by Dom Testa
“You’ll be happy to know,” Quanta added, “that Gillian Ormond has already left Tulsa. So we’re cancelling that trip.”
“And just when I was looking forward to chicken-fried steak.”
“Uh-huh. This bloodbath in Georgia probably caused them to pull their heads in just a bit, at least as far as the twins are concerned. We might see more of their underlings getting the final details in place. Wherever their operation headquarters is, that’s where I’m expecting Lucas and Gillian to settle, and soon, if not already.”
Her unspoken but distinctly implied subtext was: Swan, find the damned base.
Poole rang through with us. A new body was being prepped, and I’d be a new man within two days. I mean literally a new man.
I made a lot of noise about how this one better at least have a strong body and stomach, but it was just that: noise. I got what I got. All I cared about at the moment was getting home to my wife. I masked my euphoria.
Listen, I’m fully aware of my nonchalant attitude toward life and death. I was about to slip into my third body in less than three weeks. Christina asked me once if that was perhaps the worst side-effect of the investment process. As she said: “Life is the most precious thing in the universe, Swan, and you treat it like a disposable diaper. Use it for a few hours, shit on it, and throw it away.”
I want to treat it with more respect, I really do. I suppose in the serene early hours of the morning, sitting on a quiet patio, watching the dawn break and listening to the birds begin their sunrise singing . . . I suppose then it would be easier to contemplate the value of each day and each life. But when people like the creepy Ormonds are racing to destroy everything, and when they send a thug like Richter to pump as many bullets into my body as can reasonably be expected to fit, well, it can be challenging to embrace the sanctity of life.
I’m not completely cold, nor unappreciative. It’s just that, for people who do what I do, especially the way I do it, thinking too much about the beauty of life can create a strange feedback loop. The people we hunt down care not one speck for the beauty of anyone’s life but their own. So, yeah, I guess it might come across like I don’t respect it. But I can’t worry about appearances. My path requires a difficult sacrifice, the ultimate — albeit temporary — sacrifice, and the only way I’ve found to deal with it is to downplay everything as much as possible with humor.
And yes, it’s a coping mechanism. Old-school newspaper reporters were notorious for what was called gallows humor. Even Freud himself weighed in on it, claiming that humor during times of crisis helped people detach in order to protect themselves. I think he said people needed to express themselves during difficult times without fear of consequences.
So that’s what I do. Detach. Cope. Laugh.
Then I shoot more bad guys. Then go talk with Miller.
Did I just reference Freud?
I awoke in the basement of Q2 headquarters with one of those headaches that punishes you for even thinking. That’s not unusual; half of my investments began with a skull-rattling ache. Nobody in the white lab coats could ever explain it, nor did they care all that much since it never lasted more than an hour or so. It’s chalked up as a cost of doing business. Unfortunately I’m the one stuck with the tab.
They filled me with some of their high-octane pain relief juice, and once it took effect I settled in for my get-to-know-you session with the newest body. Think of it like a first date, only we were getting married on that date. And, come to think of it, the arrangement was definitely till death do we part.
I always start with an assessment of the body at rest. In this case, lying on a table with a comfy pillow beneath my head, I already felt stronger than the lightweight dude I used to be. This body had good muscle tone, so he’d worked out. Turning my head from side to side I discovered excellent eyesight. Breathing seemed normal, so no apparent lung issues.
Next, I lifted a hand and felt beneath the sheet. Hey, every single man since the dawn of the species would check, so shut up. All I’ll say is above average. Christina would be relieved. Let’s move on.
Next I lifted each leg a few times, did some crunches, albeit slowly, and flexed my arms for a full minute. There was a definite ache in two fingers on the left hand, an indication they’d recently healed from a break. I didn’t think that would be a problem.
After a little more time I sat up cautiously. I was spot-on about the muscles. No Dwayne Johnson, but solid. The legs looked like they’d run for miles, which was also good. I got the notion that Quanta was making up for the shrimp. That, and she knew we were closing in on D-Day; she’d need a real soldier. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d kept this guy on ice for a while, waiting for the right moment. Sort of like a general holding battalions in reserve for the real battle.
My favorite lab tech, Sherilyn, the same woman who’d been with me when I invested two weeks earlier, came over to chat. After a few froggy attempts, I managed to speak with her. Even my new voice was impressive, a deep bass that came out intimidating without even trying. I smiled a lot to make sure I didn’t scare her, which probably looked ghoulish, now that I think of it.
She re-checked everything: heartbeat and blood pressure a little high but improving, which was par for the course; reflexes normal; eyes retreating from their super-dilated, recently-dead condition, also average.
Once I felt steady, she asked me to stand. I always think about the monster’s first steps in Young Frankenstein and want to look around for Igor. But this went well, and within five minutes I was perambulating at a pretty good clip. You’d never know that an hour earlier I’d been a certified corpse. For fun I even skipped a few times, just to make my lab tech nervous. Sherilyn sat me down in a chair and handed me a bottled water. Just like after traditional surgery, I couldn’t leave until the plumbing all worked.
