Lord Banshee- Fugitive

by Russell O Redman

  “I am going to change that in the new OS, to add a private option that you can configure to echo on request, or to forbid echo by the recipient, as well as to log or forbid logging by the system. You will need very high levels of permissions to forbid logging, but I see you all have those permissions.

  “I am also going to add a converse option that will reply to the same set of recipients with the same options, to make private conversations easier. I have no idea why the head-butting morons did not do that themselves. It would have been useful for their own work and was available in the some of the older interfaces.”

  To Luciana, Alexander, “Please stop arguing. Luciana, he made a point to me by provoking you. It was an important point, and he is going to fix the problem. Now please stop it, both of you.”

  Luciana gave me two bulbs for food and beverage, mentioning that it would be the first real food I had eaten in a while. I took a taste. “Hey, this is really good. It reminds me of maple syrup. Last time I had maple syrup was just before I left for Mars, when I visited...”

  Screaming. Loud screaming.

  Alexander, “What was that?! And why were you talking out loud?”

  When the screaming died away, I replied, “I call it the Censor. It triggers when I attempt to think a forbidden thought or speak a dangerous idea out loud. The ones who broke me had it trigger on any attempt to kill myself. I added a few other things, especially things that might kill other people. I guess that even as a kid I knew things that might be dangerous.”

  How did I know that?

  “Have you made any changes yet? I do not feel like an eleven-year-old kid any more. I seemed to remember something that happened just before I left for Mars that the Kid had not yet experienced. I cannot even remember what age I am anymore.”

  Alexander, “You can remember almost anything along your timeline if you get the right stimulus. It is just harder if the persona does not normally access that period of your life.

  “And I see your Censor reset you to the last persona they created for you, not the new one I made. Clever. You cannot escape their grip just by creating a new persona. But if you made those changes to an existing package, did you duplicate it or just add something to the end of the list? Or do you even know how it works? There are parts of your old monitor I have trouble accessing, because addresses in the new monitor shadow the old one, and the new comm unit filters everything destined for the old one. This is an intriguing problem.”

  Luciana, “What are you two up to now. Brian, why did you speak out loud? Your monitor is going crazy. Are you trying to fight the memory suppression? Please do not. I do not want a replay of the last few days, which might kill you for real.”

  She was undoubtedly right, but I needed my memories. There were decisions that I had to make before I was in full and coercive possession of the facts. I needed at least some of my memories to make those decisions. Who was I? What was I trying to do? What were my possibilities? I had bits and fragments. I had been the Kid, the Student, the Spacer – ah, I had liked being the Spacer, but he was not my goal any more – the Cap, the Agent, the Assassin – definitely not the me I needed – the Ghost, and the Cripple. Alexander wanted cool rationality. Of them all, only the Ghost was strictly rational, although it was hard to remember why. He had a goal, an important one; even as the Cripple I remembered that.

  As a conscious act of will, I chose to be the Ghost again.

  To Luciana, “I need my memories back. Choose a time frame that you believe is most dangerous and suppress only that. I need enough of my memories to make rational decisions. I am running on one of my more recent personae and I am trying to be hyper-rational so that I can make the best choices, but that is impossible with such limited access to my memories.”

  Luciana, just to me, “Brian, I beg you. Try not to make any decisions at all right now. Begum tells me we will leave Thule Station in a few hours. We will be several days getting back to the Moon. In that time, your only task is to recover. I know it is hard to be calm when you are being kept in the dark, but it is necessary until Alexander can fix your monitors. He is working on the security of our comm units as well.

  “Please believe me that Leilani is past the crisis. I have spent half my time with her since we arrived at Thule Station. I can tell you that she is scared of you, and scared for you, but she still loves you. She is still angry with me, but I deserve it. She is resting now and Sergei is with her. She is safe.”

  Somehow, those words meant more than they said, and I felt a deep wash of relief run through me as a tension I had not even been aware of suddenly released. She was safe. The team was keeping her as safe as she could be, locked in a ship at Thule Station.

  I finished eating my breakfast and kept my opinions to myself while I did. This was much better than battle rations yet had to be laced with meds. The Ghost remembered being a merchant when he had been the Spacer and knew there was a market for this food, but to my frustration I could not remember how to apply for a loan to start a company to distribute it.

  When I finished, Luciana and Alexander came over. She started, “We have been watching you. Suppressing your memory is not working. I do not know whether you can feel it, but your monitors are fighting each other for control, each with different priorities that you should be reconciling in your mind. We want to try something else. Answer this as honestly as you can. How stable is the rational persona you are using right now? Could it handle your memories if we suppressed their emotional content?”

  I thought about that for a few minutes while they waited patiently, watching a monitor window behind me. Finally, I said, “That would be very dangerous. The persona I am using right now is the most completely rational that I have ever been but also the most treacherous. Some of the treachery was undoubtedly due to the circumstances in which I found myself, but a completely rational being without any emotional commitments cannot be trusted with the welfare of anyone, not even himself, since you cannot know what motivates his behaviour.”

  Alexander replied, “A good answer. Do you take orders from competent authorities?”

