Fragments

by James F. David

  He started over, addressing it to her, thanking her for her care, and her tenderness. He thanked her for the things she taught him, telling her that he remembered them all. He wrote of the trips in the car with her and how good the memories were, even though he had no feelings at the time. He wrote a page about his memories of eating tomato soup and chocolate pudding for lunch and how good that memory was. Then he wrote about sitting on the Winamakis’ back porch swing watching the bug zapper flash on summer evenings.

  He realized it was getting too long for a letter and ended abruptly, saying he would write again. Then he wrote “Love, Luis.” After he found an envelope and addressed it, he felt better. Now the pain was gone and he felt even better than when he ordered his room. As he left to look for a stamp, a new feeling came to him. He knew the name for this one right away—it was happy.

  Gil packed a small bag with a change of clothes and toiletries. Tonight he would leave. The gun planted by his bed and the police search had pushed him into the decision to leave, but now something else was going on. The others were down in the research room getting ready to run the experiment without the savants and without him. The only reason given was that they wanted to try it with a different set of people—yet, they were going to include Ralph. Gil knew he was a more logical choice than Ralph, so they had to be onto him, or at least suspicious. He suspected Shamita was behind this new experiment—probably linked to what she had discovered about him.

  Gil hid the packed bag in the back of his closet and went downstairs to resume the evening routine. He was about to fix the savants their evening snack when Elizabeth stopped him. Gil could feel his face flush and struggled to keep his face impassive when Elizabeth spoke to him.

  “Gil, we want to keep them occupied for a couple of hours tonight. Pop some corn and I’ll run to the store for a couple of videos.”

  “What’s up?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

  Elizabeth hesitated, so Gil thought I can trust Gil, and pushed.

  “We’re trying to figure out whether the Frankie intellect is somehow connected with the killings. During the last run Wes set the configuration differently, so we wouldn’t get Frankie, but we did. That doesn’t make sense, so we’re going to try again with a different group.”

  “And if you get Frankie it will mean what?”

  “I don’t know, but we have to start understanding this.”

  Outwardly, Gil agreed enthusiastically, but silently he couldn’t see the point. That computer generated Frankie couldn’t have anything to do with the killings—certainly not the murder of Pastor Young. Still, they were getting suspicious, and nothing Elizabeth had said reassured Gil enough to stay. He just needed the right moment to slip out.

  Gil had two big bowls of popcorn ready when Elizabeth got back with three videos, popping the first in. A feature-length cartoon lit up the screen and the savants were instantly entranced. Gil watched with them for a few minutes, then stood in the doorway watching the experimental preparations.

  The experiment room was a different place. Gone was the jumble of cables and nitrogen lines. Now the cots and equipment were arranged in three nested semicircles. Cables connecting the equipment were laid out in neat lines, peeling off one at a time into their respective destination. Len, Archie, Yu, and Luis had worked through the afternoon setting it up. Gil had overheard Len praising Archie’s plan, noting that he had been able to shorten half of the cables, improving efficiency.

  Shamita was on a cot wearing the helmet, while Wes sat at a console. Len was at Shamita’s usual station. They were mapping Shamita for the experiment. Len lacked Shamita’s experience, and the mapping was slow. Then Shamita and Len swapped places and the mapping continued. As Gil watched them he realized they didn’t even know he was there. Turning back to the living room, he saw that the savants were equally entranced, two videos sitting by the VCR ready to be run consecutively. No one would miss him, not for a couple of hours. He could wait until dark, but if he left now it would be easier to catch a bus to Portland.

  In his room he opened his window and dropped the suitcase into the yard, then walked down the stairs, pausing on the landing. The savants hadn’t moved, and weren’t looking now. The others were still absorbed in the experiment room. Opening the door quietly, he stepped through, softly closing it behind him. He paused, regretting that he had to leave them alive—especially Shamita. She knew too much, and so did the others. Frustrated because he couldn’t take the time to kill them, his anger flared. He savored the emotion, having come to enjoy it because it represented power. Turning at the bottom of the steps, he set the porch swing to rocking with one glance and a thought-push. Feeling invincible, he left for the bus station, swinging his bag and whistling.

