The Lightcap

by Dan Marshall

  There was one word, written in the bold strokes of a hurried hand.

  His gaze was drawn toward the front of the subway car as it emerged from the dark underground into an impossibly bright burst of light. Then, darkness.

  Adam gasped awake. He wasn’t quite sure what had just happened, but it felt more real than any dream he could ever remember. He vaguely recalled being on the subway, and the man . . . the man. The note! He bolted out of bed, bare feet striking cold wood floor. The shock didn’t even register in his excitement. He grabbed the jacket he’d worn that morning, matte black and secured close by strips of magnets that ran from the collar to the mid-thigh. One of the things he loved about it was that it had pockets large enough for his notetab to fit comfortably. He dug through each of the pockets, even the hidden one along the inside seam, but there was no note to be found.

  After his feet finally protested too much against the unforgiving floor, he lay back down, shivering involuntarily as he got under the covers still slightly damp with the sweat of his nightmare. Mnemosyne, he thought. Why do I know that word? He turned, grabbed his notetab, and thought of the word again, this time directed at his dome. The oldest mention he could find on the mesh was from Greek mythology, Mnemosyne being one of the race of immortal deities known as the Titans. Mnemosyne was, according to the mesh, born of Heaven and Earth, the personification of memory. The most recent mention was from a software project, a venture between several corporate entities and academia aimed at mapping neurons to bits, with the intent of creating an upload of the human brain. He could not find anything linking Mnemosyne to the Lightcap, but he started a deep-scrape search just to make sure.

  Most information on the mesh was easily accessible, if it was public. A deep-scrape search ran against encrypted data that was publicly available, trying to guess the passkey with a brute-force attack that included contextual clues based on anything known about the owner of the file. Many people used simple passkeys, such as the names of their pets and their birthdates, sometimes even the word “passkey” followed by “123”. No matter how much technology progressed, any system was only as secure as its most careless user. People put a great deal of material on the mesh that they shouldn’t, whether out of hubris, ignorance, or apathy. Since Adam knew such a search would take hours or even days to obtain any usable results, he put the notetab on the nightstand next to his bed, then fell back into a troubled sleep.

  The blaring alarm kicked Adam back into the waking world. It seemed his head touched his pillow mere seconds before. He was exhausted. He blinked and was at the office, the entire morning gone like a skipped scene in a video. He remembered it if he focused, but from the detached view of an observer rather than active participant.

  He once again found himself in conference room 4C, as ordered at the end of the previous day. He was seated at the head of the table, opposite Doctor Velim, surrounded by his eighteen-person team. She was speaking. “The boxes in front of you contain your Lightcaps. Transfer whatever information you need from your personal Mind Drives, but please be aware anything you load onto the Lightcap becomes property of Adaptech. Once you have finished, please put your Lightcaps in place. They will automatically turn on and initialize.”

  Boxes were opened with sounds of broken seals and crinkled plastic, the bags containing the Lightcaps discarded like wrapping paper at a child’s birthday party. Even if there were reservations, most of these people were geeks, always excited to try out new electronic gadgets. Dej gave voice to the gasps and muttering around the table by saying, “The Lightcap looks the same as the Mind Drive, except there’s a fourth bubble where the arms meet in the back.” He turned the device over in his hand. “Oh, and a big etching that says ‘PROTOTYPE’. That too.”

  “Yes,” Doctor Velim responded. “That’s by design. The technology is derivative, and we were able to optimize the device so that its form factor is almost identical to the v5 Mind Drive. The Lightcap provides the same control of electronics as the Mind Drive, along with extra features. Think of the Lightcap as a Mind Drive Plus.”

  Satisfied with her answer, a silence settled over his team as they loaded their personalized profiles from their domes to their new Lightcaps. Adam did this as well, seeing no reason to set everything up from scratch. If his employers decided to monitor his information, they’d find standard dome customizations related to thought patterns, words to avoid recognizing, and audio notifications. Nothing outlandish or illicit.