  “No. My gut reaction is that blind obedience got me into serious trouble on Mars.”

  Luciana pointed at the monitor, “Alexander, look at that.”

  Alexander nodded. “My boy, you are a boiling cauldron of emotion for all your rationality. You went to Mars? What happened to you on Mars to create such conflicts? No, do not answer that! I was just wondering and can wait indefinitely for the answer. Marcus might have been right. You may well be stranger than me.”

  Luciana commented, “Alexander, you two may be a matched pair. I have been watching you since you came aboard and you exhibit many of the same symptoms. It is almost scary to have the two of you in the same room. I keep thinking you might touch each other and explode like matter and antimatter. Would you allow me to turn on your monitor? It might be important to see whether you are vulnerable to similar kinds of problems, aside from the complications of the second monitor.”

  Alexander, “Not now, Luciana. I fear I may have an extended period of inactivity on the Moon, so maybe we can discuss it then. Right now, I have too much to do and must be as rational and focused as possible. Brian, you should follow my example.”

  To Alexander, Luciana, “Please, give me some facts to work with. I have only fragments of memory connected to strong emotions. I do not understand any of it. I need something solid to think about.”

  Alexander, “If you will not accept orders, can you at least accept advice from people you trust have your best interests in mind? Time limited advice that you will be free to reject when you have your full memories back?”

  I pondered that briefly. “That sounds harmless, especially since I am stuck here in the infirmary anyways. What would your advice be?”

  Luciana gave me a list. “Rest and do light exercise. Let your body recover enough to survive the shocks that will come. Play with your memories if you like but be gentle and forgiving with you
rself and others. You will never be alone as you recover, so if anything bothers you, tell us. Wait patiently for Alexander to fix the code in your monitors and comm units. Make no hard decisions. The time for decisions will come after you are well again.”

  This advice seemed sensible. My primary risk was that some decisions had to be made without sufficient facts, and that was a normal aspect of command. I could discuss those issues as they arose. On all other issues, I could take no actions and therefore did not need to make immediate decisions. I could afford to wait for Alexander to fix my programs.

  Did I trust them sufficiently? I did not know Alexander well enough to trust him behind my back, but I still knew we had come to Thule Station specifically so he could help me integrate my parts. Molongo had trusted him, and I thought I had trusted Molongo, although I could not remember who he was or why I trusted him. Alexander said I was a boiling cauldron of emotion, so maybe he had been part of some emotionally charged event. I liked Luciana, even though she wanted something from me that she was not willing to explain. Still, I had very few options and desperately needed my memories back. Sensible advice was worth considering, so I finally agreed, “Yes, I am willing to heed that advice.”

  Luciana took a deep breath. “OK, let us do this. Brian, we cannot have you being constantly rocked by revelations as we open your memories, so I will put you to sleep again for a short while. We should be done in about half an hour and you will wake up with memories that seem pallid and unreal. I understand your concern, but I am going to suppress the memory of your emotions for now. Please try to leave them that way for the rest of the day. I doubt we can suppress the emotional content for longer than that, given your instability, but it will give Alexander time to work on updates to your code. I insist that you not remember the last three days at all until you have been prepared for them. They have been extremely stressful.”

  One of the nice things about memory modification is that it is not surgery at all. They clipped me into the bed to keep me still, mounted the update control unit on the back of my skull, and gave me some gentle music and tranquil meds to put me to sleep. If Mars has chosen this route to execution, I would have surrendered long

  2357-03-11 17:00

  Rapist

  I was awake again, and I still felt like the Ghost. Luciana was right. When I tried to remember things they seemed unimportant, like something I had read in a book, but they were at least available. I remembered “my first time” as a spacer; it had been entertaining and informative sex, but ultimately unimportant. I remembered joining Legal Intelligence, which had been important but uninspiring. I remembered killing my fellow agents as we tried to evacuate Mars. It was critical to why I was here now, but felt like a court record of the events, not as a series of murders to be repented, nor as a string of tragedies to be mourned. I vaguely remembered being broken and more acutely what I had done about it. I remembered meeting Leilani, who had been called Rachel and then Sarah, and a dozen other names before becoming Marya, very briefly Maryanne, and now Leilani. I remembered loving her passionately, and the endless fear and frustration that caused because I would not put her at risk. It was with a mild regret that I put all that turmoil aside. Following that line of thought, I remembered the Fatwa that condemned all my companions to brutal deaths. I thought I knew how to prevent those executions if they would cooperate. I remembered the first days after the team was assembled, my meltdown at the Soiree, and the Rape of the Banshees that followed. The Rape of the Banshees reminded me of Ramirez, which was an odd connection.

  Alexander left as Luciana guided me across to the physiotherapy room, but Raul came to take his place watching over me. My stomach still hurt, and that almost rang with real fight-for-life emotion, until the Ghost got a grip again and reminded me to move slowly and gently, to probe the discomfort rather than fight it. The purpose of the pain was to keep me alive long enough to achieve my goal, to complete the Mission. I had a very particular Hellgate in my future and healthy exercise now was a necessary part of the Path.

