F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 (49 page)

 
          
"Override
it."

 
          
"I
can't. There is no override. And even if I could
—
"

 
          
"Type
in 'P-H-Y-S-O-V-R-D-dot-E-X-E.'"

 
          
"What?"

 
          
"Now!
Do it now! It's an override program I wrote. Just in case. And this is that
case. Please. I'm begging you!"

 
          
"Very
well."
A few seconds later: "It's asking
me for a password."

 
          
"E-I-L-U-J."

 
          
"What?
Oh, 1 get it."
Another pause.
"There. It says 'Override
Executed.'"

 
          
"Thank
you!"

 
          
"I
hope you know what you're doing."

 
          
I
have no idea what I'm doing, you think. But it's getting too hot for thinking.

 
          
"I've
learned a lot in here, Sam." You're shouting now, hoping it makes a
difference. "I learned a lot about you I never knew, and a lot about me.
Most of what I learned about me I don't like. But I've changed, Sam. Because of
you. You're responsible. So don't leave me hanging here. Help me help you,
Sam. All I need is a little. Stretch a little, Sam. You see these two cut ends
on either side of me? Move them just a little closer together so I can bridge
the gap. Come on, Sam! Just a little!"

 
          
"Give
it up, Julie,"
Dr. S. says gently. "Her
pulse is one-forty. You
gave it your best shot, but, damn it, she's too far gone."

 
          
He's
right. It's no use. The eye on the cortex side remains closed. Not even a
twitch there. The heat sears you and the rumbling and shaking are beginning to
rattle you.

           
This isn't going to work. You've got
to get out.

 
          
Your
throat constricts and a pressure builds again in your chest. But you don't
fight it this time. This time you let the sob burst free.

 
          
With
your eyes squeezed shut against the tears welling inside your goggles and your
arms stretched to either side like a crucified martyr waiting for the last
nail, you wail unashamedly into the heat and noise. Because you've got to let
her know and you may not get another chance.

 
          
"I
love you, Sam.... I hope you can hear me. And I'm sorry for all the hurt I
caused you while we were growing up, but I... I never knew. I didn't
understand. Couldn't understand. But I do now, and I do love you, Sam. I want
you to know that, and I want you to take it with you wherever you're going.
Maybe you
want
to go, and if that's the case I beg you to re-consider.
You've given me something, Sam. You've given me back a bit of my missing part,
and it's made me hunger for more. And I can give you back some of what you're
missing. We're two cripples, Sam. But together we can help rebuild each other.
I've got the tools right here. So come back to me, Sam. Let me make it up to you.
I'm not a monster ... really I'm not. Don't give up on me, Sam. I just learned
that I love my sister. Please don't leave me now."

 
          
And
that's all you can say. You're sobbing uncontrollably now. Part of you feels
like a damn fool, but another part, a newer part, doesn't give a damn. If only
—

 
          
Something
clamps around your left index finger. You glance over, and through the blur of
tears you think you see ...

 
          
No.
Can't be. You blink, and blink again, and you see that it's true.

 
          
One
of the papillae from the open-eye side has stretched out from the stump and
reached
you. Its tip has taken the shape of an infant's tiny hand ... and its
stubby, pudgy fingers are holding on for dear life. Others too are stretching
toward you, undulating in the heat, reaching....

 
          
"Yes!"
you cry and your voice sounds choked and you're afraid you're going to start
sobbing again because the emotions surging through you are almost overwhelming
and you can't allow yourself to be overwhelmed because you've got to keep a straight
head here, got to stay focused and help Sam make this connection.

 
          
What
about the other side, the cortex side?

 
          
You
turn and see a single, blunt-tipped papilla reaching out from below the closed
eye, stretching in your direction but not very far
—
no more than eighteen inches at best. So feeble, and already
it appears to be weakening, sagging with the heat.

 
          
You
stretch your arm toward it, but you're still a good six inches short.

 
          
"Come
on, Sam! You can do it! Come
on!"

 
          
But
the papilla sags farther. Desperate, you wrap your fingers around the little
hand from the other side, and pull it toward you, stretching the tendril behind
it. As it elongates it begins to thin along its midsection.

