by M. E. Roufa
Another rubberized cuff was put on Abe’s forearm, only this one was connected to a spiral cord like an old-time telephone. An identical one was strapped to his opposing arm. A miniature cuff was slipped over his left index finger and squeezed tight. The doctor—if he even was a doctor, Abe reflected—next removed a pair of tiny balls, also attached to spiral cords, although much thinner ones. It looked a lot like a pair of portable ear bud headphones, but without the foam guards that gave plastic things the illusion of comfort.
“This might feel funny at first, but you’ll get used to them,” Dr. Lamb said, leaning forward with the earphones. Only they weren’t earphones. In a move too expert for Abe to flinch in time, Dr. Lamb took both small balls and popped them into Abe’s nostrils. His reflexes kicking in too late, Abe snorted for air, but his blocked nasal passages only caused him to cough convulsively. Abe gasped to inhale, which would have been easy enough given that his lung-mouth connection was still perfectly clear, but having foreign objects in his nose somehow made it a bit more difficult to remember that other means of respiration existed.
“You might want to breathe through your mouth,” Dr. Lamb said, not at all helpfully.
All of the cords were then plugged into a small box with a track pad and a four-inch square screen, which fit neatly within the briefcase. Dr. Lamb looked at the screen, made a face, and wiped it with his thumb. He looked at it again, scowled, and wiped it against his jacket cuff vigorously, inadvertently pulling Abe’s head forward for the rocky ride. He checked it again, tried wiping it with the palm of his hand, shook his head, and shrugged.
Then Dr. Lamb reached down into the pocket of the case and pulled out a small metal box. He opened the box and checked inside. Abe could hear its contents rattle before he saw it open. Then the doctor held the open box out in front of Abe. It was filled with small white pills. He shook the box slightly, indicating that he wanted Abe to take one. Abe clenched his fists and sealed his lips, prepared for a fight. Whatever it was, they would have to force it into him. But he hadn’t been strapped down in any way, and the mood was still calm. “Abe?” the doctor asked.
Abe shook his head vigorously. “No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” Dr. Lamb shrugged. He turned to Nita, offering her the box. “Mint?”
She reached over and took one, popping it in her mouth. Dr. Lamb helped himself to a couple and closed the box, tossing it back into the briefcase with a small clunk. Abe could feel his mouth watering as a hint of a peppermint smell wafted toward him. Yet again he felt like an idiot. He swallowed, only to feel his ears pop from the pressure of his clogged nostrils.
Brian the intern came into the room then, wheeling a heavy desk chair with one caster that kept turning the wrong way and squealing as he forced it to right itself. The noise was grating, and they all winced with every squeak. Abe could see Brian wincing even more than the rest, clearly cowering under his inevitable dressing down and equally inevitable public disgrace, but it didn’t come. Apparently he, Abe, was going to be the only victim in the room. After what seemed like an excruciatingly long time, Brian wheeled his chair to a place in the room that he clearly believed to be a suitable distance for him to watch the proceedings without being intrusive. He got out a notebook and a pen.
“Okay. Let’s start.” Dr. Lamb began. “What we’ve hooked you up to is called a Proustometer. It operates on the theory that all memories are grounded in the physical world, and can be reached through corresponding mental stimuli. We’ve found stimulating the olfactory nerve to be the most effective noninvasive method.” Noninvasive? Abe wondered what constituted an invasive method, considering that he was already being nasally raped.
“Brian, can I see that pen?” Dr. Lamb reached over and snatched Brian’s pen away from him, leaving the hapless young man with only a notebook. Abe could see the intern checking his pockets and looking around the room feebly, but he was stuck. And the door was far away, clear on the other side of the room. Brian sat looking at his notebook impotently. Then he caught Abe looking at him and straightened his posture, trying to still seem professional. Harvard, Abe thought, echoing Dr. Lamb, and snickered to himself.