  It would be an hour wait for the next Portland bus, so Gil stretched out in a chair, his ticket in his shirt pocket. His muscles were tight from anxiety, and would remain that way until he could lose himself in the bustle of Portland. Eyes closed, he alternately tensed and relaxed his muscle groups, slipping into a meditative state. Slowly, his anxiety dissipated, and he savored the relief. Then he felt someone pulling the ticket out of his pocket.

  Gil pinned a swastika-tattooed hand against his shirt. He looked up into the eyes of a startled skinhead. Dressed in dirty denim from head to foot, he wore a jacket with cutoff sleeves. Two more skinheads stood behind, snickering. Now caught, he jerked away, leaving Gil’s ticket behind.

  “Hand it over, greaseball!” he demanded.

  Gil’s temper flared, and he stared defiantly.

  “You deaf, greaseball? I said gimme your ticket.”

  Gil noticed that the other two were looking around nervously and didn’t seem willing to fight for the ticket. His anger red-hot now, he said, “Beat it, asshole!”

  Cheeks reddening, the skinhead glared, his lips clamped tight. Gil expected trouble, but then the skinhead looked around at the busy bus station. Unwilling to strong-arm someone in a crowded place, the skinhead opted to save face instead, giving Gil the finger. When he did, Gil snapped.

  As the skinhead’s hand dropped and he turned away, Gil grabbed his wrist, pulling the hand back to his face. Freezing, the skinhead reached in a pocket with the other hand. Quickly, Gil stared at the offending finger, wrapping his mind around it and pushing. When the finger rose the skinhead looked down, surprise quickly turning to fear. As his finger became vertical the skinhead’s other hand extracted a knife, the blade snapping open. The sound energized Gil and he pushed harder than he ever had. The skinhead’s middle finger instantly flattened against the back of his hand, the bone snapping loudly.

  The boy gasped, and then a soft scream gurgled from his throat. Dropping his knife, he grabbed his injured hand, turning to his confused friends. The others, horrified at the sight of the limp finger flopping around, cursed but did nothing to help. Gil picked up the knife and refolded the blade, dropping it into his pocket. Staggering from the pain, the injured skinhead stumbled through the station, his friends following. A few steps away they caught up and stopped briefly, cussing Gil. He watched until he was sure they were gone.

  Now Gil went back to his relaxation routine, once again enjoying relieving the muscle tension. Soon the meditative state returned. Gil deepened his breathing, slipping closer to a transcendental state. Then awareness left him.

  Wes checked the connections on Elizabeth’s EET helmet, then returned to his station. The feed was clear now. Ralph, Len, Karon, and Shamita were already under, now unaware of what was happening.

  “You ready, Elizabeth?”

  “You sure this doesn’t hurt?”

  “You won’t even know when it happens. You’ll think you fell asleep. When you wake up you might feel a little confused, but that’s the worst any subject has ever reported.”

  “What are you using from me again?”

  “Verbal abilities—you’ll do the talking. Like usual.”

  “Funny.”

  “We’re using you as the template too
, so the abilities of the others will be mapped onto you.”

  “Good. You better not take advantage of me while I’m under.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it. Besides, I don’t have to. There is one other effect I forgot to tell you about. Volunteers report feeling horny when the sessions are over.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up—or anything else.”

  Wes laughed, then shifted to Shamita’s station and cut out Elizabeth’s sensorimotor functions, mimicking the first stage of sleep. Back at his own station, he began the merge, mixing in abilities from the others, using the parameters Shamita had set up. The merge took, and soon he had integrated brain wave activity. OK, let’s see if you’re home, Frankie.

  Placing a tape recorder next to Elizabeth, Wes stood by Len and said, “You’re Pat. Can you hear me, Pat?”

