Deucalion (4 page)

3

MEMORY

Colony Ship
Prometheus

In geo-static orbit above New Geneva

14/12/100 Standard

JANE

Every muscle in her body screamed. Through the fog of pain, she tried to focus on the face of the cryo-technician, who went mechanically through his checklist, tapping meaningless codes into a hand-held punchboard as he completed his monitoring of the body scan.

He paused for a moment, and injected something into a valve in the tube leading down from the machine above her head to the needle embedded in her wrist. Almost immediately, the cramping began to ease and the pain subsided to a dull, all-over ache.

Then, without shifting his gaze from the punchboard's readout, he began asking her a series of questions. ‘Name?'

‘Jane Sukoma-Williams. With a hyphen.'

‘Age?'

‘I'm . . . well, I'm not quite sure how old I'd be now. What was the exact duration of the Jump?'

The technician looked up, not even trying to mask the boredom he must have been feeling. The freeze-liner had a passenger list of somewhere around thirty thousand people, not to mention a six-crew roster of another three hundred and ninety. And every man, woman and child had to be monitored individually: body scan, psych and DNA profiles, reflex exam, and – importantly – memory analysis.

‘The Jump took forty-eight years and three months, Old Earth time. Which translates to about thirty-nine years one month Standard. During which time you were in stasis. Just disregard the Jump-Time. How old were you when you came aboard?'

‘I was eighteen and nine months.'

‘Which on Deucalion would make you –' he consulted a conversion chart – ‘about fifteen years and four months.' He tapped the figure onto the punchboard.

‘What do you mean, “fifteen and four months”? I just finished telling you . . .'

The look on his face stopped her flow of words. She realised her mistake before he responded.

‘I mean, “fifteen and four months”. Standard. Measured on Old Earth standard, the year on Deucalion is approximately four hundred and fifty days long. A day, by the way, is just about identical to an Old Earth day in length, but we have a metric clock – ten hours, a thousand minutes, or a hundred thousand seconds to a day. Which is why they told you to leave your old chrono back on Earth. It would be no good at all here, except as a memento. The Standard year is divided into fifteen months of thirty days each. So, Ms Sukoma-Williams – with a hyphen – on Deucalion you are fifteen years and four months Standard. They really should have briefed you on all this. I don't have time to explain—'

‘I'm sorry,' Jane interrupted, before he could make her feel any more foolish than she already felt. ‘I'm sure they did brief me, I just . . .'

‘Forgot?' An unreadable expression passed across the technician's face. He peered more closely into her eyes as he continued his questions. ‘Occupation?'

‘I am . . . I
was
,
Assistant Director of the Extraterrestrial Unit at the Genetic Research Facility, Osaka.'

‘So young?' For the first time, the question showed a measure of real interest.

‘Not really. I received Funding for a Research position at the Facility when I was sixteen . . . that's twelve years, fourteen months Standard.' She did the conversion in her head almost instantaneously; a fact which was not lost on the technician. ‘But over half of my graduation class at the university were younger than I was. Some a lot younger. Research is a young person's game.'

‘If you're bright enough.' The observation was a compliment, and she acknowledged the fact with her eyes. He went on: ‘And yet, you said you “forgot” about the time difference between Old Earth and Standard. Is there anything else you have trouble remembering?'

‘I wouldn't exactly call it forgetting. Look, my head feels like it's spent the last fifty years inside a particle-accelerator, and every muscle in my body is about to self-destruct. I'm not exactly at my peak. It slipped my mind, that's all.'

‘Perhaps.' Jane noticed as he spoke that he held the punchboard as if he had forgotten it was in his hand. ‘I hope that is all it is. But . . .'

‘But what?' The man's attitude disturbed her, and she asked the question a little more loudly than she had intended.

‘But . . . they warned you of the possible side-effects of cryogenia, of course.'

‘Side-effects?'