 
          
"Don't
break," you whisper. "Please don't break."

 
          
You
give it a moment and it seems to thicken, or at least redistribute its mass,
but still it appears dangerously thin.

 
          
You
can't wait any longer. You stretch it farther, all the while extending your
right arm toward the closed eye, just inches now.

 
          
"Come
on... just a little farther..."

 
          
And
then almost as if sensing your presence, the papilla rises and stretches and
—

 
          
Contact
is like an electric shock, a nerve-jittering, jaw-clenching, muscle-spasming
jolt running up your left arm and down your right. You scream in pain but you
won't let go, won't pull back. You must hold on.

 
          
And
then the pain subsides to a tingle. You relax and open your eyes. The cortex
eye is still closed but the papillae around
it
have sprung to life. They
move with new energy, some of them shooting out toward you. On the other end,
farther away, the same thing: hundreds of tendrils snaking toward you.

 
          
It's
working! You've bridged the gap and you're conducting the impulses. They're
flowing through you to Sam's cortex!

 
          
You
can only hope it's enough.

 
          
You
hear a loud, shuddering sob and realize it's you. Not again! Where's your
fabled control? You haven't cried since you were a baby. What are you going to
do, make up for all that time in one day?

 
          
The
new tendrils from each side reach you then, their tips morphing into hands as
soon as they make contact
—
baby
hands, little-girl hands,
teenager and adult hands, all the hands of Sam's life
—
-and they grasp you and crawl up your arms,
and
clutch
at you, stretching to your shoulders and then to
your
chest and your
breasts, the ones on the left pouring their impulses into you and the ones on
the right drinking them up, and, God, you're crying like a baby and you feel
like a mother nursing her firstborn, and some new hands move to your face to
wipe your tears while others caress your hair before sliding past you to fuse
with the members from the opposite side, and suddenly they're proliferating in
a frenzy and you're engulfed in tendrils, almost smothering in conducting
fibers that don't need you anymore so you struggle from the wild tangle, wriggling
downward, extricating yourself from the snarled mess. And just before you pull
free you glance at the cortex eye and see that it's open now, its iris as blue
as the other eye's, as blue as Sam's, and it's watching you.

 
          
You
smile and you know it's a tremulous, wavering thing. You can barely speak
through the torrent of emotions cascading through you.

 
          
"Welcome
back, sis."

 
          
And
then you're half a dozen feet away, watching the connections thicken and
multiply. You can almost see the impulses surging through to Sam's starved
cortex. Her EEG readout is going wild.

 
          
You've
done it! And it feels
wonderful.

 
          
But
then ... there's another rumble
—
the loudest yet. It cuts off
your little celebration. A different rumble, deeper and longer than any before.
The others seemed to come from the volcano itself. This one originates
elsewhere. And suddenly everything is shaking.

 
          
You
check the readout and see that Sam's pulse is 162. Is that the cause of the
quake? Have you stayed in too
—
?

 
          
Something
dark blurs past you on the left and splashes into the lava below. You look up
and see other chunks of lava rock tumbling from the chimney wall as the
rumbling continues.

 
          
"No!"

 
          
Your
shout echoes in your headphones. Not now! This can't happen now. Sam's just got
her chance to rejoin the living and now the whole mountain is collapsing on
her. You've got to stop this, find some way to
—

 
          
Pain
lances up your arm as you're knocked back by a falling chunk of lava. You look
at your virtual arm and see the skin is torn and bleeding. And it hurts.

 
          
The
Window button is beeping and blinking. You know what he's going to say. And
he's right. You've got to leave. Now. Or you'll both suffer.

 
          
Damn!
Damn everything! You want to scream.

 
          
Instead
you click EXIT.

 
          
People
have asked if the memoryscape programs could be useful in treating or
identifying False Memory Syndrome. I haven't 'scaped an
FMS
patient yet,
but it's a fascinating challenge. To the sufferer, false memories are
indistinguishable from true memories, but the memoryscape might offer clues.

—
Random
notes: Julia Gordon

1

 
          
Julie
tore off her helmet and lay there gasping, drenched in sweat. And her arm was
killing her. As her breathing slowed she heard an insistent pounding somewhere
in the room. She sat up and looked around.

