Fools

by Pat Cadigan

  He was sitting on the edge of Rowan’s cot with his face in his hands; I could see he was trembling a little. Who was he now—Sovay/Moon, or the man who had bought Sovay/Moon? Only one way to find out for certain, and since I had probable cause to believe he was a receiver of sucked goods, I could legally search his mind without a warrant.

  Getting him to hold still for that, however, was another matter. I was beginning to wish I’d taken the stinger after all. On the other hand, if Sovay/Moon was still dominant, I might be able to talk him into cooperating and keeping his mouth shut afterward.

  Sensing something, he lowered his hands and saw me squatting at the entrance to the cubicle. He didn’t look a thing like Sovay’s description of the character—long horse face, uneven lank brown hair, too much nose and mouth. He could have passed for my brother, the way I looked now. My brother or my father. That gave me an idea.

  He started to get up and I said, “No, it’s me—your daughter.”

  Several expressions swept down his long face as he plumped down on the cot again and shoved himself away from me, packing himself into a corner of the cubicle.

  “Don’t you see, Father,” I said, crawling toward him. “It must go on. We can’t let it die with you, because—” I floundered for a moment. Christ, but I wished I had a lot more background than what he’d told me. “—because I’ll be carrying it on, and from me, it will go to my own child, and so on until we come to the … the final shore and we’ll all be there to see it together—”

  “Final peak.”

  I froze. “Uh … what?”

  “Till we come to the final peak and see the world as we made it spread out before us.’ Improv doesn’t mean you can change the analogy.” Watching my face, he untensed about a millimeter.

  “Oh.” I slid up onto the cot and sat facing him.

  “Well, go on,” he said. ‘Talk me into it.”

  ‘Talk you into it?”

  He looked briefly at the ceiling. “You’re supposed to persuade me to let you archive my personal memories as the symbol of the torch passing. Reach for it, pull out all the stops, you can clean up the scenery chewing later for performance. Don’t be afraid of the Method. Make me see that my memories are as important to you as they are to me, show me I can’t be selfish enough to let a dynasty die with me.”

  I started to flash again and Marya stirred more actively than she had back on the street with Fly Eyes. It would figure, her being a memory junkie. She submerged easily enough after a moment, but as my perspective cleared, I saw that Sovay/Moon was looking a little bleary. I had to talk him into remaining dominant before he realized I wasn’t an actress and this wasn’t a rehearsal booth. And before the real identity of this hypehead asserted itself.

  “You gave me life,” I said desperately, remembering what Flaxie had said about all the neurotics in theatre. “Let me do the same for you, let me preserve yours and all the lives you preserve.”

  “Not bad.” He relaxed a little more and favored me with an approving nod. “Keep going.”

  “Um … flesh of my flesh and thought of my thoughts?”

  Now he looked stern. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  “We shouldn’t argue, Father,” I said, getting impatient. “It’s right and you know it’s right. We chose to maintain ourselves in living minds, not a machine. It’s my turn, Father, it’s my birthright. If you deny it to me, you might as well kill me, too.”

  “Brava.” He gave me a raised fist salute and lay down on the cot. “From here, we can just mime the actions in detail—you have had mime training, haven’t–—”

  But that was all I needed. I leaped on him and sat on his chest, pressing one hand down on his throat.

  “What—wait a--”

  ‘The Method,” I said, grabbing the connections with my other hand. “All the way. You just told me not to be afraid of the Method.”

  He sighed. “All right. But let’s do it quick—”

  I popped his left eye out and sent the connection in, hoping the disinfect cycle on the hardware was functional. He went completely limp under me, which made removing the right eye easier. Climbing off him, I set the system for a full cycle and did some deep breathing while I watched him lying on the cot with the wires running out from under his flattened eyelids. This system wouldn’t have a lot of the automatic blocks and shields dividing two minds in contact; I was going to have to draw on my own resources for those.

  I pulled the other cot closer and lay down, clutching the other set of connections. He was going to be late meeting Rowan and Hercules; if I could work fast enough, we’d be disconnected by the time they thought to come back and see what was keeping him.