  “Yes,” came the reply from Elizabeth.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Pat.”

  Wes paused, realizing it wasn’t Frankie. It wasn’t just that it responded to Pat; the voice lacked emotion. Flat and mechanical, the voice wasn’t human in the same way Frankie was. It was more consistent with Wes’s previous experiments, and that worried him. Why when the savants were merged did it produce a mind and a personality like Frankie, but with his coworkers it was something less?

  Wes continued through the preplanned questions. “Do you know Pastor Young?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know Scot Salyer or Joshua Ringman?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been to the Kappa Kappa Kappa fraternity?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember leaving this house?” There was a long pause.

  “No.”

  “Why did you wait so long to respond, Pat?”

  “I was confused.”

  Since each of the donors had left the house many times, he knew there might have been enough traces of memories to combine to create a personal memory for Pat. But only Elizabeth had actually been to the fraternity, and met the boys who had been killed, so there was less chance of a combined personal memory for that. It was consistent with the way he had hypothesized that the integration would work—personal memories were the basis of personality, so why did Frankie have a personality and Pat not?

  “On what day of the week will Christmas fall in the year 2030?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What one word goes with ‘dog,’ ‘potato,’ and ‘house’?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I want you to find a word that would go with each of three words I gave you. For example, the word ‘hot’ would work—‘hot dog,’ ‘hot potato,’ and ‘hothouse.’ Let’s try another one, Pat. Find one word that goes with ‘Latin,’ ‘skin,’ and ‘pen.’ ” Another long pause.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It would be ‘pig.’ ” Pat certainly didn’t have Frankie’s intellect, which was a bit surprising. Except for Ralph, there was a lot of intelligence lying on those cots. Wes wondered if Ralph’s intellect alone could be dragging the others down.

  Wes tried a few other questions and tasks, convincing himself that Pat’s intellect was far short of Frankie’s, then returned to his station, systematically dismantling the intellect. One by one the others sat up, looking at Wes, who shook his head. Wes brought Ralph back last, dreading giving him back sensorimotor functions. As soon as Ralph was awake, his mouth opened.

  “Did you do the speriment? I don’t remember it. I’m kinda thirsty though—know what I mean?”

  “It’s too late to go to the Seven-Eleven tonight. I’ll take you for ice cream tomorrow.”

  “Well okeydokey then.”

  Ralph remained on the cot, playing with his helmet. Having learned how to deal with Ralph, Wes pulled out a pack of gum and handed it to him. “Share that with the others. They’re watching a video.”

  Ralph’s lips puckered, and he stared at the pack in his hand. “Juicy Fruit. Luis likes it lots. He’s got a pretty big mouth you know.”

  Knowing what was coming, Wes handed him another pack.

  “Well okeydokey then.”

  Elizabeth had the tape recorder at Len’s station, where they were correlating the questions with the physiological readings. Frankie and Pat’s readings were clearly different.

  “Pat wasn’t lying,” Len said. “But it looks like Frankie was.”

  “That’s a bit strong,” Wes said. “The readings are different, but there may be other explanations.”

  Everyone stared dubiously.

  “OK, Frankie was probably lying,” he conceded. “But why? Frankie isn’t someone who can get up and walk out of here—let alone kill someone. Frankie ceases to exist when we stop running the program.”

  The sound of the front door opening and closing distracted them briefly, and Karon went to check on the savants. After a moment she returned.

  “There’s something wrong. They’re asleep but I can’t wake them.”

  Elizabeth followed immediately, the others trailing. Luis, Yu, and Archie were lying on the floor, on their backs, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Daphne was on the couch, asleep. Ralph sat in a rocker, a big bowl of popcorn in his lap. Wes noticed he was chewing gum and eating popcorn at the same time. Agitated, Karon explained what happened.

  “Ralph asked if I would rewind the tape since he’d missed it, and since the others were asleep I said sure. But I tripped over Luis when I tried to get to the VCR. Luis didn’t move. I apologized but there was no reaction. So I shook him but he wouldn’t wake up. I tried Yu and Archie too. They won’t wake up either.”

