by Olga Werby
“It’s the drugs,” Tom says.
Drugs? What drugs?
“Can you tell them that she’s still here?” Ghost says. It sounds like a plea.
“They won’t believe me.”
“But what about me? Do they believe that I still exist?” I watch as Ghost changes shape, grows until he is almost as tall as Tom’s chin. He is more human looking than I’ve ever seen him. I recognize the lanky awkward teen from the news stories. Roman Chernovsky, boy genius. The other boy genius, the one who didn’t make it.
“Cut it out!” Tom screams. “You are not Roman! You are just…” He is struggling for words. His avatar is changing colors. Rather pretty, I think.
“Tom, it’s me. It’s still me. I might not be everything Roman ever was, but I’m still him. It’s not a lie. Please believe me. For Jude’s sake, please believe me.”
“Humans are flesh and blood,” Tom spits out. “You are nothing. Nothing!” I worry that Tom might have a heart attack—his avatar is apoplectic. “What makes us human are all those chemicals. The brain—the consciousness—is all built on biology. No biology, no human. You are nothing!”
That’s harsh.
“Tom.” Roman’s voice is soft and soothing. “I know. We’ve had this conversation before, remember?” Tom gives him a feral look. “I was the one arguing that it couldn’t work. No body, no soul. Remember? We walked together in Central Park. I was already having problems. We were keeping it all hidden from my grandparents. You carried me over the rocks so I wouldn’t come home all scraped up—”
“Stop it! Just stop it. Anyone can know that. It’s all in the public record!”
I wonder how much Roman really remembers and how much of what he is saying is just reconstructed memories. Does it even matter? Tom clearly thinks so. He is gesticulating wildly with all four arms. I swear if he had any cyber saliva, I would be covered in spit. Interesting, they programed digital tears, but not spit. Who makes these decisions? I think if you are going for bodily fluids, then do them all. Why stop halfway? And did he just say that the drugs they were giving me back in that hospital were affecting me here? Is my digital self connected that way? Interesting.
One of my snakes hisses right into my face. I feel the vibrations of my hairs’ outrage. As if they get to have an opinion! What? What?
“Then keep her alive.” I catch Roman saying.
“Impossible.” Tom dismisses him, but he’s calmer now.
What did I miss?
“If she needs blood and guts to stay human, give her that,” Roman argues. “Make her more than I can ever be. Do what we talked about. Remember?”
“I remember.” It’s almost a whisper.
“People like her—like I was going to become—we need this. We need a way to live on, despite our body’s limitations.”
“Her organs are shutting down,” Tom protests.
“Only if you let them,” Roman pushes. “Even in my time, we could preserve the flesh.”
“It would have been unethical,” Tom says.
“Only if she didn’t have this. But she’s alive and able here. In this world. It might not be everything, but it’s not nothing. And who are you to make that judgment?”
“Are you happy to be as you are? To be a creature—”
“Stop right there, Tom. We’re not talking about me. We are talking about Jude. Ask her what she wants.” Roman turns to me and bends down. One of his arms turns into a cat’s tail and wraps itself around my useless arm. I get a thrill at his touch. He cares what I have to say. “Do you want to die, Jude?”
I pulse no as loudly as I can.
“That’s not a fair question,” Tom says.
The hell it’s not!
“Then ask her your way.” Roman disengages from me and steps aside.
Tom bends down and just stares at me. My snakes pay attention. I pay attention. This is not a good time to let my thoughts go for a memory walk. I’m too young to die! I want to live. Dad won’t let them kill me. I’m his little girl, his little princess.
Tom doesn’t speak. He just looks at me as my emotions race. How do I prove to him that I want to live? That I would take life in The Far Cinct over no life at all? Wouldn’t he make the same choice?
I focus on controlling my snakes. That’s all I have right now. They can see. They can feel. They can move. They can hiss. They will die too if Tom doesn’t believe in me. In us. Surprisingly, my snakes get the urgency of our situation. There is a range of hissing noises we can make. It’s not all sssss. We work together. It’s so hard.