  It was too bad, I thought as I worked my eyes out one at a time, that I couldn’t have had Flaxie with me. I wasn’t as steady as I’d been back at the station.

  It was a real bare-bones system, no compartmentalization, no waiting space—you were either in contact or not. Sovay/Moon manifested immediately, facing me across the mental environment of a theatrical stage. It didn’t have perfect definition—the floor was flimsy and the prop furniture was transparent and runny, but there was a hard white spotlight on Sovay/Moon, illuminating him without a bit of vagueness. He looked exactly as he had when I’d seen his body, minus the orange color, with long black hair. The jade eyes were glowing holes in his face.

  Don’t look at the audience, he said. It’s unprofessional to break proscenium.

  Apparently he was referring to the cavernous dark area gaping on my left. I didn’t look but I got the undeniable feeling someone was out there watching—it had to be the guy who had bought from the suckers.

  Now, let’s try the improv again, Sovay/Moon said, and this time, really work on convincing me. And remember the feeling when we return to the script.

  Sovay. I moved toward him. I’m the person you cal

  Dammitall! He shook both fists at the ceiling, which was as shadowy and vague as the audience area. How do you expect me to rehearse with you when you keep breaking character? He lowered his arms and took a deep breath, composing himself. You don’t know the lines you’re supposed to be paraphrasing, do you?

  Um … no.

  A script materialized in his left hand. He beckoned to me. All right, then, come refresh your memory so we can go on with the scene.

  Instantly, I was standing in the spotlight with him. He turned me so that my back was to the audience and opened the script, pointing to the top of a page. From here, he ordered. Memorize this.

  At the top of the page it said:

  DENNY MOON

  I must remain in character in order to remain dominant. We can communicate this way for only a short time. Explain who you are, answer in here if you can. If you can’t, get out immediately.

  I concentrated; words melted into existence in the blank space below.

  MERSINE MOON

  I’m the officer you called earlier. How were you able to break character and call?

  Sovay glanced at me and then looked back at the script.

  DENNY MOON

  I wasn’t quite so settled in at the time. He’s getting more of a hold on me but so far life managed to convince him I’m not done rehearsing. He’s not very smart.

  MERSINE MOON

  How do you know Rowan and the stripper?

  Sovay blew out a disgusted breath.

  DENNY MOON

  [Blows out disgusted breath] Rowan’s my wife, of course. The stripper found me—or him, rather. The stripper’s another customer. He bought one of my characters. I called the Brain Police, but he called Rowan.

  MERSINE MOON

  Which character is he?

  DENNY MOON

  Dionysius, from The Zeus Revue. It’s a character that allows for more of the actor’s personality as a performer. He—I rehearsed that one a lot with Rowan.

  MERSINE MOON

  Why were you hooked in with Rowan and the stripper? Where are you supposed to meet them, and why? What’s
going on, is she involved with the suckers?

  The stage gave a long shudder. I could sense pressure building up somewhere behind me. Take a last look! Sovay/Moon said. If you don’t have it by now, you never will!

  DENNY MOON

  Rowan is collec

  The stage rumbled under us. He snapped the script shut and tossed it away. It vanished before it hit the floor. Time’s up, he said, glancing significantly over his Shoulder. Next time you audition, be more familiar with your material. Endit!

  Like that, we were out of contact. I had the sensation of movement somewhere nearby and I disconnected, rushing to pop my eyes back in. All I had to do was arrest him and get him back to the station where they’d pull the whole story out of him.

  I had the right eye in when I saw them, Rowan and the stripper on either side of him, helping him up from the cot. The stripper turned to me as I jammed my left eye into the socket, but the connection missed on the first try. Sovay/Moon pointed at me and the stripper disappeared into my blind side. I managed to make the connection in time to see Hercules coming at me with his hand raised. Metal flashed in his palm.