  Elizabeth stooped and shook Luis’s shoulder. “Luis, wake up.” Luis opened his eyes, looking at Elizabeth and then the blank TV screen.

  “I want to watch the movie.”

  “You can, Luis, we’ll start it again.”

  “I swear I couldn’t wake them. They were lying there comatose. Ralph, you saw me try. They wouldn’t wake up, would they?”

  “I dunno, Karon. I was eating popcorn and it keeps getting stuck in my Juicy Fruit.”

  “Maybe Gil noticed something,” Wes suggested. “Where is he?” No one knew, so Wes went up the stairs looking for him. Wes knocked on his bedroom door, but got no response. Pushing it open, he saw Gil lying on the bed wearing a coat, just waking up. He looked confused, and when he saw Wes he looked startled.

  “Are you all right, Gil?”

  “Yeah, fine. I was just dreaming. You woke me up.”

  “I was going to ask you about the savants, but if you weren’t down there with them—did you go somewhere?”

  “Is something wrong? I only meant to leave them for a minute. I took a walk.”

  “They’re fine. It’s just that Karon says she couldn’t wake them up. She said it was like they were in a coma. Have you ever noticed them sleeping that deeply before?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “OK, thanks.”

  Worried that he was going insane, Gil lay on the bed, trying to reconstruct the evening. He’d gone to the bus station to leave town. He’d sat down and then he’d been harassed by those skinheads. Gil felt his pocket, his bus ticket was still there—it hadn’t been a dream. Still wearing his coat, he found the switchblade in his pocket, and then his bag in the closet. He’d blacked out and somehow returned home.

  Gil lay back down, remembering what had happened, step by step. The last thing he remembered was meditating. Remembering other meditations, he realized the recent ones had been followed by deep, unsatisfying sleep. But what if he hadn’t been sleeping? And what had Wes said?—something about being unable to wake the savants. It had to be that Frankie thing. Suddenly sickened, he realized it didn’t need the computer to exist. It had been using him. Then Gil remembered the murders, trembling when he thought of the risks Frankie had taken with him. But in the first murder they suspected a girl and an Asian in the second. It wasn’t just him; Frankie was using them all, and now she wouldn’t let Gil get away.r />
  It wouldn’t let him leave, but if he stayed it would keep using him—and eventually he would be caught killing someone. There must be a way out! Every muscle in his body was knotted and he couldn’t think clearly. Automatically, he began his relaxation routine. Relief spread through him, and soon he could focus on his breathing, clearing his mind. Suddenly he panicked, sitting up with a start. That was how Frankie took him—when he meditated.

  If he didn’t meditate could Frankie take him over? Was it that simple? What if he got away to Portland; was Frankie hindered by distance? She might not be. He’d read enough parapsychology journals to know that psychic abilities defied normal laws of physics. Then he thought of the experiment, and of another way out.

  Frankie was bits and pieces of all the savants, not only him. If he removed a part, could Frankie exist? He doubted it. He might have to remove more than one part, but he didn’t care. He was going to be free from this thing, and he was going to be free soon.

  They listened to the full tape of the experiment at the kitchen table, Elizabeth raptly listening to herself say things she couldn’t remember.

  “Why can’t I remember talking to you, Wes? It was only a few minutes ago.”

  “They’re personal memories—that is, Pat’s personal memories.”

  “But I’m Pat.”

  “You’re part of Pat, but so are Shamita, Len, and Karon—Ralph too.”

  “So why can Pat speak at all? If Pat didn’t exist until tonight, then how could he know how to speak?”

  “It’s a different kind of memory. Amnesics don’t forget how to speak, or drive a car, but they do forget their past and who they are.” Wes paused, knowing that this wasn’t the time for a lengthy technical explanation. “Notice how long he paused when asked if he’d left the house. Since each of his donor minds had, there was likely enough trace to confuse him.”