“Choossssss Lissss.” It’s the best we can do. I make my snakes repeat it over and over again.
Tom stares at me. I can see he understands. Is that enough?
There’s a soft pop, and he’s gone.
18. Wake up, Jude
I’m experiencing a strong feeling of natsukashii—that nostalgic yearning for a moment in my childhood when everything was simple and easy. It’s a happy memory, yet I’m sad that it’s just that—a memory. I am walking with my dad. I think we are taking the long route to school via the path that cuts across Central Park. I’m wearing my favorite tutu—bubblegum pink and proudly puffy. I insisted on going to school in it every day of second grade. I couldn’t stand to even have it washed. Now that I think back on it, Dad must have bought a whole bunch of them or I would have ended up wearing a sad pink rag around my waist after just a few days—I was an active kid. But at the time, I thought it was the one and only. I love, loved that thing. It goes great with my green lizard skin.
I’m holding my dad’s hand…
Jude. Wake up, Jude.
We are having one of those existential conversations—does a numbering system exist independently of humans? Dad tells me that I can invent my own number, a number that has never in the history of the universe been uttered by another sentient being! My own number. Mine. I just have to think big. Or very small. Something with a lot of digits. He told me that once I write it down, we would frame and hang it on the wall as Jude’s Number.
My own number. What an idea. Is number an idea? I decide that it’s more than that. Numbers exist and we discover them. If I discover a new prime number, it’s not like I invented it. It was always there, waiting for someone to find it. And if I do, I decide I’ll name it Roman. Roman is a very good name, I think. I can name all my newly discovered numbers Roman Primes. Roman 1. Roman 2. Roman 3.
Wake up, Jude.
I remember two numbers: 11,311 and 11,411. These are both prime. Easy to remember. I loved them as a kid and I still do now. I like that they are so symmetrical. They are the palindromes of the mathematical world—same numbers backward and forward. And they only differ by one central digit. How can something as special as a prime number be so much like another prime number? It’s just crazy. And that’s why I love this pair of primes. I want my own personal prime number to have something special, too. It can be the largest, most symmetrical prime! Like all zeroes in the center or all fives. Or maybe all the digits can add up to another prime—a hidden secret. That would be a very cool number.
Jude. Jude. Jude.
If 11,311 is written in Roman numerals, it would be I I III I I. Yes, I know this is not write—right, but bear with me. It’s so much nicer than (X)MCCCXI. It’s so symmetrical.
Jude. Jude. Jude.
Hmm. Should I name my prime Rowoman? Yes, that’s better. It doesn’t flow off the tongue as easily, though. Roman. Rowoman. Roman might be better.
Jude. Jude. Jude.
But what if I am not really a living entity? What if I am a bot? Ro-bot. Ro-man. Rowoman. Ro-bot. Shouldn’t Roman be a robot? I decide to ask him when I see him next.
Jude. Wake up, Jude.
But what if he is both? A man and a bot? Would it matter which? Jude-bot. I hate that. No, I’m definitely just Jude.
Jude.
But if I discover a number, an important number, would something of me be in there? Does the discoverer
change the thing that she discovers? And again backwards, does a new number change who I am? If the world, the universe, forever links me to that number, then I’m changed too.
I wonder if this is how—
Jude.
What was I thinking? Oh yes, number systems. Would another universe have a different number system? Would universe A have the same set of prime numbers as universe B? That’s something to ponder. I ponder. A prime is a prime is a prime. A prime by any other name… Yes. All universes definitely have the same sets of primes. I think I just discovered the first multi-universal mathematical principle. A multi-universal truth. The physical laws don’t have to be the same. I can have four arms if I wish. But primes are always the same, always prime.
And even if I had four arms, I would still be Jude. I’m as immutable as a prime number.
Jude.
“What?” I lose track of my thoughts. What was I thinking about? Roman?
“Jude?” Ghost’s voice. He is sitting next to me, looking into my face, invading my personal space.