Dr. Lamb held the pen up and waved it slowly in front of Abe’s eyes, back and forth. “Now I’m going to try to put you into a light hypnotic trance. Watch the pen.” Abe tried to watch the pen, but he could see that Dr. Lamb’s other hand was fiddling with the track pad, and a warm sensation was flowing through his index finger, and he could feel a tingling sensation in his temples, and more disconcertingly, in the soles of his feet. A warm smell, like a wood fire and pipe tobacco, and maybe a summer breeze, lingered in the air.
“Watch the pen, Abe.” The pen moved back and forth. Abe had to admit it was a soothing sensation. But there was nothing at all hypnotic going on in his mind—it still stayed clear. Maybe the device only jogged his memories if there were any memories there for the jogging?
“Are you watching the pen, Abe?”
“I’m watching the pen.”
“Okay. It’s 1864… You’re in your own bedroom at the White House… tell me: What do you see?”
“I see a pen.”
“Don’t look at the pen. Ignore the pen. What do you see?”
“But you told me to watch the pen.”
“I want you to watch the pen, but don’t think about it. I want you to tell me what you see with your inner eyes. I’ll start again. You’re in your bedroom at the White House… The Lincoln bedroom… your bedroom… but the year 1864… now tell me: What do you see?
“I still see a ballpoint pen. Looks like it came from a bank.”
“Abe.” Dr. Lamb’s impatient sigh could have shuffled papers. “Please cooperate.”
“The government lets you steal pens from the bank?”
The justificational explosion came from all sides.
“No!”
“That’s classified!”
“It’s not from a bank!”
“We’re not from the government!”
“It’s not a pen!”
This was better than he thought. Abe decided it was time to play along. “So I’m not supposed to see the pen?”
“Forget the pen.”
“In that, case, I don’t know what I see. I don’t see anything.”
“Abe, work with me just the tiniest bit. You have to concentrate.”
“But there’s nothing to concentrate on. I don’t remember anything because there’s nothing to remember. You know clones don’t have residual memories—it’s physiologically impossible. And every scientific study they’ve ever done has proven that. The case was closed decades ago.”
“No, every study they’ve ever done has been inconclusive. There’s a big difference. That’s why we’re here. The scientific case has been reopened, Abe. Like it or not, you reopened it two days ago. There’s a new ongoing study in past-life memories in clones. And you’re in it, right now. You are it, in fact. Because you had one.”
“I don’t know what I had. It was a fluke.”
“Maybe. But we think it was a memory. Which makes it one of the most important flukes in recent scientific memory. Pardon the pun. So it’s our job to do what it takes to recreate it, Abe. Or figure out why it happened. Besides, just think how exciting it would be if you were the first one who actually turned something up.”
“I’m sure I could hardly contain myself,” Abe said, flatly.
“Well, in that case, we would contain you,” Dr. Lamb replied.
Abe added that to the list of things he was determined not to think about. It was getting to be a very long list. “And if we can’t figure anything out, if there’s really nothing there, can I leave? I’d really like to go home.”
“Home? Which home? Springfield? Washington? Backwoods Kentucky?” Dr. Lamb asked hopefully.
Abe found it very difficult not to go on a flailing spree, knocking down whatever he could between himself and the door. But the door itself appeared flail-proof. And he still didn’t know wh
o—or what—was behind the mirror. If he had learned anything over the course of the day, it was that any sort of escape plan would be a losing battle. Like Bull Run. Or Manassas. His lip twitched. Oh no, Abe. Not that. Don’t giggle, Abe, please don’t giggle, whatever you do I beg you please don’t even give the tiniest twitch of a hint of a…
Abe giggled.
Dr. Lamb leaned in, immediately interested. “You find something funny?”
“No. The machine made my foot tickle.”
“Abe, don’t you see that if we could just explore your past, we’ll be taking that one step closer to unlocking the future?”
“Lincoln’s past is not my past!”
“Calm down, Abe. But I’m going to ask you again to cooperate. Everyone has been very patient with you. I’ve been incredibly patient with you. Let’s start over.” He touched the track pad again, and Abe could feel the warm tingling in his finger again, and the heat at his temples, and the hint of wood smoke. Watching the pen was doing nothing for him, but the heat at his forehead was off-putting. It didn’t seem to be doing anything for his memory. But it was starting to make his head throb.
