“Should it?”
“Good point. No, it shouldn’t, but some people don’t like anybody else to know them really closely. Herb, for example, won’t take one.”
“Doesn’t bother me, if it’ll help you out. I spent all my time and effort just getting here. Now that I’m here, I don’t know what I’m going to do anymore.”
“Well, that’s pretty well assured. O.K., just stretch out here on the examining table.” Doc reached up, pressed a button overhead, and a small device that looked something like a giant neon office lamp dropped down. She took it, adjusted it to within a few inches of the patient’s form, then sat back down again. “Any questions before we begin?”
“No, I guess not for now. Well, maybe one thing. How come I tripped so much and still could go forward in time? I mean, I thought if you were assimilated that couldn’t happen. I never thought about it much at the time, but it just came to me.”
“Fair question. It’s because you weren’t assimilated. The trip point is the halfway marker in assimilation, remember. After that time you become slightly more the new person than the old one. But you’re still connected, still a time traveler, a voyeur, so to speak, until full assimilation takes place. Basically, if you can remember enough to ask a question like that one, you’re still you as far as the devices and time are concerned, no matter what’s going on in your head.”
The woman nodded. “O.K.”
“Any more?”
“Lots, but I guess they can wait. What’s this thing gonna do?”
“Analyze all the people who make you up. Tell us, maybe, who you are in the here and now.”
“Sounds fair. Will I remember it?”
“Not consciously, but if you like, you can monitor the recorded results later. Ready?”
“I guess so. You’re the doctor.”
Kahwalini flicked some switches on a small control panel, and the little machine glowed a dull purple and began to move, tracing the contours of the patient’s body.
“Feels good. Like a massage,” the woman commented.
Its back-and-forth scan seemed to penetrate into every bit of her body, and she found herself becoming relaxed and drifting off.
The doctor became busy now, attaching a spider’s nest of probes not only to the head of the sleeper but to various parts of the body as well. Satisfied, she stepped back and triggered the process.
“Who are you?”
The question confused her for a few moments, and memory channels opened to pinpoint references. At that point, each of the elements from the various human lives and personalities that made up the sum of her mind were distinct, although interactive, and revealed to the computer analyzer.
The human mind, in fact, remained the most complex and amazing organic mechanism known. The human race had existed, and survived, not so much by physical as by mental adaptability: the ability to filter out or suppress; to add, file, and retrieve what was needed; to learn to cope with radical changes. Still, there were individual physiological limits on a specific brain, and the brain of the subject was not the brain of the others.
The information from all of those people she had been was there, but each trip point had caused the information to be reconfigured and refiled. All relevant data was integrated; all irrelevant data was relegated to those dark and seldom-used areas. Intelligence really was the ability to access those areas; the speed of access and the amount of data that could be combined and retrieved and assembled by that intelligence was the measure of how high it was.
The dominant, or shell, personality, which the body matched, was that of Megan Clark, b. San Francisco, 1885, but since it was the dominant shell and not an assimilated, or totally integrated, personality it was only partly Megan’s. Alfie, Neumann, and Sister Nobody were there, although only as data, not even anymore as memories. The original personality and life, that of Ron Moosic, was also there, as data of course—but, strangely, as an abstract as well. Intellectually, she understood her origins; as a practical matter, Megan could not actually remember being Moosic, or any man. He had the quality of a fantasy personality, someone she might occasionally imagine herself being, but the imagining was entirely from that perspective and rather unrealistic. In effect, he had become detached from her, an imaginary or ideal lover rather than as the person she once had been.
This process had allowed the later personalities to alter her psyche as his strong will would not have done. The three people she had become were from three different times and cultures, but they were all very traditional ones, and the attitudes instilled had been traditional as well. Add to this the fact that all had been prostitutes from poor backgrounds dominated by powerful males, and the new personality was easier to understand.
In all cases she had been treated like an object in societies that at least winked at prostitution and generally condoned it, thereby leaving no real outlet, no hope of varying the life. To adjust, to survive, all three had ultimately accepted it after fighting the idea for a little while.
Both Moosic’s and Neumann’s IQs had been exceptional. Megan’s, however, was perhaps average if used to the full. She had, generally, a low sense of self-worth. She needed someone to be over her, to make most of her decisions, to constantly reinforce her weak ego and tell her she was worthwhile. The fact that men would pay money for what pleasures she could give gave her a concrete sense of security, the only security she had. The fact that someone else got the money was actually better for her; she only felt secure when someone else was providing things.
The key to it was Moosic’s surrender, his depression when faced with Eric once more. He had lost hope and, therefore, the will to live. In the absence of any replacement values from Sister Nobody, the Ismet personality had dominated, and time had complied by providing similar situations. Time had finally killed Ron Moosic.
But, still, there was a spark there. This woman would cope with whatever was thrown at her, with no reservations as to how or why. She was insecure and submissive, but she was a survivor, and her dream was to be swept off her feet by a strong, dominant man.
Doc Kahwalini frowned. The subject, she reflected, had come out exactly as planned.
