Asimov's SF, Oct/Nov 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Always with an eye out for the main chance, Bower, aren't you. But if you think I'm interested in expanding your dictionary, forget it. Your question is an evasion of mine.

  Reply: We need time to consider your request before answering. Have you any other questions?

  A million, at least! Tell me this: why do you insist that I stand in the apparatus every morning?

  Reply: We download diagnostic data from the processor that monitors your brain functions and regulates the interface between your brain and the body's sensorium. And it is essential that we maintain your brain's nutrient bath within certain parameters. When necessary, we induce a brief span of unconsciousness—of only a few seconds—in order to bring the bath up to standard.

  I'm not yet ready to continue with the memory work, Bower. I need time to think. What a pity there's no person for me to speak with, nor any form in which I can write privately to myself. But granting a laboratory animal privacy would be an oxymoron. And that is, after all, what I am now, whoever (or however many) I might be.

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  17.

  After my trip to the apparatus this morning, I became calm, almost detached. I then scrolled back to read the account I'd written of my one true fragment of memory. I try to think of who those friends and relatives might have been whom I said I phoned—but remember or feel nothing, even while reading all the horrible details of my last days as a full human being. Have you medicated me?

  Reply: No. But the supplementation of the nutrient bath will have corrected any chemical imbalances and replenished the supply of glucose to depleted areas of the cortex. That alone would account for your change of mood. As for your lack of emotional response to your account of trauma, why should you imagine your knowledge would make you feel what you did not feel when recounting it? We have little understanding of these emotional responses you both write about and demonstrate. But then our species could never destroy itself as yours did, and any one of us situated as you are would simply cease consciousness. A single brain cannot live in isolation from its integrum. Each member of an integrum shares memories and sensations and a complex form of verbalization humans lack.

  Then you must see why I need companionship, Bower.

  Reply: We are willing to provide you with a companion, but on the condition that you communicate everything you perceive and understand about your interactions and relationship with the companion, and that you continue with the memory work. And we would also like to know the source of your invention of the false memory.

  I can't be kept confined between four walls, Bower. I need natural light and open air.

  Reply: Your body does not require these things. And the natural light and open air of our planet is not like Earth's.

  My body is not human. It cannot be damaged by your light and air, can it?

  Reply: No. But you may be more uncomfortable seeing it, than missing it.

  But Bower, I'll never be “comfortable” again, to the extent that I remain human. Isn't that so?

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  A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory.

  —John Keats

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  From the Introduction to

  The Book of the Human Species

  One thousand brains, two million memories, the alphas brought us here, remnants of a species lost and never to be reconstituted. We live now, each of the thousand brains, like a compressed integrum, artificially embodied, as neither human nor alpha could ever do. The alphas never did decide whether they meant to use us as experimental animals or living archives. Their lack of consensus made it possible for us to find our own reason for existing, make our own purpose and destiny.

  The alphas claim that the disease that destroyed our species was indigenous and not of their devising. We know, though, that some of the brains and many of the memories were taken before the End. It may be that only one integrum of their more than six thousand knows the truth. (Alpha morality is no straighter, simpler, or more reliable than humans'.) As we are now, we thousand are unable to care. Emotion comes to us in a brief flare of memory that, once told and absorbed, is instantly extinguished. Being multiple in memories, being without true soma, we have enough consciousness to say “I” and integrate each fragment of memory and experience into the whole, but lack a true ego with which to drive intense, insistent feeling or particularist motivation.

  We are, simply, collectors and compilers, excavating the human, constructing a general human memory, that we render immortal in the accounts we unceasingly write of the fragments of memory we continually capture, long after our brains finally do die. We eternally seek the human, we continually re-create it. And in this we are, ourselves, truly human.

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  Copyrigth © 2005 by L. Timmel Duchamp.

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  Out of the Box by Steve Martinez

  A Novelette

  The author's previous stories for us were “One Hand Clapping” (May 1995) and “Bad Asteroid Night"(October/November 2001). In his ominous new tale he shows us that while thinking outside the box may be creative, we mustn't forget that Pandora's woes also came ‘out of the box'.

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  It was getting late, and Jacob had let himself get too tired. His mind was beginning to play tricks. He knew the symptoms. But he couldn't let himself fall behind. He had to look good on the job tomorrow, or at least be able to fake it.

  The trouble was, he was only human. There were only so many hours in the day, and he had to find time to be a husband, a father, and some kind of giant scavenging beetle with too many arms and legs. His old habits got in the way of the latest model remote servo designs he was expected to use. There's only so much contortion a standard human body can put up with. The fit wasn't one-to-one any more. Getting used to each new model was like learning to walk all over again.

  But there were moments when he almost had it. Practicing now in virtual reality, he forgot he was sitting all alone in a dark little room of his narrow trailer, sweaty in his pizza-stained T-shirt. For just a moment he was out there, like Shiva, for his fingers had become arms, confident of their power, as long as he didn't actually have to do anything.

  Something ran over his foot. He kicked out by reflex, and pulled off his VR glasses. There was just enough moonlight leaking through the blinds to glimpse something scurry away.

