City of Sand

by Robert Kroese

  “Everything you’re doing is premised on a kind of time travel!” Benjamin shouted.

  Dr. Holst shook his head. “Felipe’s mind didn’t travel forward in time to the year 2000. He simply imagined the year 2000, and projected himself into the construct he imagined. We refer to this as projecting consciousness into the future, but that’s really just rhetorical shorthand. It’s more like someone drawing a map of a place he’s never been to and then tracing his finger along a path on the map. By virtue of his unique brain chemistry, Felipe just happens to be an exceptionally good cartographer.”

  Holst’s narrative made a strange sort of sense, but Benjamin found himself shaking his head. And not just because he found the idea repugnant: he couldn’t quite square what Holst was saying with his own experience. “You’re telling me that everything I think I’ve experienced over the past fifty years is simply the imagination of an eight-year-old boy?” he asked, dubiously. “If that were true, what would be the point of asking me about what I’ve seen, what I remember? I could imagine that Martians attack the Earth tomorrow. That doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”

  “That’s correct,” said Dr. Holst. “Unrestrained imagination is generally too random to be of much use in projecting events. But recent work in the field of psychology has demonstrated that the unconscious mind tends to revert to certain well-established cultural patterns.”

  “Yeah, the collective unconscious. Archetypes and all that,” said Benjamin, still unconvinced. “I read Jung in college. In 1962. Twelve years from now.”

  Dr. Holst nodded, smiling. “Jung was one of the first—at least in Western culture—to see how unconscious patterns in thinking mirrored events of which the individual had no direct knowledge. He writes, for example, that racial memories of past events can be inherited by individual members of the race. But Jung also thinks that the unconscious can reflect future events.”

  “You’re saying that people can remember things that haven’t happen yet,” said Benjamin.

  “Events that are important to the race, or to the species as a whole, yes. Jung himself recounts a vision he had in 1913 in which he witnessed a monstrous flood covering Germany. He saw mighty yellow waves, the floating rubble of civilization, and the drowned bodies of uncounted thousands. Then the whole sea turned to blood. Jung was perplexed and nauseated, assuming this vision was personal. It was not until World War I broke out a year later that he realized its collective nature. That experience led him to conclude that each person’s unconscious possesses not only a personal but also a collective dimension.”

  “You’re contradicting yourself,” said Benjamin. “If Jung saw World War I, then he was seeing the future. You just said that was impossible.”

  “No, he was imagining the future,” said Dr. Holst. “It seems like a semantic point, but it’s an important one. Jung had a vague foreboding regarding catastrophic events, and his unconscious mind gave form to that sentiment. But the details of the vision were of his own creation. He didn’t actually ‘see’ the future, as if there were some sort of tunnel through time that allowed him to glimpse specific events. He tapped into a collective awareness of the event, millions of individual points of view, each affected by the event in some way. Jung was probably one of the rare individuals with a congenital brain anomaly that allowed him to sense these impressions more strongly than most. The sort of anomaly that GLARE has been able to replicate with some success in its subjects.”

  “What you’re saying Jung experienced, though….” Benjamin said. “That’s nothing like what I’ve experienced. You’re comparing a single vision lasting maybe a few seconds to an entire lifetime of concrete experiences.”

  “The difference is one of degree, not of kind,” said Dr. Holst. “Felipe’s gift is exponentially more powerful than Jung’s, but he can’t see the future. He can only imagine the future, based on impressions of major events. He seems to experience the events from a single, discrete perspective, but this perspective is really a synthesis of millions of viewpoints. In other words, the person he imagines himself to be in the vision doesn’t actually exist. He’s a sort of fictional character, a stand-in that represents a manifestation of the dreamer’s consciousness. We call them avatars, after the Hindu concept of deities who manifest themselves in a physical form in the material world. The appearance of the avatar is not reflective of the deity’s actual character or appearance, but rather is determined by the necessity of circumstance. Similarly, if Felipe’s consciousness senses some important event occurring in Sunnyview in the year 2000, he will construct a persona to experience that event first-hand. Maybe a retired police detective who comes to town to find his missing daughter.”

  Benjamin couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it.

  “I am not a construct!” he yelled. “I lived for fifty years before coming back to Sunnyview. Felipe Sanz didn’t somehow bring me into existence a few days ago!”

  “It’s hard to say when Benjamin Stone became a distinct entity,” said Dr. Holst. “Felipe’s visions started a few weeks ago, but at first they were very vague. It’s been five days since he first mentioned the name Benjamin Stone. At first he would awaken somewhat disoriented, as if uncertain who he was at first. Two days ago was the first time the persona persisted into his waking state, but when pressed on the details of his memories, he reverted to the Felipe persona. Today is the first day that the Benjamin Stone persona persisted through a full sleep cycle. It remains to be seen whether the condition is permanent, as it was with Estefan.”

  “But my memories,” Benjamin protested. “Everything that’s happened to me over the past fifty-eight years….”

  “Figments of Felipe’s imagination, mostly,” said Dr. Holst. “The major world events you remember are probably real, because those would be the sorts of things that would make the most impression on the collective consciousness. And you seem to have an understanding of certain cultural touchstones—your knowledge of Jung being the prime example. But it’s very unlikely an actual Benjamin Stone will ever exist, per se. Even the name is a giveaway.”

