Mortal Ghost

by Lowe, L. Lee

  ‘You can board,’ the pilot said in English, indicating the nearest aircraft. ‘I’ve already preflighted.’

  Finn and Jesse clambered into the helicopter, a CEO’s silver and white perk with navy racing stripes. It seated four, and Finn chose to ride next to Jesse in the rear of the cockpit. As they fastened their seatbelts, Jesse thought how small the interior was. The white leather seats were well padded and comfortable, elegant even, but they were sandwiched between the back wall, the pilot’s seat, and the bubble windows. It felt like a child’s toy. Was this thing really going to fly?

  The pilot walked slowly around the helicopter, giving it an exterior checkover. He crouched and fiddled with a skid, then examined the tail rotor. One of the ground crew approached, and they spoke for a short while. Finally the pilot was satisfied, and he boarded. Before proceeding with his prestart checklist, he issued a few terse safety instructions—not that Jesse had any intention of opening the door mid-flight. The engine whined as the pilot paced it through its RPMs.

  The helicopter lifted off, hovered while the pilot asked for clearance, and finally ascended. It was noisy, but not as noisy as Jesse had expected from the war films he’d seen. Within a short time they’d soared away from the airfield and were heading north, cutting across the satiny greygreen ribbon of the river, then veering westward so that it soon disappeared from sight. Jesse had never been in an airborne machine before, but his nervousness soon faded, and he began to enjoy watching the countryside unfold beneath his gaze. The pilot must have realised that Jesse was a novice flier, for as they approached a herd of cattle grazing somnolently, he swooped down close enough to ruffle the grass and their hides. Suddenly. Steeply. Jesse’s stomach plummeted. This was nothing like birdflight. The steer eyed the intruder with a bored and weary skepticism, not at all anxious to yield their ground. Jesse wondered if this was some sort of routine manoeuvre, so unmoved were the animals. The pilot glanced back at Jesse with a smile and a thumbs-up gesture. He hovered briefly over the spot, the lengthening shadow of the helicopter clearly visible below them, then climbed and resumed their flight.

  After about forty minutes they touched down in a grassy area near a secluded stone farmhouse. The pilot was skilled, or it was easier to steer the craft than Jesse imagined, for they landed without the slightest shudder or jolt. Jesse could see nothing to distinguish the dwelling from ones they had already overflown. This part of the county was thinly settled, and a number of roads looked unpaved.

  Finn and the pilot conversed in low tones as the rotors came to a halt, then the pilot swung open the door and sprang out. Finn and Jesse followed. The pilot headed off in the direction of an outbuilding, while Finn took Jesse’s arm and steered him towards the farmhouse. The property was heavily wooded, the shadows long, dense, and still. And yet Jesse felt sure that the dwelling wasn’t deserted, that they were even this moment being observed.

  ‘Now are you going to tell me what this is about?’ Jesse asked, only a little aggrieved because the pleasure of the helicopter flight still buoyed his mood.

  Finn didn’t appear to hear him.

  As they entered the building Thor himself couldn’t have struck a greater thunderbolt.

  The interior of the farmhouse had been gutted and replaced with an electronic world as strange as anything Jesse had seen on the screen. Stranger, for being real. He suddenly knew how a stone-age shaman might feel if catapulted into the NASA mission control centre; or he himself, upon traversing a portal into another time, another universe.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked, his voice hushed.

  ‘There’s someone who wants to meet you,’ Finn answered elliptically. ‘Don’t worry, you know I won’t let you come to any harm.’

  They walked along a short corridor lined with a pearly material both translucent and reflective. A new kind of plastic? Jesse asked himself. No light fixtures were visible, but the passage was well lit with a cool, faintly bluish light. He heard no footsteps as they proceeded and in fact had the feeling that sound was being muffled in some way. At the end of the corridor they entered an airlock—at least, that was the only word Jesse could put to the device. When the doors closed on them, he realised that they might be in a lift, though he had no sensation of movement. The light changed abruptly to a deep purple, then faded again. Finn stepped up to a small panel in the wall and said something incomprehensible. The door opened in front of them, and they exited.

