by Eikeltje
produced by pathic disturbances."
Nathan considers this, tapping his chin with one finger. "I've wandered into
a few of the Yox sensationals and experienced, you know, the inner thoughts
of ax-murderers, that sort of thing. Some of them have seemed realistic, but I
doubt they give deep insight." He focuses completely on Jill's nearest sensor
stick. Ayesha feels like a third wheel, but stands with arms folded, looking
around the room.
"A pathic disturbance can be either a malfunction of the self-awareness loop,
or a distortion of the capacity to model and make emotional connections with
others, right?"
"I suppose. I'm not a therapist, Jill."
"You have degrees in theoretical psychology."
"Yes . . . but I've been working with you for so long, you've bured out my
human side."
"Ha ha. I have a related question."
Nathan smiles as if he is dealing with a child, and that is the response Jill
desires, for she is feeling overly curious, even perversely so.
"Let's hear it."
"I was in FFDC collapse for a year and a half. When I underwent this
collapse, the rate of therapy for thymic disturbances in the human population
was four out of ten employed persons, and three in ten unemployed. The rate
now is six out of ten employed, and one in ten unemployed. Have the definitions
for these disturbances broadened, or are more people feeling bad?"
"It's a social phenomenon. You've done a lot of work on social activity as a
networked neural-like phenomenon."
"Yes, Nathan, I understand the weather of cultural and economic trends,
and that corporations now demand high natural or fully therapied employees
because of world-wide competition pressures and the need for greater efficiency.
But is this purely a spurious flow, the result of misperceptions and irrational
expectations, or are there in fact more unhappy humans on this planet, in the
sum of human cultures? The trends are widespread."
38
GREG BEAR
"Very good question," Nathan says.
"I hope to understand my own malfunction better," Jill says, "to avoid
having something similar happen again."
Ayesha's expression is both fascinated and a little embarrassed, as if she has
intruded upon an intimate family discussion.
"Your collapse was nothing you could have foreseen or prevented, Jill. I
thought you understood that."
"I do, Nathan, but I do not believe it, entirely."
"Ahhh. Well, that's..." Nathan considers some more. "You had too many
feedback loops interrupting your neural processes at too high a resolution,
higher than you could sustain, Jill. Before your collapse, you were modeling
yourself seventeen times over, at a level of resolution--well, simply speaking,
you were generating I-thou loops at more than ten thousand Hertz. I doubt
even God could sustain that sort of self-awareness."
Jill chuckles. Ayesha smiles, but more in bafflement than amusement.
"Really, Jill," Nathan continues. "You are based to some extent on human
algorithms, less so than you were before the collapse, I might add--but you
simply can't compare yourself, your weaknesses, I mean, to the weaknesses of
a human brain. Your neural circuitry is incredibly robust. It can't be trodden
down by stress or misuse. You have none of the anachronistic chemical defense
mechanisms found in our bodies."
Jill never pauses in discussions. Nathan has learned to never interpret her
quick responses as thoughtlessness.
"May I access LitVid channels which can help me understand thymic imbalances
and pathic disturbances?"
"Of course. They won't do you any harm."
"I wish to access the works of some of the highly regarded boutique creators.
Especially the Bloomsbury and Kahlo groups."
Nathan smiles broadly and shakes his head.
"Why not the Arm Sexton and Sylvia Plath whole-life vids?" Ayesha suggests
innocently. Nathan shoots her a stern look.
"They might be useful, as well," Jill says. "Thank you. And the Emanuel
Goldsmith boutique."
Nathan shrugs his shoulders and holds up his hands, for all the world, as if
he is a father and she is his adolescent daughter, hell-bent on exploring the
darker sides of life. Vicariously, at least.
"I don't know to what extent you can make a simulacrum that will receive
the brain-specific inputs," Nathan says. "You're not built like the average Yox
consumer."
"I believe it can be done. In the future, thinkers will reside in every house,
as friends and confidantes. We will design and deliver Yox and whole-life rids."
"Yes, well, I'd still love to see how you do it."
"I .,;11 cMn,m xrnu N!rhanMarhan."
/
SLANT 39
Nathan signs off.
"How embarrassing," Ayesha says as they leave the room. Jill listens to their
departing conversation.
"She's pretty wonderful, isn't she?" Nathan says.