The next few days were used to get her settled in and to answer some of her questions. She also spent a little time with some learning machines they had, trying to improve her vocabulary and pronunciation. She knew and understood the word “assimilation,” for example, but it never seemed to come forward when she needed it, and when it was forced, she constantly mispronounced it. It irritated her, particularly because the word was there.
More unsettling was her almost incidental discovery that she couldn’t read or write. Doc was sympathetic. “It happens. It’s a skill, and skills are sometimes lost in this process. You can re-learn it—it’s back in there, someplace in your mind—but it’ll take time. I wouldn’t worry about it now, though. Come on with me now. You’ve forgotten a lot, and might forget more. It depends on what happens from here on out. The longer you are the way you are, the more of the past you’ll lose and the more of the new ‘you’ will dominate.”
“Where are we going?”
“Outside. I want some fresh fruit.”
She stopped. “I thought—I remember, I think, that it’s dangerous out there.”
“Not unless you spend years out in it. You once did, and you’re still here.”
She shook her head. “That’s kind of a dream.” When the doorway slid back and they stepped out, it was clear that the dream was less so than she’d thought.
The groves of trees, the jungle’s edge, the distant pounding of the surf…
Doc turned to her and nodded. “I didn’t know any other way to break it to you.”
“But—this is the old place, isn’t it?”
“The old place—yes, I guess it would be.” Her mouth dropped, and she shivered slightly in the tropical sun. “Then—this isn’t later, it’s earlier. Then that belt was set to bring me back before. Oh, Jesus! That means. …�
�
“Yes,” said Kahwalini softly. “You are Dawn.”
She stared at herself in the full-length mirror. She should have known, known right from the first time she’d looked at herself, she thought sourly. But, then, Ron had never looked at Dawn in the same way as she looked at herself.
The idea scared her; it also made her mad. For her to be Dawn, then, the computer—the all-seeing, all-knowing damnable computer—had to know it right from the start, when it sent Ron uptime with a belt that homed to this point in time instead of a later one.
The damned thing had planned it, planned it all out. It knew in advance all that was going to happen, even the capture by Eric. It knew and did nothing, except to arrange for things to come out right.
It was, Doc explained, in the nature of time loops.
“The problem is, only the leading edge is new,” she explained. “All else was new once, when it was the leading edge, but it’s already happened. Back here, near the dawn of time, the computer, anchored both here and on the edge, can monitor what happens and evaluate any changes.”
“But why is it happening now!” Dawn asked her. “I mean, it’s already happened, right?”
“No, not exactly. Just remember that any loop, once initiated, is assumed by time to have been completed. The record is there. The computer can then read it, evaluate it, and then accept it, change it, or reverse it, depending on the outcome.”
“And what say do I have in this? What if I decide not to go along with this whole thing?”
“Then you will still exist, cut off absolutely from the time stream, a total nightside. Ron Moosic will die in the attack, and all links to you will be severed. Dawn will exist only as her least common denominator, devoid of the knowledge, strength, and understanding she—you—still draw from him. As such, you will be no further use to us. We will shift you uptime, where assimilation will be instantaneous.”
She gulped and sat down. Her fury at being so manipulated was tempered somewhat by the idea of fulfilling, living, what had been a fantasy. Still, there was something bizarre in it all, sort of the ultimate in masturbation.
“And if I… go through with it?”
“Then we will come for you at the proper time. We know where and when you’ll be.”
“But—it’s not fair! All that time, all that… Hey! This can’t be real! I can’t have children!”
“Megan can’t, but Megan’s a product of 1905. Dawn is a synthesis, a nightsided person.”
“But it’s not fair! I’ll lose him forever! And come out old and sick!”
“We can fix what goes wrong, either by medicine or through tripping. You know that. As for losing him—well, that’s all in the way you look at it, isn’t it? You’ll have a longer time together than many people have.”
“But—I’ll know.”
“Time and mind have a way of dealing with that. Complete your loop, and give yourself a purpose and a future. We are in the long process of undoing what has been done. It’ll save a lot of lives. Isn’t that worth it?”
She shook her head in bewilderment. “I don’t know. I really don’t. But, tell me, how can you people be so cold? What gives you the right to do this?”
Doc couldn’t address what she herself doubted, but she could answer the second question. “We have the machine, the knowledge, and the skill to do it. So does the enemy. That last makes the rest irrelevant.’’
Ron Moosic arrived the next day, but she did not see him immediately. She wasn’t certain how she was going to handle this, or if she could. As long as he remained out of sight, it was a problem postponed, and she spent time out by the sea and the waterfall, just thinking and trying to sort it out.
She almost ran into him the next day in the lounge, but kept out of sight, watching him while remaining unobserved. The man she saw was a shock, the embodiment of the man she saw in her dreams and fantasies, but he neither looked nor acted quite like she expected. Her mind tried to grasp it, tried to remember this moment, but she found it impossible to bring it forward. All of her that was Ron Moosic seemed to recede into a distant haze.