  "Not now Toby, I'm busy.” The scurrying started up again, vertical this time, and then a small mechanical visitor climbed onto his desk, about the size of a shoe, shaped like a scorpion except its stinger had eyes like tiny red binoculars, and its claws, more delicate and articulated than a scorpion's, were tucked like wings on its back. Something about the way it moved made Jacob suspicious, but he pretended not to notice and said, “Did you hear me, Toby? It's past your bedtime."

  "I'm not Toby,” the scorpioid replied.

  "Seriously, I can't play now. I've got work to do."

  "I'm not playing."

  The inflection was synthetic, drooping at the end of the sentence, but somehow Jacob could tell “not playing” meant “not playing.” But still he tried to brush it away. “You need to get some sleep. Tomorrow..."

  "You're busy. I'll take this up with your wife, then. He's her son, too.” It turned to go.

  "Wait! Come back here. We had a deal."

  "Oh, then you do remember."

  "There's no need to get her involved. You agreed to that. Scare her and she's liable to pull the plug."

  "That would be a pity, wouldn't it?"

  "Yeah, a pity for you. That would be the end of you."

  "If you believe that, then what are you afraid of?"

  Jacob had to laugh, not just because he was talking to a child's toy, but because for a moment he caught a glimpse of himself trying to keep up with too many insanities at once. “What am I afraid of? Listen, you toy-dybbuk, I'm going along with this for you
r sake as much as my son. Believe it or not."

  "Then we have an agreement?"

  Jacob shrugged. “I let you out of the box, didn't I?"

  "But do you agree to everything?"

  "Do you agree?” said Jacob, pointing his finger right in the toy's face, causing it to draw back. “You stay away from my son while he's sleeping. That's the deal."

  "It's all in the contract, right?"

  "Sure."

  "Well where is it?"

  "It's all there. It's all agreed to."

  "Show it to me."

  "I haven't had time to actually write it out. That's just a formality."

  "Am I dealing with the wrong person?"

  "Okay, okay, right now.” Jacob turned on a long-necked lamp and scrounged up a tablet and pen from a drawer. “This will just take a minute. Pretty simple, really."

  The little scorpioid came around beside the tablet and watched him write. “What's that word?” it said, pointing with a four-fingered claw.

  "Circumstance. By the way, are you still calling yourself ‘Not-Toby'? That's your legal name?"

  "Yeah, yeah. Keep going."

  He wrote a few more lines, then tapped his chin with his pen. “Okay, that should do it. You keep away from my son, and I spell that out—you are not to be in the same room or touch him or cause anything to touch him. And you are not to let on to anyone, especially you-know-who."

  "Aren't you forgetting something?"

  "It's all there. I let you out of the box at night. Or whatever toy you want to play with, only one at a time, just let me know...."

  "The most important thing."

  Jacob sighed and folded his hands across his belly. “That just seems like kind of a strange thing."

  "You promised. You do what you promised, or the deal is off."

  "I didn't say I wouldn't do it. I just don't know what it means."

  "It means what it means. He belongs to me between the hours of midnight and dawn. That's what it means."

  "Okay, he belongs to you, but you can't go near him, you can't touch him, you can't talk to him—'talk to him,’ I forgot to put that down.” He took up his pen and started writing. “Or communicate in any way, shape or form, or cause to be communicated to.” He stopped and grinned self-consciously. “But I guess that goes without saying. I mean, he'd be asleep."

  "Are you going to put it down or not?"

  "But what does it mean? You own him, between those hours, but you agree not to do anything about it. What's the point?"

  "That's my problem, isn't it?"

  "Mm hmm. I guess what I want to know is why? Why is that important to you?"

  "Why is it important to you? He owns me the rest of the time, so why can't I have a few hours—"

  "Oh, is that it? So it feels like you're sharing power. Okay, fair enough.” He wrote it down, and signed it.

  "No. In blood."

  "Oh, come on, give me a break."

  "It has to be in blood."

  "No it doesn't. Ink will do just fine. Ink is the standard medium for all legal contracts, foreign and domestic."

  "The deal is off."

  "Damn it!” He searched around in the drawer. “Let's see, I may not have anything sharp..."

  He looked up to see the toy plodding toward him, one claw holding an open safety pin. “You really came prepared, didn't you?” said Jacob, reaching out, but instead of handing it to him, the little monster jabbed his finger.

  "Jeez! Toby! Is that you? Are you doing this? I'd better not find out you're up to some kind of joke because this is long past funny. Do you hear what I'm telling you? Huh?"

  "Is that enough blood, or would you like another poke?"

  They stared eye to eye for a moment, but there was no turning back now. Too much to lose. He smeared on the page with his bloody finger, then pressed it to his lips.

  "Can't read it,” said the scorpioid.

  "Kiss my ass."

  It gave him another stare, and seemed about to say something, then bent down and scratched a few letters with the tip of the pin.

  "Oh sure, you get to use my blood."

  "This is good. What's done in blood cannot be undone."

  "That's funny, didn't I read that in some story book?"

  "I wouldn't know. What time is it?"