  They stood on the threshold of a large room lined from floor to ceiling with what could only be bank upon bank of advanced electronic equipment. A woman in a perfectly normal pair of jeans and T-shirt was waiting for them. Tall and slender, she bore her decorative facial scars with pride. Jesse had never seen skin any darker.

  ‘Finn, it’s been a while,’ she said. Her English was perfect, unaccented.

  ‘Ayen, the pleasure is mine.’

  ‘And this is Jesse?’ she asked.

  Finn nodded.

  ‘OK, enough’s enough,’ Jesse said. ‘Will someone please explain what’s going on?’

  ‘You haven’t told him?’ Ayen asked.

  ‘No, I thought he should have no preconceptions.’

  ‘Hello,’ Jesse said defiantly, ‘I’m right here.’

  Ayen smiled. ‘Are you hungry? Thirsty? Some sandwiches or biscuits? A coke, perhaps?’

  The strangeness was beginning to wear off, and trepidation was not truly in Jesse’s nature. ‘No, thank you. I don’t want a drink, but an explanation.’

  Ayen gestured towards some chairs grouped round a low table. ‘Let’s sit down, and I’ll tell you about what we’re doing here.’

  They took seats, and Jesse was relieved that the chairs didn’t perform any tricks like changing height or shape to accommodate him. Or speaking in tongues.

  ‘This facility is part of an international organisation,’ Ayen began straightaway, ‘answerable to no specific government. We have a range of different projects that needn’t concern you. Finn has brought you to our attention because of your unusual abilities.’

  ‘What abilities?’ Jesse asked.

  ‘Fire-starting, for one. We thought it might be interesting to run some tests.’

  ‘You told them about me? Without asking?’ Jesse addressed Finn hotly. ‘You had no right!’

  ‘I’m concerned about you,’ Finn replied.

  ‘About yourselves, more likely.’

  ‘Tell him,’ Ayen said.

  ‘Tell me what?’ Jesse asked.

  Finn looked at him for a long while before answering. Finally he sighed. ‘You’ve told me about the fire that killed your family.’

  ‘And?’ Jesse’s voice was loud and angry.

  ‘And that no one survived the fire.’

  ‘How can you possibly think I need reminding? Get to the point.’

  ‘Jesse, no one survived the fire. We’ve checked the records. Not a single member of the household. Not even the boy.’

  Jesse stared at Finn, the colour draining from his face as he took in the import of Finn’s words.

  ‘That’s impossible. There must be some mistake,’ Jesse said.

  ‘Not unless you gave us false information.’

  ‘I’m no liar!’

  Ayen interposed in a tranquil tone. ‘There’s no error. We’ve seen copies of the coroner’s report, the police records, the death certificates. All records of Jesse Wright end with the fire—school, health, even church. Nor has social services ever heard of you.’

  ‘But—’ Jesse didn’t know how to finish his question. ‘But I remember—the hospital, the funeral, the foster families, school. And my back—the burn scars on my back.’

  ‘Think about it rationally,’ Ayen said. ‘If you’d been in hospital with severe burns, you could never possibly have attended a funeral. That’s an anomaly right there.’

  ‘All my memories . . . all of them . . .’ Liam . . .

  ‘Memory is a very interesting phenomenon,’ Ayen said.

  Jesse closed hi
s eyes. Rain like fine soft ashes. Late afternoon. Treetops grey-fingered and duskly swaying. They’re lowering the casket. His back is screaming.

  ‘Jesse?’ Finn asked gently, reaching out with a hand. Jesse tore his arm away. His skin was clammy, and he could smell his own sweat. What did they want with him? Wasn’t it enough that everything had been taken from him? Did they want to take his memories, his past as well?

  Jesse’s voice shook. ‘If I’m not Jesse, then who am I?’

  ‘That’s what we hope to find out,’ Ayen said.

  ‘Why? What’s in it for you?’

  Ayen’s smile was professional—Jesse had seen it too often not to recognise it. ‘We can help you.’

  ‘Yeah? Why should you care?’

  ‘I care,’ Finn said. ‘Meg, Sarah, and I care.’

  ‘So you can be sure you don’t have a—a what? An impostor, a delinquent—or worse—in your midst? A madman?’