“Now, Abe. Tell me about the first time you ever met Martha. What can you remember…?”
“Who?”
“Martha—your wife…”
“That was George Washington!”
Dr. Lamb scrambled, checking his notes. “Right. I meant Mary Todd. That’s what I meant. What can you tell me about her? Jog any memories?”
Abe could feel beads of sweat starting to form on his forehead as the heat pulsed through the machinery attached to his body. But no thoughts. “Nothing.”
“Are you watching the pen?”
“American Federal.”
“Stop watching the pen.”
38
We’re not getting anywhere,” Ed cut in unhappily. “I say we call it a day.”
“You want me to take a turn?” Nita asked. It was the first time she had spoken all afternoon, and her rich deep voice cut through the room like a knife through small intestines. Abe did not want her to take a turn. Fortunately, Dr. Lamb didn’t want her to, either. “Nah, you’re not trained. This isn’t as simple as it looks.”
“Well, it looks like it’s not working,” said Ed, testily.
“It’s only the first day,” said Dr. Lamb. “But you’re right. He’s resisting too much. And everything’s probably too new for him. He needs to settle in a bit.”
Ed’s mood seemed to improve immediately with that suggestion. “Right. Settle in! He hasn’t even seen his new quarters. Of course he needs to get accustomed to them before we’ll make any progress here. His clothes probably don’t even fit like his own yet. I can’t believe I didn’t even think of that!” Dr. Lamb shot him a veiled look that seemed to say, “I respect you too much to roll my eyes.”
“You know,” Ed went on, “you’ve been doing this all wrong. We shouldn’t even have brought him in here. The whole process should have taken place in his living quarters—we need to move the device in there from now on. He can’t possibly remember the past surrounded by so much of this modern—” he waved his arm, to indicate their inelegant surroundings “—well, this uninspiring environment.”
“Ed, he pulled his past-life recall in the middle of an international press conference. I don’t think the décor is the issue. And if your guys hadn’t kept hijacking the budget, maybe we could get some decent furniture.”
“Hey it’s not my guys doing the requisitioning here—your people are the ones stealing pens from the bank.”
Nita cleared her throat, and just like that, the argument ended. Abe wondered what caliber throat Nita had that she could achieve such a powerful effect with so little effort, and whether she had to go through any sort of mandatory waiting period before obtaining it. Abe’s respect for Nita was growing with every new piece of information he was gleaning from her, if you could call her intimidation techniques “information.”
No, not respect for. Fear of. But there was a certain comfort in knowing that she seemed to have the same effect on a lot of people. Not working for the government must be a great job for someone like her. Not working for the Mafia would have been another. If she could somehow be harnessed into not working for the IRS, the U.S. could probably gain a fortune in eradicating tax fraud.
“Brian, give me a hand here,” Dr. Lamb ordered, and the intern bounded up, nearly tripping over his own feet. The two of them together unhooked and unstrapped Abe from the various cups and wires binding him to the little plastic box. Abe could still feel their slight weight and tingle for a while after they were gone, like a host of tiny phantom limbs. But he was glad to be rid of them.
The foursome paused outside the door of the room, and Abe expected to again see his favorite pair of moving brick walls with heads, waiting to take him on another forced march down yet another long and winding series of confusing corridors. But instead, as Dr.-Lamb-you-can-call-me-Steve and Brian-my-intern headed off down the empty white widening hallway and into the distance, Ed simply paused by the recessed rectangle he had originally stopped at before they had entered the room in the first place. Again he placed his hand on what Abe now knew was another door, the electronic lock chimed and unbolted, and the door slid open.
What Abe saw inside was simply astounding.
39
It was a log cabin. They were standing in a doorway inside the sterile, almost futuristic 21st-century blank white corridor, and somehow, somewhere in the 1850s. Abe had to shut his eyes for a few seconds, his senses were so completely overwhelmed.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Ed said, grinning.
