Absorption Read online

  She exclaimed, “This is shit! Your engineers will find it themselves in a few years. None of it would help in the middle of a war. As far as I’m concerned you could have it.”

  Brett stared at her, astonished by this description of the technical questions which had been made his top priority.

  She handed him back his belt computer. “Goodbye.”

  He said, “Ariel, look at me.”

  She stared at him coldly.

  He continued, “I won’t let the time we had together mean less because of what you imagine I’m thinking. If you still want to, show me the way.”

  Ariel’s devastation drove him onward, but this morning he had already been trying to nerve himself for the final step. It might actually be easier with her by his side. Since Ariel was helping him accept Oceania’s invitation, perhaps her countrymen would not hold her time with him against her.

  Or perhaps he deluded himself, increasing Ariel’s problems by delaying her heartbreak.

  His fears were not gone, but the intensity of Ariel’s individuality and passion made them less plausible.

  So he only needed to worry that she might become a criminal or outcast for consorting with the enemy. It would be harder to do this without her though, and allowing her homeworld to be unnecessarily devastated was no favor to her.

  Her face softened. She leaned towards him. “I guess that’s what I was thinking. It’ll give us a little more time together. Neither of our governments could object.”

  For a moment Brett wondered if the change had been too easy, then he shoved the thought away. “How do I start?”

  Apparently he still didn’t look very calm. She asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Of course I am.”

  Ariel looked concerned for a moment, then laughed. “You’re lying. You’ve let yourself become convinced you’re responsible for things much bigger than you. Are you still hoping our entire world will realize how steadfast the determination of the Federalist Worlds is from reading your mind? Or maybe you’ll discover the key to our defenses, turn this war into a bloodless victory. And then?”

  Brett wanted to protest, but although they never talked about politics, his goals really weren’t secret. “I guess.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you there. You’ll still be glad you did this though. It’s like nothing you’ve ever imagined.”

  “So how do I -”

  Ariel interrupted. “It’s easier and more natural than you think. Brain cells work together in groups, which form lobes, which work together to form hemispheres, which learn to communicate with each other without any instruction manuals. Now you’ll take one step up.”

  “But none of those other units has any individuality to lose.”

  Ariel smiled. “Soon you’ll see this is nothing like you expect. I’m putting you in charge. No need to worry about being absorbed, you’re the boss. If my analogy doesn’t make you feel better, forget the neurons, you’re about to use the most amazing collaborative software you’ve ever imagined. Start with a subject you believe Oceania should think more about.”

  Brett blinked. “I’m in charge?”

  Ariel smiled. “It’s traditional to start that way. Just think of something you know about that you think Oceania would benefit from considering. Soon your skills and knowledge will be indexed and other self-organizing projects will reach out to you.”

  That sounded creepy, but Brett decided not to ask if he would have a choice. He had already chosen.

  Brett grinned to himself. He had knowledge of the Federalist Space Force which Oceania would no doubt be happy to have. While he and the Colonel had assumed it was compromised from the day of his first infusion, he wouldn’t go with that, in case they were wrong.

  Instead he said, “I know more about brain surgery than most of you do. You have many ways of resolving problems without cutting through the skull, but not as much experience when it’s unavoidable.”

  Ariel nodded. “Great idea.”

  Brett bit back the impulse to ask what now. He found he already knew, though he couldn’t quite put it into words.

  On reflection he was surprised how much he knew about the Oceanian healthcare system, despite variation throughout the planet. Most neurosurgeons would have access to shared technical knowledge, but more was needed. Sheer physical stamina was important. A complex operation could last many hours. Brett remembered drilling through cow skulls in school, but nothing was quite like drilling through skulls backed by flesh and blood, where a slip could destroy a mind.

  Virtual reality simulations were good, but not perfect. Lifists were almost as strong on Oceania as on Old York, limiting surgical practice even on farm animals about to be slaughtered in the most humane way possible.

  Brett closed his eyes and remembered his first major surgery, not as observer or intern or assistant but as the doctor in charge. He could still remember his hands vibrating as the drill cut through bone.

  More than just remembering, he could find the people who might need this knowledge, or make use of it. Their minds had been indexed, just as his would soon be. A few had already shared the memory with him, though their brains would be permitted to retain none of Brett’s personal history.

  His eyes snapped open. It had been easy – too easy. The very naturalness of it was wrong. Brett lifted his head sharply, for once unbeguiled by Ariel’s blue eyes. She told him, “Put the experience into words as best you can. That will help you absorb it.”

  “Umm, those people whose names I couldn’t quite assimilate all at once, they weren’t all people directly involved with how Oceanian medicine is practiced. They could have scheduled other people who were to be on at the same time as I was, if it seemed worthwhile. Ultimately a very professional case could be made. Not everyone is convinced, not that they doubt I have more experience with surgery than most of them, but they doubt that there’s a systematic problem that can be solved without a lot of unnecessary surgery.”

  Brett thought a moment. “I recruited them for the project, sort of. I knew where to find two of them, who knew where to find the rest.”