‘In rare cases, there is an accelerated rate of organ degeneration after the conclusion of the “freeze-sleep”. There isn't a whole lot that can be done for those individuals; they don't tend to last more than a year or two at best. And there is about a one in five thousand chance of partial blindness from corneal deterioration. It was a real problem in the early days, before they got the transplant units set up. But you're fine on those two counts – according to the body scan. The only thing is . . .' The technician hesitated in a way that made her nervous.

‘The only thing is?'

‘Nixon's Syndrome.' This time, the pause was more deliberate. He left the words hanging like a challenge, watching her face for some kind of reaction. He was rewarded with a momentary expression of bemusement, followed by a questioning frown.

‘I'm afraid I don't . . .' she left the sentence unfinished, with a shake of her head.

‘I know they would have told you about it. It's a mandatory part of the preparation procedure. You honestly don't recall?' He asked the question with little real hope. Already, his fingers were tapping out a request on the punchboard. If it was Nixon's Syndrome, it was out of his league.

‘What exactly
is
Nixon's Syndrome?' Jane spoke to mask the growing alarm she could feel rising in her at the sight of the technician's expression. ‘And why the reaction? It's not as if I can't remember my name, or where I come from, or anything. Just some stupid information they fed me while I was being processed. I had a lot on my mind. I'm not exactly here for a holiday, you know. Maybe I just wasn't paying attention.'

‘Maybe.' He sounded less than convinced. ‘And believe me, Ms . . . Can I call you Jane?'

Jane nodded, and smiled briefly. The double-barrelled surname had that effect on a lot of people. Even at the Facility, where
no one
used first names, they had all called her Jane, even stolid, old-fashioned Hakawa. Funny, now that she thought about it, she had worked with the guy for two years, and she didn't even know
his
given name.

‘Of course. And what do I call you?'

‘Emil . . . Sorensen.' He smiled now, as if some barrier were suddenly removed, but she could not fight the feeling that this was partly due to something other than the exchanging of names. ‘Believe me, Jane, I hope that it is nothing. But unfortunately, Nixon's Syndrome is a real possibility and we must investigate it seriously. If you have developed it as a side-effect of cryo, it's important that we find out as much as we can. As a scientist yourself, you will appreciate the need for—'

‘What? A guinea-pig? What makes you think I've got the problem at all? Just because I forget something I probably didn't take in when I was told . . .' She sat up on the bed, her eyes staring a challenge into his.

‘In most cases, Jane, I would probably give you the benefit of the doubt, and just make a note on your file. But –' He held her gaze and met her challenge with a look of . . . was there a trace of pity there? She could not be sure. Finally he continued: ‘You were Funded for Research at . . . how old?'

‘Sixteen. Earth standard.'

‘And by eighteen you were, what was it? Assistant Director?'

Jane could see where the line of questioning was leading, but she could think of no way to divert it. She nodded.

‘Not a bad CV,' Emil Sorensen went on. ‘What's your IQ?'

‘IQ doesn't mean everything.' Vainly, she attempted to avoid the question.

‘Maybe not. But you
do
know it, don't you?'

She gave in. ‘Of course I do. Somewhere over two hundred and twenty.'

He whistled quietly. ‘And what's your recall like?'

She was trapped, and she knew it. ‘Eidetic.'

‘Photographic memory. Total recall.' He sounded impressed. Most people were.

‘That
is
what eidetic means.' The tone was more patronising than she'd intended, but she was suddenly scared.

‘Total recall,' he repeated. ‘And yet you can't remember being told about something as important as the Deucalion-Earth time differences, or the possible serious side-effects of freeze-sleep. Doesn't that strike you as a bit odd?' He reached across and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder – a gesture that spoke more of his fears for her than a hundred words could. ‘I hope it's just as you say, but we have to check it out.'

‘You still haven't told me exactly what this Nixon's Syndrome is.'

Emil looked uncomfortable again. ‘I know. I was sort of hoping that—'

At that moment, the door in front of her slid open and a man walked through. The technician greeted him with a sigh of obvious relief. ‘Dr Currie.'