And it was. Abe walked in, slowly drinking in everything. He couldn’t believe he was still in the same century, let alone the same building. The attention to detail that had been paid in constructing every square inch was literally breathtaking. The walls were made of square-hewn logs, from floor to roof, which somehow rose upward to a point. They were so cracked and uneven in texture that they looked like they came from an even older century than the 1800s, almost slapped together, as if thrown together in a hurry by someone who had never heard of the concepts of a plane or sandpaper. The floor was nothing but dirt. There was a wooden bed with a handmade quilt, and a beautiful turned-leg desk with an upright chair that looked like the most uncomfortable thing he’d ever seen in his life. All together it looked like a cross between an L.L. Bean catalog and a crazed mountain hermit’s shack—the crude and the beautiful thrown together incongruously without any rhyme or reason. There were kerosene lamps and tin candleholders mounted on the walls, and rows of shiny metal jugs covered with muslin and tied with burlap rope. Wood-plank shelves lined one wall, stacked with earthenware plates and cups he longed to touch. In fact, he longed to touch everything. The mix of such rough, handmade and homespun objects with what must be priceless antiques was a bit jarring, and seemed like a bad judgment call, but everything still was so clearly old, so real, that he didn’t care. It was more real than the turkey he had had for lunch, more real than the rough woolen trousers he was wearing which in the past hours had started to feel far more at home and comfortable on his body. If any of this was a re-creation, he didn’t want to know it. He longed to take his students here.
He ran his fingertips along one wall, feeling a groove between two cracked boards. It was wood. It was real wood. “It’s real wood,” he said, unable to help himself. Without even realizing it, he had wandered well inside the room. The others were still standing outside.
“You expected some sort of polyvinyl fiberglass?” Ed asked. “But that would defeat the purpose. We want you to feel at home here. That’s the point. Most of it’s genetically sound, too, grown from original seeds or refurbished antiques. The rest we had to reconstruct. Hopefully your subconscious mind won’t be able to tell the difference too much. We thought about bringing in original bedbugs, but decided that too much discomfort might increase your resistance.” Ed laughed his most annoying laugh. “J
ust between you and me, Abe, we’re not happy with your resistance. Well, just between you, me, and Nita.”
Abe tried to work up a corresponding response to the muted threat. But he almost didn’t care. The cabin-room was too seductive. It was exactly the sort of thing that drew him into becoming a history teacher—into studying history—in the first place. The hidden call of the past. And he wanted to laugh, too—but not with them. Of all the ways they could have devised to get him to cooperate in their ridiculous plan to exploit his clone legacy, this was without question the least likely to succeed. Surrounded by so much tangible, visceral proof that there was a past time when an actual Abraham Lincoln had lived and slept and breathed, how could he not know to the bottom of his bones that he was anything but a pale twenty-first century copy? The dusty floor under his feet felt delicious because it was not polyurethaned, the heat from the wood stove in the corner was wonderful because he compared it to the kind that came out of his vents. And wondered how much air-conditioning the facility must be running around the outside of the room so that he could enjoy a wood stove.
Ed seemed to sense Abe’s distraction, though without realizing its significance. “Anyhow, goodnight, Mr. Lincoln,” he smiled. “We’ll let you get settled in. One of us will be back for you in the morning.”
“Ed will be back for you,” Nita corrected him. “This place gives me the creeps.”
The door shut and left no sign of its opening. Abe walked over to where he knew it had been, but there was no lintel, no hinges, practically no evidence of there ever having been a doorway there of any sort—even the logs themselves seemed to have rejoined themselves into long boards. Only by the closest scrutiny was Abe able to see where the planks had been cut to make way for the doorway. They must have used a laser to make such a precise cut. Somehow they had managed to disguise the exit utterly. He knew that was a violation of fire codes, but somehow he didn’t think that pointing that out was going to help him any. Still, if this was a prison, it was the most wonderful cell he could ever imagine. He scanned around the rest of the room, and saw that there was another door set into one wall, a real door, which he had taken for granted. He walked over to open it. It was locked. Actually, he realized as he tugged on it, it was probably not made to ever open. It had the encumbrance of a door without any mounting hardware, as if it was actually sealed to the walls around it—if not actually bolted to additional load-bearing walls behind it. No matter how real it was on its surface, it was still there for decorative purposes only. He should have realized that their definition of reality had its limits. And he was trapped within them.