  ‘We know that already,’ Finn said. ‘Whoever—whatever—you are, you’re not insane. Or twisted. Far from it.’

  Jesse was silent for a moment. He would have liked a cigarette but was certain there’d be no smoking in this place.

  ‘Who are you?’ Jesse asked. ‘A policeman of some kind?’

  ‘Not exactly, but it will do to go on with,’ Finn said.

  ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

  Finn leaned forward in his chair. ‘Look at me, directly at me, and ask me again.’

  Jesse didn’t raise his eyes. Sarah was right. He was tired of running.

  Ayen waited until Jesse nodded, stiffly as though he’d been sleeping rough again.

  ‘Will you tell me about what else you’re able to do?’ Ayen asked.

  ‘You still haven’t told me exactly what’s going on here.’ Jesse waved a hand at the array of equipment.

  ‘Research,’ Ayen said.

  ‘Into what?’

  Finn and Ayen exchanged glances. This time it was Finn who nodded. A multilingual photographer who travelled extensively, Jesse thought, with a firearm. But what else? Jesse wondered if he’d ever know.

  ‘Artificial intelligence,’ Ayen said.

  ~~~

  In the end, Jesse was curious enough to let them run their tests. Ayen seated him at a console surrounded by a clear shield much like the helicopter’s bubble window, within which fine, coloured patterns, possibly wires or circuits, were embedded. The shield surrounded his upper body completely without blocking external sound or other sensory input. He could move his hands freely while operating the computer terminal. A dark green monitor as large as a pool table stretched above him from eye-level. There was no keyboard, however, and he found out why as soon as the game began.

  The computer responded directly to the movements of his hands and eyes, to his voice. And more. After a moment of sensory disorientation Jesse finds himself inside a small chamber whose walls are elastic, like the pulsating membrane of an amniotic sac. A voice speaks to him, sounding familiar. A woman’s voice. She tells him that his first task is to escape from the room. She asks him what he’ll need, she’d furnish it. He reflects for a moment—why not his knife? She chuckles, and he realises that it’s his grandmother speaking. She walks up to him, barefoot in her faded twill trousers, toenails thickened and yellow, hands dirt-caked from gardening, and places the knife in his hand. Use it well, she tells him. She smiles and turns to leave. Don’t go, he cries. I’m always with you, she says.

  Then he’s alone inside the room. For a moment he closes his eyes. The air is cool and tangy with woodsmoke, an autumn afternoon, someone burning leaves. Voices whisper sounds and sweet airs. These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air . . . He lays the blade against his wrist—is this the escape key? There’s always a way to abort the program.

  A strong scent of lavender. He shivers and drops his arm. Carefully, he examines his surroundings. Still no exit, the only way out through the wall. He approaches it reluctantly. He doesn’t like the way it quivers. Only a computer simulation, he reminds himself. Raising his knife, he takes a deep breath and plunges it into the fleshy surface. Blood spurts at him, and he gasps, steps back, drops the knife, screams.

  Finn helped Jesse up from the seat. His knife lay on the floor, and his hands were splattered with blood. He was too stunned to speak. Finn accompanied him to a small lavatory where he washed his hands and face. Upon their return Ayen was on her hands and knees wiping the floor with a cloth, the water in the bucket pink. She’d placed his knife on the table, and it too had been wiped clean. A few small vials, obviously for testing. Jesse allowed himself to be propelled into a chair. He sat quietly, trying to gather his thoughts, trying not to shiver. Ayen left and after a while came back with a tray of tea and some biscuits, and a clean T-shirt. She’d discarded the disposable gloves.

  ‘Take some sugar,’ she said. ‘You need the energy.’

  Jesse drank one cup, then a second.

  ‘What was that?’ he asked, by now composed enough to pose some questions.

  ‘A prototype of what we think may be the next generation of computers,’ Ayen said. ‘Well, if not the next, then somewhere not far down the line.’

  ‘But how—’ Jesse stopped to rephrase his question. ‘The computer didn’t just respond to verbal input. It culled my memory.’ He glanced at Finn. ‘My memory,’ he repeated bitterly. ‘How could a machine do that? How could anything do that?’