 
          
The
afternoon sun had been swallowed by rain clouds, turning the room dim and
gloomy. To her right the monitor beeped. Its flashing icon said Dr. S. wanted
to talk. Fine, but that awful racket... where
—
?

 
          
The
door. Someone was rattling and banging on the door.

 
          
Julie
pushed herself from the chair, wiped her tears as she crossed the room, and
unlocked the door.

           
The nurse stood in the hallway with
cook and the maid clustered behind her. She stared at Julie in shock.

 
          
"Great
heavens, miss! What's happened in there?"

 
          
"Why
... nothing. Just
—
"

 
          
"We
heard terrible shouting and crying. We thought you were struggling with someone
and
—
" She gasped as her
wide-eyed gaze came to rest on Julie's right arm. "Oh
—
look at your arm! What happened to your'

 
          
Julie
stared at her sleeve. The fabric was intact but glistening with blood. She
rolled it up and stared at the inch-long tear in the skin beneath. It was much
smaller than the wound to her virtual arm in the 'scape, but still... a wound.

 
          
She
swallowed. "It's nothing. I'll be okay."

 
          
The
nurse squeezed past her and hurried into the bedroom.

 
          
"I'll
help you with that in a minute. Right now I've got to tend to my patient. She
should be
—
oh! Great heavens! What's
happened to her?"

 
          
Julie
reached to the bedside. "What's wrong?"

 
          
"She's
soaked!"

 
          
True
enough. Sam's flannel nightgown was drenched with perspiration and plastered to
her skin.

 
          
Julie
removed Sam's headgear, then lifted her wrist and counted her pulse: 140. Down
from a few moments ago. Her face, though, was as slack and expressionless as
ever.

 
          
"Sam?"
She grasped her shoulder and shook it. "Sam, can you hear me?"

 
          
No
response. Not even a twitch of an eyelid.

 
          
She
pulled up one of those lids: The blue eye within stared back at her, unseeing.

 
          
Crushed,
Julie sank onto the edge of the bed, gazing at her sister.

 
          
"Sam?"
she said plaintively. "After all that, aren't you coming back to
me?"

 
          
What
did I
do
in there? she wondered. I thought I brought you back. Why
aren't you back?

 
          
"She
must have run a fever," the nurse said.

 
          
''No...
no fever."

 
          
"Well,
something
must have happened."

 
          
"No,"
Julie said, still gazing at Sam's face. "I'm afraid nothing happened . ..
nothing at all."

           
The monitor beeped again.

 
          
The
nurse said, "I've got to change her immediately before she takes a
chill."

 
          
"Sure."
Julie pushed herself up from the bed. "Go ahead. I'll be over here."

 
          
She
dropped into the wooden chair by the monitor
—
Alma
's old seat. And inside she felt as dead as
Alma
. Outside she felt like
hell: damp, exhausted, and her arm throbbing with pain. She stared at the
blood. Dr. S. had been right. She'd been in real physical danger in there. So
what? It had all been for nothing.

 
          
She
hadn't accomplished anything.

 
          
You
failed her again, dammit.

 
          
She
hit a couple of keys and Dr. Mordecai Siegal's face filled the screen.

 
          
"Finally!"
he said. "1 was worried something had happened to you."

 
          
Reflexively
Julie pulled her bloody arm behind her before remembering he couldn't see her.

 
          
"I'm
okay. I was checking Sam."

 
          
"How
is she? Any sign she's regaining;
—
"

 
          
"Nothing,"
Julie said. "No change at all, other than a sweat."

 
          
"A
sweat?"

 
          
"Yeah.
She was drenched."

 
          
"Hmmm."
Dr. S. tapped his fingertips against his lips. "A burst of autonomic
activity. That
could
mean something. How's her EEG? Her cortex showed
such a tremendous response when you bridged that gap. Which, I must say, was a
truly heroic effort on your part. You've changed, Julie. I don't know if you
realize it, but
—
"

 
          
"Yeah,
well... looks like it was all a waste of time. She was back to her usual
eleven- to twelve-Hertz when I removed her headset. Which means..."