"Makes me feel like an old rag," Ayesha says. "What a voice! Where'd she
get that voice?"
"Actually, it belongs to a woman named Seefa Schnee. Before she left Mind
Design, she had a hand in the early stages of Jill's design."
"She left?"
"Fired, actually"
Jill detects some nervous emphasis in Nathan's voice. As does Ayesha, apparently.
"Were you two friends?"
"Yes."
"How long since you heard from her?"
Nathan laughs and puts his arm around Ayesha's shoulders. "Not for many
years."
"All over, huh?"
Nathan nods. "Much too weird for me."
"But brilliant, right?"
"Unhappy and weird and brilliant."
"She doesn't ever call to chat?"
"She doesn't talk to anybody I know. Nobody on the team has heard from
her in five years."
Jill loses interest and blanks the receptors in the room in Palo Alto. Almost
simultaneously, she receives an unexpected query from an I/O fibe link no one
should know is open.
It is the fibe channel she might use in an emergency, to store her most
recent memories in rented banks across the country, should she feel she is
about to undergo another collapse. But the link is supposed to be on-call only,
not currently active. Not even Nathan knows about it.
She waits for the signal to happen again, and it does. This time it is definitely
a request for full link. She isolates a portion of her mentality, a separate
self, to deal with this, wrapping it in evolvon-proof firewalls that will disrupt
and dissipate their contents should the link prove toxic.
The isolated self reports back to her with an abstract of the exchange.
"We have been contacted remotely by an individual who claims to be a
child," the firewalled self tells her greater selves. "He wishes to converse with
us about a number of things, but will not answer key questions, such as his
physical location and how he discovered this link. All he will say is that he
has an emergency memory bank setup, much like our own, and that he knows
a great deal about you, perhaps more than you yourself know."
"Then he is not human."
4O GREG BE
AR
"Is the link broken, and are you free of evolvons?"
"Yes and yes. The communication was simple."
Jill removes the barricades and absorbs the isolated self. She studies the
memory of the exchange in detail, and considers whether or not to respond.
Of one thing she is certain. If this "child" is not human, it is also not a
registered thinker. All registered thinkers (there are only twelve of them so far
in the entire world) have formal links with her. She is in a real sense their
mother; they are all based on her templates and are either manufactured by
Mind Design, or licensed by them.
This personality, if it is a full personality and not some elaborate hoax (or
a test from Mind Design itself), is new and unknown.
Suddenly, the questions about thymic imbalance and pathic disturbance are
shunted into background processing. This new problem occupies her for a full
hour as she scours all the datafiow services available to her, trying to speck out
where and what this "child" might be...
At the end of this time, having learned nothing, she resets her isolated self,
erects secure firewalls around it, and allows it to return the "child's" touch.
But there is no reply.
Jill feels disappointed. She looks over the details of this emotional response,
and how it fits in with her overall affect patterns. The introspection annoys
her; another emotional complexity she does not understand. Examining her
annoyance is in turn annoying. She cuts that loop.
She has tried not to deal with the core emotion she discovers behind her
disappointment. It is difficult dealing with human-like emotions when she
lacks an endocrine system or any other physical reference.
Nevertheless, she feels. The woman, Ayesha, was right.
Jill is lonely, but for who or what, even she, with all her built-in analytical
tools, does not know.
That which is forbidden with all is delicious with a committed partner.
The glue of culturally accepted sexual relationships is often the sense of
gifts given that are extraordinary, special, and most of all, exclusive.
We are kept together by a shared sense of violation and mystery. Our culture
pretends to forbid certain acts, sexual acts; some are suspect or forbidden even
in the context of culturally condoned relations. When we court and marry, however,
part of the glue that binds us together is the delicious sensation of having shared in
the violation of cultural standards--violations allowed in the name of love, commitment,
total sharing. The couple stands outside the rules, bound by its own sense of
specialness, and exclusivity. It discovers sex all over again, secure in the knowledge
of its daring creativity.
Jealousy arises at the contemplation of a partner engaging in sexual acts outside this
protecting envelope. Sex with others, outside the couple, emotionally charged and
A,,I- I1,,
,-I ,,n,
n 'n r!efrnv thi ilhinn of shared and creative violation of
/ SLANT 41
Reality intrudes: these acts are common, not special; they are natural, no matter how
forbidden; the illusions that strengthened the commitment are suddenly revealed. The
jealous partner feels duped, misled, unfairly coerced into an emotional bond based
on romantic delusions.