  ‘That’s one of the things we ourselves don’t quite understand,’ Ayen said. ‘The mathematics is extraordinarily complex, and only a very few people, highly unusual people, are involved in writing the software, which along with the hardware is still in the developmental stage—if hardware is the right term.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The prototype is a hybrid system comprising traditional, if very advanced, electronics side by side with chips that our bio-engineers have designed. The basic chip is carbon rather than silicon-based. A biological chip of organic molecules. It’s grown rather than manufactured.’

  Jesse stared at her. ‘You mean the computer is alive?’

  ‘It depends on how you define alive,’ she answered.

  ‘And it reads minds?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it like that but, yes, in some cases, where the individual is particularly sensitive.’

  ‘Sensitive to what?’

  ‘In all cultures there have been people who can stretch the bonds of space and time, who can perceive beyond the normal limits of everyday experience.’

  ‘You’re talking about mystics, shamans. That stuff isn’t real,’ Jesse said, conscious of how ridiculous the protest sounded, coming from him. At least they didn’t know about the healing.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Ayen asked.

  They both looked at the knife lying in front of them on the table.

  ‘It’s a trick.’ Jesse turned to Finn. ‘It must be. You brought it with you for god-only-knows what reason. I have no idea what you think I am or can do, but I’m no magician.’

  ‘One person’s magic is another’s logic,’ Ayen said. ‘Have you ever seen the emaciated body of someone who has been instructed—unbeknownst to himself—to stop eating?’

  Jesse shook his head, his eyes on the knife.

  ‘You Europeans,’ Ayen said. ‘That’s going to be our contribution—unifying science and the sacred.’ Though uttered with a smile, there was an edge to her words which reminded Jesse of certain schoolyard confrontations.

  ‘Look, Jesse, we all know research often yields unexpected results. And any ten-year-old can give you a list of accidents that became fabulous discoveries,’ Finn interjected adroitly. ‘No one expected this to happen, and no one really understands why, or how. I certainly don’t pretend to.’ He grinned. ‘I’m just a lowly photographer.’

  ‘Then why are you involved?’

  ‘I’m not, or only indirectly. When I saw what you could do with fire, I did a little checking on my end, got i
n touch with a few experts. Hence Ayen and her people. She requested an interview.’

  ‘Requested is good. I don’t recall anyone asking me.’

  ‘Would you have come? Would you have believed me if you hadn’t seen this place?’ Finn asked reasonably enough. ‘This computer?’

  Jesse picked up the knife. He ran his fingers over the blade, examined the handle, and finally balanced its length across the palm of his hand, hefting it a little to test its weight. If it wasn’t his, it was a perfect replica.

  By all rights, Finn should have reported him to the police as soon as he found out about the discrepancies in Jesse’s story, or at least thrown him out of the house.

  ‘You really didn’t bring my knife?’ Jesse asked Finn.

  ‘I didn’t even know you owned one.’

  ‘Jesse, no one wants to trick you,’ Ayen said. ‘What purpose would that serve? The knife is as much a surprise to me as to you.’

  ‘Then explain how it got here.’

  ‘I can’t, other than to assume, as a working hypothesis, that you were able to reproduce it, or fetch your own knife here.’

  ‘Fetch? As in teleport?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to put a name to the phenomenon just yet.’ She smiled. ‘Quantum physicists—I’m not one—tell me that there are going to be some very interesting developments in the next twenty years.’

  ‘Quantum physics is often misunderstood,’ Jesse said. ‘It’s used as proof of subjectivity by lay people with a taste for mysticism. They’d like to believe that consciousness creates reality. People who have no clue about processes like superposition, decoherence, and entanglement.’

  Ayen laughed. ‘I’ll let you loose on our physicists later on. You won’t find a mystic among them, I promise you.’

  Jesse waved his knife in the direction of the computer console.

  ‘What did you see on the monitor?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Finn said. ‘It remained blank.’

  ‘Why? Wasn’t it switched on?’

  ‘It’s a little more complicated than that,’ Ayen said.

  Jesse frowned. He was beginning to want a cigarette rather badly. Instead, he leaned back and gnawed on the handle of the knife. When nobody contributed an explanation, he spit out a question.