  After much tinkering and several last-minute questions everyone finished setting up their Lightcaps. Adam wanted to exude confidence while hiding the pit he felt in his stomach, so he flashed a smile, said, “Alright, here we go,” and slipped on his Lightcap. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a click, Adam was rushed down a dark tunnel and plummeted toward a bright, warm light. He exited the tunnel with great speed and basked in the comforting blanket of heated air surrounding him, his momentum slowing to a stop. He hung in place, suspended, the world completely devoid of definition, everything washed out and bathed in a soothing, opaque white glow.

  Then the light was replaced by darkness.

  A pinpoint of light flew toward Adam from a distant, far-off place. He felt no motion, stationary as the bright ball became exponentially larger in his field of view. He flinched as it approached to strike him. Suddenly, he was back. Same chair, same room. His arms, attached to hands holding his Lightcap, moved in downward slope toward the table, almost of their own volition. His vision and hearing felt removed, as if he were observing the world through a bubble with a slight rainbow tinge, its light refracted and split into various wavelengths. Adam’s hands met the table and the air around him seemed to clear. He felt groggy, as if he’d just awoken from an unexpected nap.

  Velim was still seated at the opposite end of the table. She smiled slightly and asked, “How do you feel, Mister Redmon?”

  With a confused look Adam responded, “I’m a little groggy and I have a headache.” He looked around and noticed no one else was wearing a Lightcap. His team faced him, their devices in front of them in two straight lines down the length of the table. “Was there some kind of problem? When are we going to get started?”

  Sera laughed aloud, with several others from around the table joining her. After the laughter subsided she responded, “Get started? The day is done. The Lightcap performed exactly as expected. Exceeded expectations, actually. It has been ten hours since you last sat in that chair. The headache is expected, by the way. It should clear up shortly. Within another week or two, you won’t notice any discomfort at all when removing the Lightcap. The disorientation will eventually go away too. After today, you’ll unplug before your team in case we have anything to discuss. So, I ask again, how do you feel?”

  Adam closed his eyes and tried to remember what had happened. Surely this is a joke, some sort of prank, he thought. All he could recall was the painfully brilliant ball of light, darkness, then the light again. He opened his eyes. He slowly shook his head, then remembered the clock and cast his gaze to where it sat pacing seconds silently in the corner. The clock said it was ten hours later. “I feel perfectly fine,” Adam said. “The headache is gone, only lasted for a few seconds. I don’t remember anything about what happened. Did we work in here all day?”

  Several heads turned toward Velim. It was a question on many of the minds in the room, and they were glad Adam asked it. She took a moment to look at each person in the eyes, then said, “No. You were at an off-site facility. We can’t tell you where, of course, which is as much for our own protection as it is for yours. As far as you’re concerned, you work in conference room 4C. It has been appropriated for this project, and is where you’ll begin and end each day. At the risk of sounding repetitive, as far as your friends and family are concerned, you work in this building, in the programming division, doing the same humdrum tasks you’ve done for years, whether for Adaptech or another employer. Do not mention anything about working off-site, or the Lightcap. Eithe
r is a terminable offense per the contracts you’ve signed. You are dismissed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She turned to face Adam and addressed him directly. “Adam, please stay for a few minutes after everyone leaves. I’d like to have a word with you.”

  The team filed one by one from the room, which fell silent save for the subtle swish of shoes across the floor. The carpet in conference rooms such as 4C was always atrocious. Adam’s eyes traced the lines making up the carpet’s garish multi-colored geometric patterns and counted the intersection points, just as he had counted the stippled dots on the ceiling of the office at his childhood school. Adam had often been sent there as a child, chastised for daydreaming or getting off-task during class. Velim reminded him of a school principal, maybe even a district superintendent—he didn’t see someone of her intellect being happy running just a single school. A large, sprawling district seemed more her domain. Either way, she intimidated him, not just because of her title. It was her all-business demeanor, piercing eyes set against dark eye shadow which her pale blue irises all the more stark; her enunciation, each word ricocheting off hard surfaces, assaulting him from every angle; her posture, rigid and defined. Adam wasn’t one to bow to authority simply out of obedience, but he genuinely feared her, not because he detected malice but because she seemed the sort to destroy any obstacle threatening to keep her from her goal. He hoped she would never perceive him as an obstacle.