That day they issued her a communicator and a time belt. “Remember,” Lind warned, “we’re going to be attacked.”
She nodded and took it, almost without thinking.
On the third day she checked out the lounge and went down there for a few moments, hoping to catch Kahwalini in an off moment. She feared going back to Doc’s lair; he was there.
Herb was over in a corner playing computerized backgammon. He looked up and waved to her, then went back to his game.
Almost as soon as she’d sat down, he came in, talking to Doc. She felt petrified, but there was nowhere to hide, so she just sat there and hoped he wouldn’t notice. Of course, he did, and came over.
“Hi! I finally get the chance to say thanks for saving my life,” he said cheerfully, sitting down in a chair opposite hers. “How’s that for a good opening line?”
She smiled, but was inwardly terrified. This is it! she realized, and in that moment had absolutely no ability to recall anything at all of this time. Her nervousness, and her mind, had blocked it out. What did he mean about saving his life, though? It puzzled her, but then cheered her a bit. She had, hadn’t she? And she hadn’t done that, yet. There was still time, and perhaps a future, yet to come.
She sighed. “I’m sorry for not being a little more hospitable. I’m afraid I’ve got a load on my mind and a lot of hard decisions to make. I’ve just had a nasty personal shock.”
“Try being crucified,” he suggested.
The line seemed almost hilarious. “I have. It’s not very nice. Not much has been nice lately.”
He shrugged. “I don’t want to intrude on what’s none of my business.”
She gave up. He was so nice and attractive he was turning her on. The longer the discussion, the less she could relate to him other than the same way she would with an attractive stranger. “No, no. Stay, please. I’m still a little new at this myself, and it’s pretty hard to get used to. As soon as you’ve found out everything, you find you don’t understand anything at all. This whole business of time is the craziest thing you can think of…”
The conversation went on for some time, and she began to enjoy it and let it flow, concentrating on her lessons in vocabulary and diction to make him take her for a more educated woman than she was, and deferring the complicated stuff to Herb, who eventually joined the conversation. She liked Ron, but could not imagine ever being him. It wasn’t the way she thought it would be at all.
“Um, I see you two have met,” Herb was saying.
Moosic looked over at her. “I still don’t know your name.”
A little thrill went through her, and she had an urge to say Agnes or Sarah or even Megan, just to throw something of her own into it, but she did not. She would go along, because these people owned her, and that’s what they expected her to do.
“When you’ve nightsided past your trip point, you may as well pick any name,” she told him. “I call myself Dawn, because it’s a new start and I kind of like the sound of it. I have lots of other names, but they don’t mean nothing to me anymore.” The moment she said the name, it became hers. It felt right and sounded right. She was Dawn Moosic, destined to be so, and it did not seem bad at all.
Over the next few weeks they grew inseparable. Although the whole thing continued to trouble her, the fact was that he was simply the most wonderful man she’d ever known, and she wanted him, wanted him desperately. She could hardly wait for an opening, but he was still slightly aloof, slightly hesitant.
She took him out to the waterfall, and they talked, and she showed him the belt and how it operated. It seemed so natural, so nice.
Suddenly there came the sound of tremendous explosions, and her heart skipped a beat. He jumped up and began to run back towards the base; she followed right behind.
They stopped at the edge of the jungle, which still offered concealment, and both saw immediately tha
t there was no way to get through the attackers to the entrance. The Earthsiders were building, and had almost completed, their weapon. Ron looked at her in alarm. “We have to do something!”
Until this moment she’d reserved the option of canceling out, of telling him the truth, but now she realized that it had gone too far. It was going to happen, and nothing whatsoever could prevent it now except their capture or deaths, and that she did not intend. “What do you suggest? We can’t get through that mob—they’ll kill us. We can’t get to that weapon, whatever it is. It’d be suicide. And neither of us is armed.”
They watched in frustration, enforced observers. “Why don’t they defend themselves?” he muttered. “Surely they must have been prepared for this.” He paused a moment. “Your time belt! We could use it to go back just a little and warn them!”
She shook her head. “Won’t work. Just like any other time, you can’t be in two places at once. Besides—they were warned. The computer refused to let them take any action.”
“Huh? Why!”
“It’s part of a nightside time loop. In time, causes can precede events, but the events must be allowed to come about or much worse will happen. God knows, I don’t pretend to understand it. I—I just accept what must be now.”
He looked at her strangely, then back at the scene, which was getting worse. The device was completed now and powered up, and what was clearly a barrel or projector was aimed directly at the base. The sound of an air horn caused the attack from the gargoyles to be broken off, and they retreated a respectful distance. Then the weapon was brought into play, shooting a continuous beam of what seemed almost liquid blue energy at the complex. The energy struck and seemed to flow over the entirety of the building.
There was a crackling sound near them, and Moosic looked over to see tiny fields of electricity dancing around Dawn’s time belt. The small red displays blinked on and off erratically. “The time belt!” he almost shouted, in no danger with the din of the attack masking them. “It’s shorting out!”
Downtiming the Night Side Page 20