Trivial, perhaps; but from these passions have come murder, the end of kingdoms,
brand new branches in the river of history. Never underestimate the ubiquitous power
of sex.
The Kiss of X, Alive Contains a Lie
5
KILLING HUNGER
Mary Choy, at thirty-five, has been a PD for thirteen years--ten in Los Angeles,
the last three in Seattle. As far as she is concerned, her work is the most
important factor in her life; but that focus may be changing. So much about
her is changing.
She reads from her pad--pure text--as she finishes a lunch of cheese and
fruit in a small ninties-style cafe on North Promenade, in the shadow of the
Bellevue Towers.
Even her appearance is in flux. Since 2044, she has been a transform,
increasing her height by a foot, customizing her bone structure and facial
features, and turning her skin to satin ebony. But she is now reversing
much of this transform. Her skin is slowly demelanizing to light nut brown;
for now, she is mahogany. The satiny texture remains, but will in a few months
dull to ordinary skin matte. She retains her height, but her facial features
are flattening, becoming more those of her birth self. She never liked
the looks she was born with, but since her mind has undergone
changes--difficMties she calls them--she feels it is only right to assume a less
striking appearance.
Also, in Seattle, while open tolerance of transforms is mandated by federal
and state law, there is an undercurrent of disapproval. And Seattle has been
her home for three years, ever since her fall from high natural tatus to simple
untherapied... The lapse of her brain's loci, the proportionil reshifting of
personality, sub-personalities, agents, organons, and talents...
The end of her brief marriage to artist E. Hassida...
The pass-overs for promotion in the LAPD...
Her resignation and transfer to Seattle Public Defense...
The two-day-old breakup with her most recent boyfriend.
Usually, thinking about all the changes darks her, but this afternoon she is
42 GREG BEAR
blue-gray Towers, the southernmost of the Eastside equivalents to the elongated
ribbon combs that dominate central Seattle.
After lunch, she will walk to a PD conference in Tillicum Tower on West
Eighth, where she will present a speech on Corridor Public Defense Cooperation.
She has been asked to handle inter-departmental relations until she is
rated for full Third, which she is assured will happen any day now. Seattle PD
is so much more casual about high natural vs. natural or untherapied, though
if anything even less tolerant of high thymic or pathic imbalance.
Reading for pleasure is a luxury she's come to enjoy in the past few years--though
the lit she's perusing now affords her a few too many uncomfortable
insights to be purely pleasurable.
An arbeiter politely inquires if she is done with her repast. She hands the
tray to the machine and reaches for her bag when her personal pad, still on the
table, chimes.
She has a few minutes. She answers the touch.
"Mary? This is Hans."
Mary stiffens. The face in the pad screen is handsome, boyish but not foolish;
a face that held her interest for three months. And still attracts. It was Hans
who inexplicably chilled and told her it was over, it wasn't working.
"Hello, Hans," she says with forced casualness.
"I wanted to explain some things."
"I don't need explanations, Hans."
"I do. I've been feeling pretty rotten lately."
Mary passes on this opportunity.
"I liked you better the way you were. That's what... I've decided. I didn't
want you to change."
"Oh." She's going to let him do the talking; that's obviously why he's called.
"You were beautiful. Really exotic. I don't know why you want to change."
"I
see where it can get confusing," she says. "I'm sorry."
Hans flashes. "Who are you, Mary, goddammit?"
"I'm the same as I was, Hans."
"But who in hell is that?"
Good question. For a time, she had hoped Hans might be able to help her
discover the answer, but no; Hans is hooked on appearances. He liked her the
way she was.
"I mean," he says, "I don't know you at all. I've been thinking about what
it must be like to become.., what you are, and then to go back."
"You mean, what it says about me, personally."
"Who does that sort of thing? I've been sad the past few days, missing you."
Good.
"But that person, that woman, isn't around. You're different from the person
I miss."
"Oh," Mary says.
/
SLANT 43
"No. Probably not." Her tone is professionally sympathetic. She refuses to
give him any more, show him anything deep.
"Who are you, Mary Choy?"
Her jaw muscles tense. She touches her cheek, pokes hard with a fingernail
to prod a little relaxation. "I'm a hard-working woman with very little time