  Adam’s eyes locked with Sera’s as the last person departed the room, the quiet click of the door alerting them of their privacy with no backward glance required. She sat, as if waiting. Adam, confused, wondered if there was something he was supposed to say. Awkward silence made him uncomfortable, and he was already uncomfortable to begin with. After several seconds had painfully passed, Adam spoke: “I don’t appreciate being made to look a fool. It’s one thing if it’s in private, or even in front of peers, but I have to lead these people. It’s important that they view me as their leader, and instead you’ve made me the butt of a joke.”

  Sera looked amused, which made Adam angry. Just as he was about to respond with invective, she spoke in an even tone, “You have it all wrong. You weren’t the butt of a joke, but a demonstration. As I told you, the people on this team look up to you, but they also need proof the Lightcap won’t turn them into mindless worker bees toiling under the commands of some far-off queen. You spent about fifteen minutes here answering questions and interacting with your team. That’s all. I’m sorry you don’t remember any of it. You were much more personable than you’re being now. I think everyone was impressed with how lucid you were, actually. There always seems to be an expectation that the Lightcap will turn you into a burned-out husk of a human being, barely functional, with monosyllabic grunts in response to simple questions and confused indifference to anything requiring deeper thought. It’s not like that at all. Would you like to see?”

  Adam nodded. Sera looked over to the wall, where a large screen appeared in place of the bare surface. Almost exactly to scale, Adam turned to see himself in profile along with the rest of his team, already seated and frozen. Sometimes it was disconcerting to watch someone use a dome to control a device. Even after many years, Adam still felt for the briefest of moments as if some kind of magic carried out the command. As it always had, however, that fleeting impression gave way to the knowledge and recollection that the dome’s marvels weren’t driven by mysticism but caused by advanced technology. At Sera’s silent command, the images on the wall shifted and began to move while sound played from hidden speakers in the ceiling. The video started as Velim commanded the team, except for Adam, to take off their Lightcaps.

  Adam’s team members touched their heads and moved their arms downward in identical parallel movements, reminding him of synchronized swimmers. When the motion ended, their Lightcaps sat on the table in the same rows he’d seen upon his return from darkness. He watched their faces and saw traces of the same consternation he had felt just a dozen minutes before. Several of his team touched their temples and winced slightly, confirming to Adam the headache he had experienced wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. He listened as the recorded Velim explained to the group that though their day had ended she wanted to give them a brief glimpse at what it looked like to wear the Lightcap. She politely asked Adam to stand. His recorded body silently stood, chair pushed back by his legs. Velim instructed the team to test the entranced Adam, to see if his mind had been muddled by the device.

  They started by asking if he knew his name. “Adam Charles Redmon,” came the even response. The present Adam noticed his recorded, Lightcap-wearing self provided his middle name. He never freely offered that. The team challenged him with logic puzzles and math questions, at one point even asking him to list pi to the hundredth digit and give the first thirty numbers of the Fibonacci series. They then asked Adam to close his eyes and touch his nose while standing on one foot, challenges more likely to come from a Blue giving a sobriety test than a group of geeks in a corporate conference room.

  On the recording, Velim asked the standing Adam to sit. In the actual conference room, Adam watched, thinking his entranced self had performed better than expected. When he was sure the playback was about to end, Dej asked, “Adam, how do you feel?”

  The question did not get an immediate response. The video had been recorded from an angle that made it difficult to see the expression on his face after the question was asked. He did notice his recorded form seemed to look at Velim, who gave a slight nod. “I am well,” he responded.