Rising, he met the newcomer at the end of the room, whispering to him for a few moments in a voice which remained frustratingly below her threshold of hearing. Then he turned back to her. ‘Jane, this is Dr Currie. He's the revivification specialist. Any questions you have, he's the man. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a whole crowd of new arrivals to put through their paces, so I'll be getting along.'

Dr Currie was a short man; maybe 155 centimetres, maybe a little less. But he carried himself with a confidence that made him appear much taller. ‘Emil tells me that you worked in the Genetic Research Facility.' The ice-breaker.

But Jane was in no mood for small talk. ‘Tell me about Nixon's Syndrome.'

The doctor nodded, and sat down in the chair recently vacated by the cryo-technician. When he spoke, it was as one professional to another. In spite of the difference in their ages, her experience and obvious successes placed them on an equal footing. ‘It's a condition we don't fully understand. Strike that. We understand perfectly what
happens
,
we just don't know a damned thing about what
causes
it. All we know is that it strikes a very small percentage of individuals after a period in stasis, that its effects are irreversible, and that the onset is apparent from the moment of revival.'

‘And what are its “effects”?'

‘A gradual, progressive loss of memory. In a typical-case scenario, the memory disappears a little piece at a time, following no particular pattern. Unlike degenerative conditions such as Alzheimer's, for example, there doesn't appear to be any breakdown of the actual physical structure of the brain. Except that certain cells seem to develop an electro-chemical resistance to neurotransmitters. Imagine it like a series of computer files. The information is all there, locked inside, but it's as though someone has placed a password on them, and the retrieval system can't get the information out.'

He paused, but Jane had followed the analogy. She nodded for him to go on.

‘The recall-failure is minor at first, and progresses slowly for the first month or so, but then it accelerates, until nothing at all remains from the period before the onset of the condition.'

‘Nothing?' The question was whispered. Jane watched the man's face for a trace of hope, but there was none.

‘Nothing. Total, permanent amnesia.' Then he brightened slightly. ‘But there is some good news – assuming, of course, you prove to have the condition, which is by no means certain.'

‘And that is?'

‘Nixon's affects only those memories which existed prior to stasis. Anything experienced or learned from this moment on will remain when all the rest is forgotten. Someone as gifted as you should be able to re-learn everything important to your work, and reabsorb all the conditioning that enables you to function in society, with very little disruption to your life. It's just the personal memories – growing up, your first love, your time with your family, your . . . personal history. They will be lost forever.'

Jane was quiet for a moment. Then a sudden calm came over her, pushing down the rising fear. The rational side of her took control; the professional detachment that had helped her so much during her brief, meteoric rise in the competitive jungle of the Organisation. She began to speak, thinking aloud, as she did when she was struggling with a difficult problem. ‘Let me get this right. The condition is not degenerative? The memory cells remain intact?'

Dr Currie nodded, but said nothing, allowing her to pursue her line of reasoning. ‘And apart from losing the information previously stored, the memory continues to function as before, unimpaired?'

Another nod.

Jane closed her eyes, allowing the facts to circulate almost randomly. It was a technique she had perfected over long hours of problem-solving in the research labs. Don't try to solve the problem logically. Let it drift; let the subconscious nibble away at it, until the answer arrives in a flash of inspiration.

For a long time there was silence and the doctor grew uncomfortable, but just as he was about to speak, the young woman opened her eyes.

‘What if . . .' she began, then paused momentarily. ‘What if I were to force myself to recall the important memories from my childhood,
before
they disappeared? Wouldn't that create a
new
memory, a post-stasis memory, that wouldn't be affected by the shutdown?'

The doctor nodded his head, impressed by the lateral approach. ‘An interesting solution. And, may I say, one we didn't think of for a long time.' Then he shook his head slowly. ‘I'm afraid it doesn't work. It appears that even under hypnosis, simply recalling a memory doesn't create a new, “immune” one. You don't “remember remembering something”, if you get my drift . . . No, I'm afraid that once the memory is gone, it's lost forever.' Then he brightened. ‘But let's not look on the black side just yet. We've done no tests. There may be no cause for concern.'