  I described to Doctor Luciana what the pain felt like, as clinically as I could, and learned some new medically approved words to describe pain so that my descriptions would not be ambiguous. It already felt better than the last time and I suspect that real food in my stomach was helping. I still could not bend or twist at the waist, but my arms and legs were free for a much wider range of motions and when properly braced I could put some real effort into the exercise.

  Once clipped into the machine, I set to work. It felt good to move my arms again, good to push with my legs. I wished I could stretch my back, but that would have to wait until things healed more. Exercise was good for thinking. It occurred to me that I could remember the Mission and the Path, and why both were imperatives. They were logical requirements, not emotional commitments. I could, distantly, remember that the Cripple felt they were emotionally important as well, guided by love, empathy and compassion, but I could not think of why that must be true.

  As I pushed and pulled, I pondered on Ramirez and why he was still important to me. I could remember the episode clearly, but distantly, which was good for analysis. It was hard to think of where to start, since I was not interested in the colour of the sky that day, nor the dusty smell of the abandoned house. After a while it occurred to me that I was not interested in the beating itself, any more than I cared about the way the Martians would execute me.

  I did care about Ramirez. My beating him had actually not worked, no matter how happy it had made Lucille and Zoe. Ramirez had only learned his lesson when Pedro took him to meet the thugs. It was not a euphemism to say they had discussed what extorting a little girl’s panties could earn him amongst real men.

  Pedro and the other gang members had been outraged at the exposure of one of their members, even if I was still unofficial. They were even more outraged at the attack on Zoe. The gang members lived and died for honour, and what Ramirez had done degraded all men in the eyes of all women. It was one thing to defy arbitrary authority, to show your courage and independence in a brutal and corrupt world, another thing entirely to become part of the corruption.

  Pedro had recounted the session with enthusiasm and a lot of detail. He and the six older boys had all worn masks and suits as they escorted Ramirez into a shed at the end of a blind alley. The masks stayed on, but the suits came off and the six older boys were revealed as warriors covered with tattoos and scars. Ramirez had feared another beating from the big, hard thugs, but they did not even push him around. I had done enough of that already. They just cornered him in the shed and told him a few truths about who he was and what would happen to him if he did not smarten up.

  Ramirez had raped one of their favourite little sisters. He was lucky it had not been one of the worse forms of rape that required permanent punishment, but by attacking her honour he had attacked the honour of all true men. A rapist made all women afraid of all men, and so disgraced every man alive. A rapist could not be a friend or companion for any man or woman. A rapist could not be trusted. It was pointless to live as a rapist. With honour, any man could find someone who would love him and would want to live and die at his side, but a rapist had no honour. No one would ever want to be near him, ever again. A rapist violated the most fundamental principles of environmentalism, by overpopulating the Earth with mutant, sub-human monsters like himself. A rapist was the lowest form of animal that existed, worse than ticks or maggots, worse than disease-carrying fleas. A rapist might have been born a man but had chosen to degrade himself into something verminous.

  They advised them to think carefully about making restitution. They advised him to grovel before Zoe, to beg her forgiveness. If she granted him that boon, he should then leave, and never see her or trouble her again. If ever they heard that he had failed in this quest they would ensure that every boy and girl in the school knew what he was. They would tell his teachers. What would his mother and father think, or his own sister, when they knew what he had become? Or his au
nts, uncles and cousins? What would the congregation think in the church his parents dragged him to, or the priest who had to take his confession? Would he ever get candy again when even the clerk in the store knew he was a rapist?

  Ramirez was in tears, shamed for the first time at what he had done. The thugs drew their long, sharp knives, which terrified him enough to pee his pants. They ignored it. One of them cut a branch from a tree outside the shed, chopped off two pieces and carved them flat, then tied them into a cross with knotted twigs. They cut his hand and made him swear a blood oath on the cross that he would never again offend any woman. Then they sheathed their knives, put the suits back on, and left him in the shed to think about what he needed to do next.

  Two weeks later, Ramirez’ mother and father quit their jobs and moved the family to another city. I hoped they understood what had really happened and put him in therapy. It was probably just as well for them that they left before the carnage of the gang war. It occurred to me that I did not know whether Zoe had survived. While we were in witness protection, it had been inadvisable to follow up on the people I had known, and it was even more dangerous now.

  But I thought about the gangster’s advice to Ramirez and recognized my own deep shame. I was a rapist and it was only by luck that the Rape of the Banshees had been a lesser form of rape that my victims were willing to forgive. I had pushed aside the need to repent of that offence in the rush of events, but now understood that I needed to grovel before them and seek restitution.

  It was a horror to realize that I had ethical lessons to learn from the drug-dealing, knife-fighting gangsters of my youth. They were, of course, part of the corruption, a global, corporate corruption that led to war a short while later. Their morality was a personal morality, and excessively flexible. Nevertheless, their moderation compared favourably to my violence. I had beaten Ramirez, from which he learned only a lust for revenge. I had been like the governors on Mars. The thugs had spoken to Ramirez and revealed to him his true nature, then given him a route to repentance. They had absorbed the lessons of the Earth, as I had not. Their confrontation was all over-the-top and dramatic, and I could surely be less confrontational with the Banshees.