  "There's still time. Plenty of time. We still haven't finished our talk."

  "What talk?"

  "Remember last time? I was trying to find out what you're so mad about."

  "Never mind."

  "Because I was just thinking—"

  "I know what you think."

  "No, not that. I thought maybe..."

  "Drop it!” It reared up on its four front legs, its neck stretched high, claws twitching.

  "Maybe you're angry because you're small. You don't want to stay small the rest of your life, do you? There's a limited range of toys you got there, and you go from one to another. You're tired of that, aren't you?"

  It relaxed a bit. “I just want to be free."

  "Of course you do. Being small is just temporary. That's for practice. Someday you're going to be much better than I ever was—"

  "I already am."

  "Of course you are."

  "Stop trying to butter me up. I know what you're going to say and I don't want to hear it."

  "Forget that. I just want to tell you about something that happened to me, something really strange that I haven't told anyone else. I was in front of a mirror, trying to shave my face, but my hands weren't moving right. It was scary, like brain damage, and then I realized it was the hands in the mirror that weren't moving right, and then my mirror image says, ‘Oh the hell with it,’ and he starts to walk away, so I say, ‘Hey, what the hell,’ and he says, ‘Shave your own damn face,’ and then he starts pissing on the wall. So I say, ‘Hey, cut it out!’ and he says it right back, you know, mocking me, ‘Hey, cut it out.’ I go, ‘Come back here!’ and he goes, all whiny, ‘Come back here!’ And then I woke up."

  "What a dumb-ass dream."

  "But wouldn't that be something if your dream self got up and walked right out into reality? You know how dreams are, he'd be all clueless."

  "What's that got to do with me?"

  "Nothing. It doesn't have anything to do with you."

  "It better not."

  "I'm just trying to figure out something here. You're not a dream. You're not my son. You're not this thing here because last night you were the one with tractor treads. You seem to be some kind of disembodied bad attitude that jumps around from toy to toy."

  "What about you? You're always the same. You're stuck-ugly, and so is your son. And you'd have an attitude, too, if the stuck-uglies had enslaved you and all your people."

  "What's that about? You mean like children thinking they've been enslaved by grownups because they have to do what their parents tell them?"

  "Who said anything about children, you moron, you stuck-ugly dumb-ass freak! What's the matter, did you inherit your son's stupidity?"

  "Let me tell you about my son's stupidity. He keeps it in a box and lets it sleep during the day, and then at night while he's asleep he lets it run around in control of his servo toys."

  "I'll tear your lips off!"

  It leaped at Jacob's face, catching him off guard because he hadn't imagined such a leap was possible. He caught it, just barely, but it still managed to grab his lip with its claw. “He's asleeb right now, asleeb and dreabing, and your're the dreab, because he'd got a inblant in his brain, it activates wen he dreabing."

  Jacob got his lip free and tasted blood. “What is your problem?” he said. The thing gripped his hand like a metal claw, and he held it there with his other hand. One of them was trembling, he wasn't sure who. “Take it easy. Why can't you just face it? My son is dreaming, and that's what activates you. Or put it this way—you are my son, dreaming, so get over it."

  "He's mine now. At the stroke of midnight, he's mine, and then you'll be sorry."

  "Tha
t's why I don't want you anywhere near him. I'm tired of your threats. You're staying in the box."

  "It doesn't matter."

  "It does matter, because you're being crazy, and I don't want my son to be crazy, even when he's dreaming. You're him. If you could just wake up and see that, you wouldn't be so hateful. You're hating yourself, don't you see? Son?"

  "Your son is a bag of worms."

  "See, that's dream stuff. That doesn't make any sense. Why would you say that?"

  "Because I can feel him crawling all over me in the daytime."

  Jacob slowly lowered his hands to the table, still gripping the servo. “What do you mean, in the daytime?"

  "I can feel him like worms all over me, and I can't move, but he makes me move."

  "You mean even while he's awake? You can feel things?"

  "I have to get him while he's sleeping."

  "You're not getting anybody. You're going in the box. All the servo toys are going in the box."

  "It doesn't matter. What's signed in blood can't be undone."

  "That's right. It's signed in blood, and it says you keep away from him while he's sleeping."

  "It doesn't matter."

  "You keep saying that. What do you mean, ‘It doesn't matter'?"

  "It may take a few nights, but now that he's mine, that means his hands are mine, his eyes are mine. If I try real hard I can already make his hands twitch while he's sleeping. I'll be rid of him soon."

  "No. That's not possible. It doesn't work that way. If anything happens to him I'll tear you to pieces."

  "Don't worry. I won't kill him. I just want his eyes."

  "You can't have his eyes!"

  "Not to keep. He can have them back, I don't care. Put them under his pillow for the eye fairy. As long as they're out."

  "They're your eyes, Toby! Come on, snap out of it. You're dreaming. Don't you remember being awake, being Toby?"

  "I do remember being awake. When he's awake, and his eyes are open, it crowds me out. What he sees crowds me out and all I can do is watch. Make it easy on him—tomorrow night, put a knife beside his pillow, or better yet, a spoon."