“This might sound weird,” I said to her. “But do you have anything to eat?”
“Really?” she asked. “You’ve never been hungry this soon.”
“I’m not hungry at all. I wanna know if my taste buds are human again.”
“They told me you had some jars of peach jam sent here. Is that what you’re looking for? I can go grab them.”
“Those aren’t for me.”
She rounded up a Kit Kat from somewhere. It was the greatest thing I’d ever put in any mouth.
I was ready to conquer the world.
Chapter Eighteen
Conquering the world was put on hold for an hour while I got my head examined.
I’d taken the elevator up from the basement to the ground floor, then put the new body through a mini-workout by taking the stairs to the 4th floor. Instead of turning left to visit Poole, I made a hard right and reported for my meeting with Miller.
I sat in a large, comfortable chair, taking only an occasional glance out the window. There wasn’t much to see outside his office, anyway. That was probably by design. We — meaning Q2 field agents — were expected to focus inward during our time with the esteemed Miller.
I’d met with a traditional therapist once after my father’s death, once after my mother’s, and made an appointment after my sister’s death but never showed up. With Miller it wasn’t an option.
It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the concept of therapy; on the contrary, I’d always believed it was an important but often-misunderstood step in both recovery and continued growth. When Miller had first questioned me about my mental health history, expressing surprise at my earlier abbreviated sessions, I explained it by revealing that I was a quick study. I used those initial hours to learn what I needed to do in order to work through my grief and anger, and felt I could best implement the rest by myself.
An outsider might claim I was arrogant about the process, while another might opt for a different adjective, such as ignorant, naive, or maybe cocky. I maintain it’s consistent with my personality; I chose to analyze my analysis rather than to simply listen and marginally reflect. I took an active role in the scop
e of peeling apart the layers of my subconscious. My own analysis of those previous meetings led to the conclusion that I could pursue self-study of my mind, which I did, and continued to do. Unlike a rebellious teen who simply ditched class, I opted for emotional home schooling.
Miller listened to this explanation the first time without apparent judgment, not even an academic smirk, and simply filed it away. From that point I knew I could talk with him.
We didn’t meet on a regular basis. Sometimes I chose an hour when I was at headquarters and it was convenient; other times it was requested by Quanta.
He opened this session with a familiar question. “The new body. Any physical issues that might cause stress?”
“For the first hour I felt a constant need to clear my throat, but that’s fading. Or I’m just learning to ignore it.”
“Maybe this body’s just used to more water than it’s had since investment.”
“True. I’ll water the plant more often.”
For another ten minutes we talked more about my acclimation, in both general and specific terms. I’d never leave Q2 headquarters without this review. When a new body was selected it went through rigorous testing in terms of hardware, making sure everything worked properly, including the brain’s basic functions.
The software portion was trickier. How would a physical brain adapt to the implantation of a new conscious mind? In most cases it was fine, and simply required a little bit of time for the two gears to sync up. You’d never be installed in a body and then rushed out the door to shoot bad guys within an hour. But it also happened more quickly than you might imagine.
Only once had I experienced a bad match. That had been . . . discomforting. I was rescued and placed into yet another new body within two hours.
That’s a story for another time.
We transitioned into a discussion about the current case, and how I felt about the progress. Pretty standard questions in terms of psychological evaluation. I knew Miller would ease through this portion of the interview and then get to his own agenda.
And he did.
He tapped a pen on the arm of his chair. “The last time we spoke you used a word you hadn’t used before.”
I smiled. “Was it monster?”
“Was that just a flippant comment? You’re very good at those. Or do you really worry that you’re becoming one?”
“Not becoming. The transformation is well underway.”
He laughed. “I’m glad we’re talking about this again. Last time you were hesitant.”
“Last time I was in a really shitty body. And Quanta had kicked my ass with more vigor than usual. I guess I didn’t feel like philosophizing.”
“So let’s philosophize today. Define how Q2 has turned you into a monster.” He pointed at me. “That’s still the same Swan in there, right? The same Swan I spoke with a month ago? Just wearing a different skin suit.”
“I say no.”
He nodded. “Okay. How is it a different Swan?”
I let out a long breath. “I’ve had this conversation with myself over and over. In my mind it makes total sense to me. When I verbalize it, it sounds implausible. But I know I’m right. I am not the same person I was when I joined Q2. And it’s not just a slight shift.”
“And it’s not just a reaction to your experiences?” he asked. “A traditional agent with, say, the FBI or CIA might insist they feel different, too. Getting shot at is enough to change someone; you actually take the bullets. Why wouldn’t that harden you?”
“But it’s not a hardening to the job. It’s . . .”
I paused and took another look out the window.
“You’ve read the stories of patients who go to the doctor because they know something’s not right? They have no specific symptoms, no physical changes; they just feel that something’s different. And then they’re checked out and they have a brain tumor or something.”
“But you don’t have a brain tumor. All of your brains are basically in fine working condition.”