  “My name?” Benjamin asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, for starters, in the book of Exodus, Benjamin is the brother of Joseph. Joseph’s dreams anger his brothers, which results in him being sold into slavery in Egypt. But Joseph rises to a position of power in Egypt, and years later his brothers come to him, begging for food. Joseph demands that they bring their youngest brother, Benjamin, to him. So Benjamin is literally summoned by Joseph, the dreamer. Later, Joseph arranges for a silver cup to be placed in Benjamin’s sack, as a pretext to have Benjamin arrested and brought back to him. Benjamin is just a dupe, at the mercy of the guy who’s really in charge. Joseph, the dreamer, who in this case is equivalent to Felipe. These sorts of cultural references come up in dreams often. You may recall that Jung called them archetypes.”

  Benjamin swallowed hard. “That doesn’t mean anything. Benjamin is a common—”

  “Secondly, the surname Stone. It’s a bland, American-sounding name that carries the connotation of strength and solidity. A fixed point around which events whirl. And it’s a particularly interesting choice when you contrast it against the name Glazier.”

  “Glazier?” asked Benjamin, surprised. “What are you talking about?”

  “A glazier is a glassmaker,” said Dr. Holst. “A person who transmutes sand into glass panes for windows, mirrors, lenses. Tools that allow one to see what he otherwise couldn’t. Felipe’s mind was making a pun. Glazier and Sanz. The glassmaker and the sand.”

  Benjamin’s stomach churned as Holst’s words triggered associations in his memory. Sand. Pane. Lens. It had to be a coincidence. What did Jung call it? Synchronicity.

  “If you examine your memories carefully,” Holst was saying, “I think you’ll find other such references. Not just archetypes, but unlikely coincidences, and possibly events that seem inexplicable. The unconscious mind is playful. It likes to fold back on itself, making s
ubtle jokes at its own expense.”

  Sandford. Payne. Lentz. How had he not noticed it before?

  “Starting to see it, are you?” said Holst. “I’ve gotten fairly good at it. We have to strip out the noise of the individual’s unconscious mind and determine the underlying events that prompted the vision. Benjamin’s struggle to find his missing daughter probably reflects Felipe’s distress at being separated from his family, so we can discount that thread of the vision entirely….”

  “Wait,” said Benjamin weakly. “You’re telling me Jessica isn’t dead?”

  “There is no Jessica. Benjamin Stone doesn’t exist. How could he have a daughter?”

  Benjamin began to feel dizzy. “No, you’re lying. Jessica is the only reason I found out about GLARE. How could GLARE be real if Jessica isn’t real?”

  “As I said, the broad outlines of your memories reflect reality to some extent. GLARE does exist, but we use a different acronym for it. I assume GLARE is an acronym?”

  “The Glazier Lab for the Advanced Research of Electronics,” said Benjamin.

  Holst nodded. “Interesting.”

  “Why? What is the program really called?”

  “Does it matter?” asked Holst. “It’s confidential, but if you really want to know, I’ll tell you. As a gesture of goodwill. I do want to help you. But if I’m going to have a chance to do that, you have to help me as well.”

  Benjamin shook his head, shutting his eyes tight. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t make any sense. I know things an eight-year-old boy couldn’t possibly know. How would Felipe learn police procedure? How the hell did Estefan learn German, for Christ’s sake?”

  “The collective unconscious,” said Holst. “Small impressions taken from millions of points of view. Felipe and Estefan tapped into a vast well of collective knowledge and used that knowledge to create fictional constructs with certain definitive characteristics.”

  “A composite character created from the unconscious memories of millions of people,” Benjamin murmured. “Memories of events that haven’t happened yet.”

  Holst shrugged. “I can only tell you what we know. Some of it is only conjecture. But with the limited experience we have, I can tell you that there’s no evidence to indicate the avatars actually exist outside the mind of the subjects.”

  “But why?” Benjamin protested. “Why would they go to so much trouble?”

  “Imagining a complex character with a complete history of memories is not difficult for someone like Felipe. And in fact, it’s quite necessary.”

  “Necessary how?”

  “Felipe’s unconscious mind had a reason for projecting himself into Sunnyview in 2000. It wasn’t random chance. Just as a person’s dreams often reflect an unconscious attempt to work out some problem of his waking life, Felipe’s projection into this time and place reflect an urge on the part of the collective unconscious to resolve some conflict. The people you met, the events you experienced, were all part of the collective unconsciousness’s attempt to work out some problem. To have those experiences, you had to be a particular person. In this case, a retired police detective with a missing daughter.”

  Benjamin found himself holding his head in his hands. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. Even with all the inexplicable events he’d experienced over the past few days, he had on some level always believed that the nightmare would eventually end, that ultimately he would find some answers, and some peace. But now it was beginning to seem that the line between fantasy and reality would be blurred forever. He wanted to deny what Holst was telling him, but somehow he knew it was true. The idea that Felipe had transported his mind forward in time, into Benjamin’s body, was a fantasy. Benjamin was nothing more than a facet of Felipe’s personality, filled out with details assembled from millions of strangers, many of whom hadn’t yet been born.