  “Yes,” Dej said with an amused sigh, “but how do you feel?”

  “I feel . . . fine.” Adam conveyed no emotion. The pause was brief but obvious, at least to Adam. He couldn’t help but wonder what he had thought while trying to parse the question or come up with a response. He tried to remember but couldn’t. All he could recall of the experience was the blinding ball of light, as in a memory of staring into the sun.

  At this point in the recording, Sera commanded Adam to remove his Lightcap. The screen dimmed and faded back to the color of the wall.

  “You should remember the rest from there,” Sera said. “I wanted you to see it firsthand so you understand exactly what happened. You aren’t a joke to them, Adam. You’re a brave hero. You all are. But your actions gave them a sense of safety your words would have never provided. Actions do speak louder, you know.” She smiled when she said this last line, with a far off look on her face as if she were thinking of a happy memory from long before.

  “Well, I’m a fan of both words and actions,” Adam replied, each word weighed in thought before he slowly allowed it to leave his mouth. “I am curious about something, though. Why did I pause when Dej asked how I felt? The first answer I gave him was, oh, more of a systems update, for lack of a better term. When he asked again, it almost seemed as if I looked to you for a response.”

  Sera waved her hand in the air as if conjuring the appropriate words before she responded. “We make a concerted effort to establish the power structure before you ever put on the Lightcap. Once it’s on, you’re in a state that allows for use of all higher brain functions, but it also instills a sense of respect for established authority hierarchy. For instance, had the subject of our demonstration been one of your team members, they would have looked to you for guidance. Since you were the demonstrator, you looked to the only person in the room with greater authority than your own: me.”

  There were so many things Adam wanted to ask, but he knew doing so would only produce enigmatic explanations and riddled responses that brought up two new questions for each one answered. He simply nodded in response, thinking it best not to say anything to betray his lingering doubts. Besides, Adam told himself, perhaps there’s nothing to worry about.

  Sera stood. Adam did the same, having sensed her action was a cue. “We’ll be having biweekly meetings throughout the course of the v6 project. This has been the first. After this, they’ll be every other Friday at the end of the d
ay, starting at the end of next week. Due to the obvious need to protect our code, we can’t go over any specifics about what has been accomplished on the Mind Drive v6 during work hours, but we can discuss overall objectives, worker efficiency, and I can give you instructions for future roadmaps.”

  Sera extended her hand, all business. Firm handshake, two pumps, with no indication of their previous conversations. Adam’s mind swam as they exited room 4C, her heels clicking against the polished concrete as they walked down the hall. She held her notetab against her chest as they approached the elevator. Its down button lit up, no doubt triggered by command from her dome. They stood and waited in silence.

  “So,” Adam started as he looked at his polished shoes, feeling suddenly filled with the awkwardness of his youth. There was a spot of red-gray mud on the outside edge of the wingtip on his right foot. He resisted the urge to wipe it on something, and lifted his eyes to meet Sera’s. She was looking at him with a bemused expression. He knew he should continue. “Um, I mean, do I really only get to see you every other week? I was hoping you’d be around a little more. Maybe these progress updates would be best over dinner?” He smiled rakishly.

  She blinked. Twice. Once more. Adam had hoped for more of a response by that point. Measured as always, Sera said, “I think it’s best if we keep our relationship professional.” Her high heels once again struck the concrete as she turned with two steps and faced the elevator’s large steel door, which reflected a floor-to-ceiling fun house image in its brushed metal panels.

  Crash and burn. Abort, raced Adam’s mind, a command he had no way to follow. It was not as if he could run away or talk to someone else. He had to do damage control. “Yeah, sure, I understand,” Adam said quickly. “I wasn’t trying to suggest anything, sometimes it’s just hard to think under these fluorescent lights. I certainly consider it inappropriate to date a superior. For all I know you’re married. Sorry.”