“Right. But I’m talking about the sense. I began to feel it as soon as I’d uploaded and downloaded a few times.”
He pursed his lips. “Listen. Don’t overreact to the word I’m about to employ; it’s just the best word that encapsulates what I’m referencing. But have you ever considered that this is a perfectly natural, and understandable, form of hypochondriasis?”
I narrowed my eyes. “So I’m a hypochondriac?”
“I don’t mean in the manner of any hypochondriac you’ve ever heard of. But you and just a handful of other people are blazing a new trail in science. And it involves your most precious asset: your mind. So naturally, when you use that asset in a variety of shells, it’s easy to begin wondering if it’s not as good this time. As if it’s been corrupted — I think that’s the word you used before.”
“But how could I not be the best judge if that’s happening?”
“You might be,” he said. “But in some respects you could also be the worst judge, the same way people are often the worst judges of their own skills or abilities. You’ve heard of people being their own worst critic?”
A full minute passed as we both absorbed this. One of the things I liked about Miller was his ability to make a quick zag when I zigged, leading me down avenues I hadn’t considered. And with my penchant for overthinking, I’d logged a lot of miles down mental avenues.
“Well,” I finally said, “one thing I know for certain has changed. My overall attitude toward life and death.”
He just watched me, so I plowed on.
“I’m not saying it’s cheap, necessarily. But the reverence for it is dissipating.”
“Are you referring to reverence for just your own life?”
“No.”
He raised an eyebrow. “But Swan, as time goes by, the number of enemies you eliminate will increase, just through the nature of the job. So by the time you get to number 10, or 20, or 40, it couldn’t possibly affect you the way number one did.”
“And that’s the root of my concern,” I said. “With each upload and download, I’m leaving behind any vestige of respect for the sanctity of life. There’ve been so many copies of copies that the original Swan was lost long ago.”
“Only in the performance of your assignments, perhaps. What about personal relationships? How are you getting along with people in your day-to-day life?”
I considered my life with Christina, something Miller knew nothing about. Had the cumulative downloads of Eric Swan produced a hairline crack in that relationship? And, if so, would I notice if it was a gradual change? Christina had never hinted at any differences in me — other than the obvious physical iterations — and she was certainly a woman who would speak up.
But, playing devil’s advocate with myself, I didn’t see my wife very often, and the time I did spend with her was generally brief. I’m not sure there were enough opportunities to gauge any erosion that may have taken place.
And, for a split second, I wondered if this was Miller’s sly attempt to poke around my private life. Perhaps his own assignment from Quanta?
It didn’t matter. His question had been a valid one.
“I have a switch,” I said.
“A switch,” he echoed.
“Yeah. Between work and the real world I can throw a switch. Always have, even in the military. It puts up a firewall between some of the shit I deal with professionally and a casual relationship on the other side. I don’t think I could live any semblance of a normal life without it.”
He scribbled a quick note, which always intrigued me. Wouldn’t we all love to see the words written about us?
“So,” he said, “you’re saying any corrupt files you’re experiencing would be segregated, only on the business side? That doesn’t sound plausible.”
“Why not? You’re a doctor; you know there are countless diseases that pinpoint areas of the brain.”
“True,” he said. “But you’re talking about a transfer process that doesn
’t prioritize brain segments. Each is treated with equal care in the investment.”
“And yet the human mind doesn’t treat its own segments equally. Why is it farfetched that one area could be more vulnerable to instability than another?”
Miller stared at me. “You’ve thought about this a lot.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Probably. Is the idea troubling enough that it’s affecting performance?”
I opened my mouth to answer, then paused. Of course the conversation would veer this direction. After all, this was at the core of Miller’s job. Were Q2 agents handling the incredible stresses and unique physical demands the job placed upon them? I had to assume that every question I answered in this room was the equivalent of a brick in a building’s foundation. All it took were a few weak points to create instability and, with enough pressure, eventual collapse.
So Miller was a mental structural engineer.
This particular question, however, was a trap, and a clever one. He’d subtly maneuvered me through a series of questions and statements, prepping for this one point. Saying yes, admitting that my thoughts were indeed affecting my performance, was a huge red flag — a fatal red flag, professionally — while saying no would never be entirely truthful and hint at deception.
I could play this game.
“Yes and no,” I said. “It doesn’t impede my ability to get a job done, and in some ways keeps me sharper than I ordinarily would be. But yes in that it creates an extra layer of quality control when I size up the subject I’m pursuing. I think learning to recognize varying shades of good and bad would affect anyone’s performance. But not necessarily in a bad way.”
It took a few seconds, but then Miller smiled. He was a pro. He’d meticulously set me up, I’d volleyed right back to him, and in that moment he knew I was wise to him.
He set his notes down on the table beside him. “Let’s talk about this again next time,” he said. “But for the time being, until we can get more workable data, let’s assume your files aren’t being corrupted. Instead let’s just recognize you’re very, uh, curious.”