  Or ‘where’ was the wrong word, but he had ‘located’ them by …

  Words eluded him.

  Ariel nodded.

  Brett continued, “Even though I was sort of in charge, it wasn’t like I was controlling them.”

  “Exactly. After a taste or so of organizing, you start by learning to be organized, as a resource for others who can use your abilities. Ultimately you’ll do both, as circumstances warrant.”

  “I couldn’t have forced any of them to do anything they didn’t want to, could I?”

  Ariel changed pronouns, understanding the true drift of his question. “Nobody can force you. People do sometimes do things that surprise themselves. Being part of something larger than yourself is a heady feeling. There are stories about swindlers and forgers who become swept away in the joy of being Oceania, eagerly reengineering the banking system to put themselves out of business. In real life it’s mostly retired or captured criminals, and they sometimes get compensated for their help.”

  Brett replied, “There’s something we haven’t touched here. All this talk of collaborative tools is great, and I can see that’s part of it. You’re going to tell me that there’s no single unified consciousness that people become part of? I’ve heard Oceanians talk about it.”

  Ariel paused, apparently choosing her words. “There is, but if you don’t experience it firsthand I can’t describe it. It started as a sort of consensus hallucination. The people who originally founded the supermind had many different interests and purposes. They negotiated compromises, but ultimately the system of balances involves everyone who participates.”

  “So now I try the other side? Learn to be ‘organized’?”

  “You could put it that way. Next we’re going to index your brain. Don’t worry, it’s much easier than it sounds.”

  What followed seemed like an eternity. Brett became
suddenly aware of simple puzzles, which vanished from his mind when he decided how he would solve them – or didn’t. He heard short words and phrases, many in foreign languages, and brief conundrums that were swept away as soon as he decided how to think about them. Some of the tests had tactile components as well, or an element of taste or scent he couldn’t isolate.

  It felt like a long time before the torrent of experiences ended, but Brett’s belt computer said only about twenty minutes. He didn’t bother to ask how he had done. “Everything is too fast, I couldn’t -”

  Ariel interrupted. “You’re not supposed to. We can tell how you set about a problem before you actually start it. There’s a lot of material to be covered. You resisted. Why?”

  Brett sighed. “I didn’t intend to. I just did.”

  Ariel took his hand and squeezed it. “I forgot how difficult it is for most people. It’s just that you have the perfect personality for it. You can identify with something larger than yourself, but don’t go along with the crowd. But if you don’t want to do it, you don’t.”

  “I want to. I have to.”

  “Something deep inside you doesn’t right now. But maybe you’ll feel differently in a few months.”

  “We don’t have time for months of doing nothing.”

  Neither of them mentioned his total reversal from a few minutes ago. Ariel shook her head. If the moment had been less serious, Brett would have enjoyed watching the strands of hair fly about. “You can’t hold yourself responsible for the actions of either government involved. Would it be different if you tried again?”

  Brett sensed she was avoiding something. Still connected to Oceania, it took only a moment to find out how else he could circumvent the roadblock before him.

  “So I need treatment for this ‘phobia.’ Given the time constraints it will have to be a series C.”

  “Brett, that’s not safe. You’ve been worrying about the overmind, but this danger is from your own mind, and it’s quite real. I won’t help you.”

  Brett felt touched by her refusal, but he couldn’t let himself feel relieved. She could not absolve him. He couldn’t force her to help him, but surely someone else would, given that the invitation came from Oceania. Brett remembered Napoleon, the bossy dwarf who had berated Michael on Herbirthday, and encouraged Brett to take the first steps in becoming part of Oceania. He didn’t know Brett well enough to feel emotionally involved.

  Brett thoughtmailed Napoleon.

  Had Ariel suspected he couldn’t do this, only wanted him to show that he was willing to try? After all that happened she had been surprisingly quick to give up.

  Brett squeezed her hand. He told her, “I love you Ariel.”

  That truth hadn’t been evident to him until this moment.

  Chapter 22

  Brett glanced around the sterile white room. In front of him lay an oval glass tank, somewhat bigger than a coffin, about three quarters full of saline solution. Straps gripped the bottom of the tank. A few steps offered a path over the side.

  On a little table stood a mouthpiece for breathing and a special porous helmet. Brett’s skullcap wouldn’t function underwater.

  Brett wore black swimming trunks. Beside him stood Napoleon, whom he had last seen at the Herbirthday celebration in Ulayn, which now seemed so long ago. The man wasn’t as short as Brett recalled – memory had created a caricature. A light tan covered his wrinkled face, and thin white hair fell neatly into place.

  Why had Napoleon dressed completely in black today? Preparing for Brett’s funeral? He shook his head to dismiss the macabre thought.

  His companion misunderstood the shake. “Changed your mind?”

  “No, give me a minute.”

  One passed, then another. Though Napoleon showed no sign of impatience, Brett cast about for something to say while he stalled.

  “How will this make it easier for me to participate in the supermind?”