  It was simply too much to process. He was Benjamin Stone, but there was no Benjamin Stone. He had experienced fifty-eight years of life, but he was only eight years old. GLARE both existed and didn’t exist. He needed something to hold onto. An anchor. A rock. A stone, he thought, and realized he was laughing hysterically.

  “I can help you, Benjamin,” said Holst. “I can help you separate what is real from what isn’t. You can adjust. There is no reason you can’t have a normal life, once we—”

  “Once you get what you need from me,” said Benjamin.

  “I promise you,” said Holst, “I will do everything I can to help you, and to get you out of here as soon as possible. Mr. Stockton is a very driven man, but he can be reasoned with, and I do have some influence with him. But you have to give me something, Benjamin.”

  “Or what?” Benjamin snapped. “What can you possibly do to me that is worse than this?”

  “I’m not going to lie to you,” Holst said. “Dealing with your circumstances is going to be an adjustment. But I can help you.”

  But Benjamin wasn’t talking about being trapped in Felipe’s body. As bizarre as his physical circumstances were, they weren’t nearly as troubling as the realization that his memories were a lie. Before this moment, Benjamin would have thought that losing his daughter was the worst thing he could imagine. But now he realized he was wrong: the idea that Jessica might never even have existed was far worse. Benjamin searched his memories, desperate for something to connect to Jessica, some reason to believe she was real. If what Holst was saying was true, then his memories of important historical events, events that affected large numbers of people, were the most accurate. But he couldn’t connect Watergate, the Moon landing, or the Cuban Missile Crisis to Jessica. For that matter, he couldn’t think of any major historical events that he could directly connect to himself. He’d watched the Moon landing on TV. He’d been too young to be drafted to fight in Vietnam. The assassination of Kennedy, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Persian Gulf War… he had no direct experience with anything. Only news coverage and second-hand reports. He was no one. A faceless, nameless observer.

  “…presents us with an unprecedented opportunity,” Holst was saying. “We’ve never had a subject with full recall of their alternate personality. Usually we only get snippets of data, interpreted through a child’s eyes. Or, as in the case of Estefan, the subject is so overwhelmed by the idea of having to reconcile his fictional persona with the subject’s original personality, that he becomes impossible to communicate with. The information is there, but we can’t get to it. In your case, though, you have fifty years of historical data in your mind, and the ability to communicate it. The value of that information in terms of saving American lives and promoting American interests is incalculable.”

  “I get it,” said Benjamin bitterly. “I’m a tool to you,” said Benjamin. “A repository of information.”

  “Even if that’s all you were to us,” said Holst, “the fact is that our interests are aligned. You need help separating fact from fiction, and I can give you that help if you give me the information we need. Please, Benjamin, you must try to understand that.”

  “What do you want from me?” Benjamin asked. “What would you do, even if I wanted to cooperate? If I could cooperate? Stop the entire future from happening? Would you stop the Vietnam War, or just make sure we win it? Would you avoid the mistake of supporting the Shah of Iran, or simply be more aggressive about it? How do I know that all of our government’s mistakes aren’t the result of acting on intelligence I gave you?”

  Holst was busily jotting notes. “When you say ‘Vietnam,’ are you referring to French Indochina?”

  Benjamin laughed. “These questions haven’t even occurred to you, have they? You just gather your data, pass it along to the powers that be in Washington, and hope for the best.”

  Holst set down his pad. “Believe it or not, Benjamin—”

  “Don’t call me that,” Benjamin said.

  “You would prefer Felipe?”

  “No. Just don’t patronize me by calling me Benjamin. Call me Subject Seventeen or whatev
er the hell I am. That’s all I am to you bastards anyway.”

  Holst took a breath, obviously trying to remain calm. “As I was about to say, no, you aren’t the first person to have considered these philosophical questions. David and I have talked about them quite in depth. As well as many others. For example, if you were to tell me the details of this war in Indochina, and the U.S. government were able to alter the outcome of it, what would the effect be on other events you foresaw? Would they still happen, or might we change the timeline so much that your subsequent memories would become increasingly inaccurate? We really don’t know the answers yet, but we have to consider the possibility that acting on one piece of information you provide will make the information less useful overall, and therefore only intervene when absolutely necessary. Admittedly, the flow of information is mostly one-way, by necessity. We are an information-gathering entity. We pass the information on to Washington and they take action as they see fit.”

  Benjamin shook his head. “And you have no qualms about this system?”

  “Any qualms I may have are secondary to the goals of this program, which exists because of special dispensation from the federal government. David and I don’t set the terms. And as I’ve mentioned, if we don’t start producing results, we may very well get shut down. That would be very bad for American interests.”

  “How do you know?” asked Benjamin. “I’ve seen how things turn out, fifty years from now. America does alright.”

  “But GLARE exists in that vision of the future,” said Holst.

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, maybe America survives only because GLARE exists to help us avoid the worst mistakes of the next fifty years. Maybe America survives only because of you.”

  “That’s circular logic,” said Benjamin. “You sound paranoid.”