  The first thing I think is, oh, no, I put my eyes in upside-down. Then I can feel how I’m lying with my head hanging off the edge of whatever this is and I think, oh, shit, I had a seizure.

  And then I remember Coney Loe and Monkey Shock, and I think, oh, great, I found the place, I must have got something. And there’s that smell of fried hair and I know for sure I’ve been Monkey Shocked and the goddam lowlifes didn’t even let me take my combs out. I’m lucky I didn’t get my fucking head burned off.

  Moving slow, I roll over and there I am hanging on the edge of a cheap cot in what I know is a crib. My eyes aren’t right, feels like they’re looking in slightly different directions, and I got the kind of headache they call a head-quake, and I don’t remember anything. And I hit the floor.

  I climb up on the cot again and lie there trying to make my eyes go right. They sort of resettle while a little something comes back to me; I can remember coming to the crib, and I remember some people in a three-way—something about mouthkissing, which my stomach is just not in favor of me thinking about at the moment—but after that, the screen’s dark.

  They must have told me how to find Monkey Shock, those three kinkos, and I must have gone there. Electroshock amnesia’ll get you every time. Nice bunch, Monkey Shock, dumping me back at the crib. Unless Monkey Shock was in here somewhere—Nah. I know this crib. It’s hanging on to its license by its teeth, wouldn’t touch a chop shop. Most cribs won’t, they’re too likely to be raided.

  I try sitting up and I feel a little better. At least my head doesn’t drop off and roll away. But how long, I wonder, am I going to have to put up with electroshock amnesia? I mean, what’s the good of getting a memory if you can’t remember it? Shit, I’m going to have to start living right, I tell myself, and then I feel it, stirring around somewhere in some vague area of my mind.

  I can’t believe this. They sucked a Brain Policer and palmed some of her off on me. Out-fucking-rageous I couldn’t have gone there for that—

  Sovay, right. Now I remember. I wanted a piece of Sovay and instead I get some nobody from the goddam cops, of all the shitty things. How in hell—

  Coney Loe. The mindfucking hypehead got to them before I did. That’s got to be it. Coney Loe got to Monkey Shock and they decided to have a little fun with me, they put the goddam mark of the snitch on me.

  I stand up and find out that’s not the best idea I’ve had. Leaning on the system, I wait for the world to stop rocking back and forth, and something else pops into my mind, a memory of Hercules coming at me with what seems to be a joybuzzer. Hercules? Right, a stripper. But the image doesn’t jive with what I remember about finding him and the other two in the crib together.

  It’s one of her memories, the cop’s. Got to be. So Hercules must be in on it and he got the cop for them.

  If there’s anything I know for sure right now, it’s that I do not want any part of this cop. All I need is to get rounded up again and have the Brain Police find her. Instant hard time, they won’t care how she got there. Another thing I know is, nobody’s going to dump her for me, nobody’s going to touch me. If I want to get rid of her, I’m going to have to find Monkey Shock again and make a deal.

  Right. This time they will bum my head off.

  Unless I can get Coney Loe to stand up for me.

  Shit, I think, it just gets worse. Coney Loe’ll hold me down while they burn my head off. Unless I’ve got something I can hold him down with …

  Thinking is like trying to sprint through corn syrup. The cop doesn’t seem to know anything about Coney, she’s no help. I get vague pictures of her on a stage with somebody, like she’s an actor, too, which makes no damned sense.

  On the other hand, Coney Loe won’t know she doesn’t know anything about him. Things start coming together for me. I can run a ramadoola about how she got his name and planted a timebomb—as soon as the electroshock amnesia wears off, I’ll be compelled to turn myself in and spill everything, so either he gets his friends to suck her out of me or we all go together when we go.

  (Karma-gram, says a small voice in my mind and the goose walks over my grave.)

  Only … would they just go ahead and suck me dry?

  Okay. I modify my story for Coney. I got a friend waiting for me—I’ll say it’s a rooster-boy. If I don’t show up intact, I’ll say, rooster-boy makes the call. After all, rooster-boys got nothing to fear from the Brain Police, just the vice squad.