My snakes hiss. My eels sparkle. “What?” I ask again, feeling a tinge of irritation. I’m sitting on a computer stool in Ghost’s hideout. He is sitting in a chair next to me, half cat, half teenage boy. And he is crying. “Are you okay?” I ask, feeling bad for being so annoyed with him.
“You’re back,” he says softly and snorts. Well, I guess his avatar does have snot. Good to know that the selection of bodily fluids is a choice, a personal preference.
“From where?” I’m a bit confused, slow to follow. I have been sitting in this chair for a while, watching Ghost do his research on Doc’s friends.
“I thought I lost you,” he says and snorts again. Sounds very juicy. I decide snot is not such an attractive feature for an avatar. Expressive certainly, but not attractive.
“Lost me how?” I ask.
“I was worried that Tom would let them pull the plug.” I don’t like that. Leave my plugs alone! “But you convinced him,” he says, his voice has a mixture of joy and relief.
“I’m not sure I’m following you, Ghost. What happened?”
“Oh. It makes sense.” Not to me. “Tom said they were giving you a lot of medications to keep you comfortable.”
“I’m comfortable now,” I say. And I am. I can see with my own eyes. And talk. And hear. And move my body. Just for kicks, I kick my chair and spin in a circle. It feels nice to have full control over my avatar again.
“Tom made them adjust your medications so you would be fully functional here,” he says.
“And back there?” I don’t like how he is talking about me back in reality. I know I am sick. They were all working on getting me better, right? But now I am not sure. I seem to be missing something. And I don’t like missing things.
“You’re sick, remember?”
I nod.
“You got sicker.”
I nod some more, but I don’t remember that.
“So sick that Tom wanted to let you go,” Ghost says in a soft voice.
“What? Since when does Tom make decisions for me? Doesn’t Dad have something to say?” I’m pretty confused.
“It’s all good now, Jude. You’re safe here,” Ghost assures me. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“And back there? In real life?” I am suspicious now. Ghost is keeping something from me. Something bad.
“It might be a while before you’re better back there,” he says, but he doesn’t look me in the eyes. Even my snakes can’t catch his gaze. He is such a bad liar. “But while you heal, you’ll live here, with me. Okay?”
“Sure,” I say. “Sounds like fun. So, about those kiddies, which ones are real?”
19. Worlds within Worlds
The afternoon went on and on. Does time have any meaning in cyberspace? I know I enjoy spending time with Ghost, and with Roman. Ghost is more confident and comfortable in his furry gray skin. Roman is more tentative. I take it as a challenge to get Roman to reveal himself more often. There’s gentleness about that boy. All the years he spent here, in The Far Cinct, he never really grew up. Changed, yes. But become a full-fledged adult? I don’t know. I don’t think so. Is my dad even a full-fledged adult? He felt that way to me when he walked me to school in my pink tutu, but it could be that I feel like a kid when I’m with him. Is it my perception of him that I notice? Dad feels like an adult to me, so he’s an adult. Roman feels like a kid my age, so he is. Does this even make any sense? How should I know? I like spending time with him, even if all we are doing is looking through available school and community records to identify which of Doc’s friends are fake. I wonder if none of them are and we are on a fool’s errand. But I like spending time with Roman, so I look.
And I keep catching him looking at me. I don’t know what kind of looking it is. Is it an “I’m interested in you too” look? Or is it more “are you going to get sick on me again” look? Or is he simply trying to judge my progress? He is a lot more adroit with all this cyber sutaffu.
“We can send a few bots out there,” Ghost suggests. He is seated at his terminal, but his long tail is curved around my ankle. It’s sort of reassuring for both of us, I think.
“You mean like a virtual search agent?” I ask. I remember Dad using VirSAs for work. I always thought it was so sophisticated, but of course it’s nothing but a program.
“Sure. A VirSA or two or a dozen,” Ghost replies. “We don’t have to just sit here. I can take you out to look around.” That is a very intriguing idea.