 
          
She
couldn't finish the sentence. She was filling up again.

 
          
"Easy,
Julie. You did everything humanly possible."

 
          
"But
not enough!" she yelled. "What happened in there, Dr. S.? I found the
problem, repaired the connection, and that should have been it. Sam should have
been on her way back to consciousness. Why did everything start to fall apart
at the end? At first I thought the volcano was going to erupt again, but then
came that earthquake or whatever it was ... the connection must have been torn
apart again." She let out a great breath. "I'm missing
something."

 
          
Julie
squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the wonderful touch of those tendrils,
those little hands, the impulses surging through her.

 
          
"We
had her fixed! And now we're right back where we started. No, we're
worse
than
when we started. Because after the cave-in, that chimney has to be completely
choked with rubble. We won't get another chance to reconnect her. She's a
goner."

 
          
"Wait,
now," he said. "You don't know for sure that the repair was cut.
That quake may have been her own doing, a way to block up the volcano chimney
and bury the connection. Remember, it started off subterranean; maybe your
sister wants it underground again."

 
          
Julie
looked over at her limp, motionless twin.

 
          
"If
she's still connected, why isn't she responding? Why isn't there
some
sign
of improvement? I don't expect her to get up and start painting, but I was
hoping maybe she'd move a toe or twitch a finger or blink her eyes. God, I'll take
anything. But there is no change. Nothing. Nada."

 
          
Julie
realized she sounded angry. And she was. Furious, in fact. Furious that she'd
tried everything she knew and had come up empty-handed.

 
          
Good.
Hold on to that. It's better than the crushing despair of a moment ago.

 
          
"Maybe
even a twitch is too much to expect so soon. Who knows? It may take a while for
her cortex to repair itself, for her consciousness to reorganize after such a
catastrophic assault."

 
          
Julie
barked a harsh laugh. "Usually I'm the optimist and you're the naysayer.
How'd we get switched around?"

 
          
"Because
I've never heard you sound so defeated. It's not like you."

 
          
'"Well,
as you said a moment ago, I've changed."

 
          
"You're
giving up, then? Should I close the satellite link and -all it quits?"

 
          
"No."
She sighed. "Not yet. I'll go back in tomorrow for another look at her
memoryscape. If it shows signs of healing, we'll hang in. If there's been no
change, I'll try to get back into the volcano. If I can't, we'll... dammit,
Mordecai, I can't stand the thought of abandoning her!"

 
          
"You've
done everything possible."

 
          
"But
I
didn't
bring her back. And I didn't find out what caused this.
What
was that last memory?"

 
          
"We'll
never know. Apparently it self-destructed when your sister accessed it. It's
gone forever, I'm afraid."

 
          
A
thought struck Julie with the force of a blow.

 
          
"Wait
a second. It's gone from Sam's memory ... but what about mine?"

 
          
"What
do you mean?"

 
          
"As
much as we fought, Sam and I were rarely out of hailing distance throughout our
childhood."

 
          
"So?"

 
          
"So,
there's a good chance that whatever awful thing happened to her also happened
to me. I could very likely have the same bomb buried in my own memory."

 
          
"Yes
..." he said slowly. "It's possible, but hardly probable. Even if you
both experienced the same horrible incident simultaneously, the probability
that both of you would completely suppress the memory approaches zero, I'd
think."

 
          
"But
we're identical twins, remember?"

 
          
"But
you're
not
alike. Your reactions would be completely different from
Sam's. Sam might suppress it, or deal with it in her art. You would find a
rational way to handle it. No. Not possible."

 
          
He
had a point. Still...

 
          
"I
guess the only way to find out for sure would be in the memoryscape. Too bad I
can't explore my own."

 
          
"Don't
even think of such a thing! That could be catastrophic! You could get caught
in a closed feedback loop and end up like your sister if you broke it. Or you'd
wind up trapped in your own memoryscape forever. Thank God it's not possible,
because I'm sure you'd be reckless enough to try it."

 
          
"Right,"
Julie said. "I probably would. Maybe I'll work on that when I get
back."

 
          
"You
will
not!
And that's my final word on that."