  A silly question, since Brett wouldn’t have come without studying the risks and benefits first. Napoleon politely pretended to take it at face value. He said patiently, “You’ll have a symbolic confrontation with your own fears. Therapy would have the same chance of success, but this works on the time scale you say you have. It’s up to you, but this is rarely done because of the risks involved.”

  “Who picks the symbols?”

  “They come from your brain,” Napoleon replied.

  “Why are we both acting like my fear is an irrational phobia that needs curing?”

  “You wanted to do this. Myself I’m not sure it’s such a great idea. Your people will blame us if it goes wrong. Want to get dressed and discuss it over a drink instead?”

  They both knew if Brett did that he probably wouldn’t come back. Napoleon offered him a chance to back out.

  “No, let’s go.”

  He put on the breathing gear and the porous helmet. Strange to think his inward struggles would be so violent his brain would need external liquid cooling. He climbed up the steps and put his feet in the clear liquid. It felt cool, and he knew it could be chilled further quickly.

  As he lay down in the coffin-shaped tank he felt goose bumps, although it wasn’t that cold. Buoyancy and nervousness kept his head above the surface of the fluid. Napoleon rolled up his sleeves, but he still waited until Brett closed his eyes and forced out, “What are you waiting for?”

  Then Napoleon helped strap Brett under the surface of the liquid. With his eyes shut, Brett could only tell the lid had closed when it became suddenly darker, and from the little vibration he felt. After that he waited in silent darkness, wishing they would get it over with.

  The darkness remained, but Brett no longer felt chilly. Even at night the cracked concrete buckling asphalt reradiated heat from the scorching summer day.

  Huh? But it was true. Fortunately his feet remembered every crack in the broken sidewalk.

  The people walking with him kept quiet, but Brett could hear them breathing. He wondered how to get away from them inconspicuously. This place smelled of pollution and garbage, and reminded him of Burnton, the slum he had never hoped to see again. Not a good neighborhood to meet strangers in the dark.

  Someone spoke, only a few feet ahead of him. “We slam the sweetso, easy.”

  Obsequious noises came from around him, but Brett kept quiet. That slang came from Burnton, all right, and Brett hadn’t heard it since he was fourteen years old. Why would the C series send him back here? If Jarvis still led them the murder lay in the future – and the indelible memory of that made a mockery of surrendering individual responsibility to a group.

  The first voice took on a sharper, derisive edge. “You quiet, Bookie. Turned chicken?”

  Reflexively Brett placated it. You didn’t cross Jarvis, ever. “We slam the sweetso. You the top.”

  The old slang snapped Brett into the mind of the fourteen year old body he wore. Brett’s nickname had been Bookie since Jervis caught him at the one vice he hid, not gambling but reading.

  Young Brett liked this plan as much as any of them. He vaguely wished he knew a way to live besides robbery. But the woman behind the register would be terrified, which was good, since Jarvis wouldn’t see a need to hurt anyone. They had masks, but everyone in the neighborhood knew to keep their mouths shut if the visiting Lords were recognized, because the Lords had long memories. Policemen didn’t visit this neighborhood at night, so nobody would come even if someone silly screamed.

  Almost as one, they came to a stop in the hot humid darkness. Brett’s body knew they had arrived even if his mind didn’t. A little light came through smudged glass, illuminating the unimpressive display of the tired little candy store. A stirring of memory made Brett uneasy, but no time remained for that now. He pulled the mask over his face and followed the others in, but one thought remained. How could anyone be stupid enough to stay open this late in this neighborhood?

  A tired young woman stood behind the old cash register. Jarvis told her, “Open the register and stand
there.”

  The rope in his hands made it clear she would be tied up if she complied. The consequences if she disobeyed were left unstated. The expression on her face didn’t show blank shock or abject terror. If Jarvis noticed at all, he must have thought her a fool. Brett experienced unease but, from long habit, he let Jarvis do the thinking.

  He breathed a sigh of relief when she complied silently. As leader, Jarvis scooped the money out of the register and divided it up. Nobody protested either his math skills or his greed – you could follow Jarvis, run away from him, or fight him to the death.

  The door to the candy shop opened again. Did someone not realize what was in progress? Or did they just not realize it was the Lords, and want to play hero?

  Then Brett saw the red razor blades tattooed on their cheeks. These frightened him much more than their lack of fear, and the hard looks on their faces.

  The smaller one said, “Give that back and apologize if you want to live.”

  Brett stopped breathing. His life didn’t flash before his eyes, so apparently you could die without that. Despite their name, the Razors had plenty of guns. Sometimes they even outgunned the police. They occasionally found the Lords useful or amusing, so they wouldn’t kill the teen criminals on sight.

  The only problem was Jarvis. He knew the Razors and their relationship to the Lords, but he feared nothing and never backed down to a threat. That was why nobody messed with him, that was why the other Lords followed him without question, that was who he had spent his whole life becoming.

  When Jarvis mouthed off they would all die for it. Perhaps an instant remained for Brett to try and disown him, but he could not overcome habit and twisted loyalty in that instant.

  Time seemed to slow down for his last moment of life, and Brett had an insight. The candy store operated as a front for Razor drug dealing, of course. Only it didn’t matter now.