“But aren’t we hiding out in here?” I ask. Didn’t we escape to this place? Am I misremembering what just happened? Things are a bit blurry in my memory. I hate the fuzz. But I like the idea of going out to explore. What do people in The Far Cinct do for fun? Inquisitive minds want to know! I sound like a dork even to myself—and I missed half of what Ghost has been telling me. I pretend that I’ve been listening carefully and fully understand everything he just said.
“Do you want to go?” he concludes.
I have no idea what I’m agreeing to but I nod and smile. He smiles back—apparently, we have a plan. Whatever it is.
We unlock our lair and slip out through the back alley. A frisson of excitement is palpable. It’s not danger, exactly, just the enthusiastic anticipation of something new—new to me, anyway. The Far Cinct feels vast and a bit dark—anything is possible. My eels practically crack with exhilaration. My snakes buzz. I think there is a strong component of emotion to my animal kingdom add-ons. The eels and the snakes react to my environment faster than I can form an opinion. They are like a tangible expression of my amygdala, the organ deep within my brain whose whole purpose in life is to anticipate danger, or something like that. Dad told me once that a teenage brain has an outsized amygdala—we react strongly to everything. I’m not sure about that. Dad is a total emotional wuss, which is why we are now stuck with The Evil One.
My thoughts of Ms. Claudia twist the mood of my snakies and eels around. They don’t like her because I detest her. But there’s more, isn’t there? Did she do something to me? I try and try but I can’t remember.
“Jude?” Ghost slinks past me, rubbing his fur against my leg, like the cat that he is, to get my attention. “What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” I echo. Nothing’s wrong. Just a brain glitch. But I don’t say that. I smile and start to run.
“Where are you going? I thought we were going to meet Gattara,” he says as he runs alongside. He has four legs, but my two are longer, so it’s a tossup as to who is faster.
“The old woman with all those furry apps?” I ask.
“You’ve met?”
“Sure,” I say, but the circumstances of my meeting with her are also a bit fuzzed out. What’s with my brain today? Are they still plying me with too many chemicals back in the hospital? I would have to tell my dad to cut it out.
“Oh.” Ghost seems confused. “Do you still want to hire her daemons to do the research for us? It’s easier than setting up
our own VirSAs. Gattara’s are sophisticated—”
“Was that what we decided to do?” I stop and turn to look at him. I have no idea.
“Yeah.” Ghost comes close and grows until his face is about even with mine. In his more humanoid form, he looks into my eyes. “Everything okay, Jude?”
“Yeah. I’m a bit off. But I think it’s just that I’m still sick in the real world.”
He shrinks back quickly. I catch a bit of concern or fear—or was it guilt?—in his feline features. It’s still hard for me to tell underneath all that fur, but I am getting better at reading Ghost.
“Let’s go then,” he says and curls his tail around my wrist in the now familiar gesture. My eels are pleased. We walk together through the winding back streets of The Far Cinct until we reach a storefront with a sign that reads “Ganbaru House.”
“This is her place,” Ghost says.
“What’s ganbaru?” I ask. I am usually good with cool, trendy words. My generation appropriated the untranslatable dictionary from languages across the globe. It’s our way of keeping adults out of our private business. Of course, adults have their own secret words, so whatever…
“It means to endure,” Ghost tells me.
“Really? What does Gattara need to endure?”
“The Far Cinct has always been a place for misfits, for people who were born different or became so. Everyone here has a story.”
“Do you know Gattara’s?”
“No. The Far Cinct is not a place where you ask people for their histories. If someone volunteers, then it’s okay. Out here, we allow people to have their privacy, to suffer their pain in peace.”
“Sounds dreadful! If someone is in pain, the worst thing to do is to leave them to it.” I completely disagree with Ghost. “Think how important it was for Doc to find you.”
“But by that point, I wanted to be found,” Ghost says. He stretches up again and knocks on the door, looking more like Roman than Ghost.
“She knows who you are?” I ask.
“I think she introduced me to Doc.” He doesn’t sound too sure. “We do business together occasionally now.”
