maybe I’m just a romantic,” Horton said, swinging his arms up in a flash of movement.
“Or a fool.”
“Again, your data, not mine, Doc.”
“Just consider what I’m saying. It might serve you well in the future.”
Horton laughed. “You know, Doc, some might call what you’re saying nothing more than paranoia. Ever consider that? That you have a predetermined assumption, as in they hate us and always will, so you think they will never trust us or let us out of here, no matter what we do. So you act accordingly, expecting that outcome and using it as justification to be a total dick, every second of every minute.”
“Sure, that’s always a possibility.”
“My mom used to say you attract more flies with honey than vinegar.”
“That’s assuming you want to attract flies in the first place. As in a predetermined goal.”
Horton didn’t respond. Lipton was never going to agree with him, no matter what he said.
Lipton continued, “Regardless, it still does not mean that Helena is human. Or her friends. Not unless you take into account all of the available data with an open mind and a firm desire to discover the truth.”
“Man, do you ever stop spinning, even when you might be wrong for a change?”
“Call it what you will, but you know I’m right. Those things over there are not human. Not in the traditional sense. And that means they are dangerous and can never be trusted.”
Horton waved a hand at Lipton. “I’m tired. Leave me alone. You give me a headache with all this crap.”
“Sure, just ignore the obvious, if it makes you feel better. But trust me, things are never what they appear to be. Eventually, you’ll come to learn that I’m right and you should have listened.”
CHAPTER 8
Nick Simms pulled the leash to the side, directing Sergeant Barkley to make a sharp corner as they continued their trek to Rod Zimmer’s office. This corridor marked the last hallway of their journey, with the destination just beyond the door at the far end.
“I guess we’ll never sneak up on anybody,” Simms said to the mutt, hearing the patter of its unkempt nails clicking across the cement floor.
Of course, his boots weren’t any better, the heavy rubber soles making a hollow thud, all of it amplified by the sheer walls of the cement tomb they called Nirvana.
Simms stopped walking and pulled back on the dog’s restraint after realizing that Barkley’s breathing had gotten more pronounced. The canine’s tongue hung out several inches, like a blanket. A dripping, wet blanket, flopping loose as if it were dead tissue connected somewhere inside his mouth.
He rubbed the dog’s fur along the side of his neck. “You okay, boy?”
Barkley brought his lips together and sucked in his tongue, making a smacking sound. He swung his head around and looked at Simms for a moment before returning his gaze to the path ahead. The instant his eyes were forward, his mouth opened and out came the tongue again, hanging low as the freight-train puffing resumed.