  Good for me. Maybe getting Monkey Shocked blew out a lot of old junk and actually made me smarter. I make a move to walk and discover I’m not ready for that.

  The memory of hitting the floor was as vivid as the real thing. I was going to have a bruise on my face, but it could only help. When you’re scared, the best thing you can do is look scary yourself. With a bruise, I might be able to stop a clock just by frowning at it.

  I knew right away I wasn’t conscious, which was to say, Marya wasn’t conscious, though how long I’d/we’d be out was impossible to figure. The zap I’d taken with the joybuzzer had gotten us both, jamming Marya in dominant; I’d come up only when I/she blacked out or went to sleep. At least I wasn’t panicking about it. The panic button was sound asleep with Marya.

  I wasn’t so much thinking as I was dreaming lucidly; dreaming is usually what you’re doing when a part of your mind Is active while you’re unconscious, and lucid dreaming gives you an edge, but this State had a few important differences. For one thing, I was more of a dream myself.

  It wasn’t a state I was unfamiliar with. The last time it had happened, I’d been in worse trouble than this … which gave me the best idea I’d had all day. If I could get Marya into a controlled situation, some kind of mindplaying. I’d be able to regain dominance, maybe even kick her out.

  The problem was, Marya thought she was real now. Of course, she’d always taken that for granted, but the difference was, she was aware of me as something she thought she’d ingested. I couldn’t just plant the truth. Most likely she wouldn’t believe it anyway, but if she did, there was no predicting what she might do and whatever it was, I wouldn’t be dominant so I wouldn’t be able to stop her. Worse, I wouldn’t even be aware of it.

  Abruptly, my eyes opened and there was some uncountable mental time in which Marya and I were up front simultaneously, seeing in doubled vision. Her puzzlement began to give way to panic; she couldn’t place the mental state she was in and it frightened her. Then we both lost ground and I was sliding back into darkness, forcing an intense craving for a memory, hoping it would leave a residue strong enough to make her follow up.

  By the time I get to the street, I feel awake enough to function, but my memories are all screwed around again. I know I was going to do something before I went out, but the blow to my head’s fogged me in. For once, I’m thinking about how if I had a wad to spare, I’d get a turbo-job, where they fix
up the organization of your brain so you can think better. Except that’s always been too close to real brain surgery for my taste and you have to get a couple of doctors to approve it anyway. Hypeheads don’t go to doctors on free will. Besides, this is just electroshock amnesia and that’ll pass. Already I’m remembering better—I got my rooster-boy waiting for me to show up intact for when I lean on Coney Loe to steer me back to Monkey Shock so I can get rid of this cop they dumped on me, The problem is, I can’t remember exactly where I left him, over at The Zoot Mill or back in the crib or someplace else entirely, but he’s waiting. It’ll come to me when I need it, I’m pretty sure on this.

  Something I know for sure is, I want to get away from the crib and this is another thing I’m taking up with these Monkey Shock suckers. Dumping me back in a crib like I belonged there with all that head-trash. Hypeheads and head-trash ain’t the same and I feel like making someone real sorry about mixing the two.

  But even more, for some reason, I feel like getting a memory for no other why-not than why not. And even I know this is not the right thing to do at the moment, jones or no jones. First I pay a call on Coney-Simulated-God-Loe, then I lose this cop. After that, I can pick up a memory. Can’t be any Sovay left at this point but I think I’ve had enough of Monkey Shock anyway.

  Sojourn For Truth is closed. There’s just this cranked-off neurosis peddler out front and as soon as he sees me, he’s flinching, like I’m about to swing on him.

  “What is it, bank holiday or something?” I ask him, not that I really expect him to know.

  He shuffles back two steps and something shiny dribbles down his chin. A star. Yuck. “Why?”

  And all of a sudden, I get this funny feeling I know him, or at least I think I’ve seen him before. Frigging electroshock amnesia. For all I know, I walked past my own mother on the way here and I’m damned if I can remember her, either.