“I guess it has,” he said, awkwardly kissing her on each cheek when she reached him.
“But of course, you have your own lab now, with little phials and vials of everything,” she said. “What could lure you down here to the belly of the beast?” That had been their name for it: the place where enzymes extracted emotions from chemicals, the way the stomach turns chocolate into happiness.
“It's this new juice I'm working on. I get the reaction I want when I mix the ingredients a certain way—"
“How many ingredients?"
“Eight."
She rolled her eyes. “Raf, you purist, you! You're going to put me out of business."
He laughed politely. “Well, that's the thing—I've tried mixing them every way I could, and I can't boost the reaction I want without making the side effects worse too. I know there isn't anything in my lab that'll help, but I thought maybe you might have something new...."
She nodded. “Of course. Ask and you shall receive. What sort of thing were you looking for?"
“Anything,” he said, shrugged. As scientific as the process was at the extraction stage, by this point it was closer to alchemy: the right mix of anger and sorrow could create a euphoria more genuine than a pure essence of happiness. The use of testers had always been a tacit admission of that, but it had taken him and Naomi to bring it out into the open.
“Very well,” she said, leading him along the walkway, between two of the huge stainless-steel extraction vats, to a sampling station. A hinged plastic box attached to the wall was full of touches, like little pipettes; above it was a programmable dispenser to which thin pipes led from the extraction vats. “Try this—an essence of doubt."
Raf plugged the touche into his dreamlink and felt a gray wash of uncertainty cross over him. Within a moment he doubted his name, his purpose, his very existence. A few seconds later the feeling was gone and he had regained confidence in his solidity.
“Well?” Mireille asked.
Raf shook his head. “It's good, but it's not what I need. Also, I think what I'm looking for is going to be an absolute—it has to root the emotion, ground it."
“Hm.” She chewed her lip briefly. “Try this one, then."
Another touche, and—nothing; he frowned, then checked his watch, wondering when he would have time to eat lunch. Another moment passed. “Well?"
“You're not feeling anything?"
“Just hungry,” he said, then smiled as it dawned on him. “That's very good. Good persistance, too—I'm still feeling it. But who's going to buy it?"
“Oh, you know those hardcore dreamers—the highlights aren't enough; they want to sleep, eat, everything along the way to the dragon's cave, or whatever."
In fact he had not heard about this latest trend, not having followed dream fashion for a while. “Sleep? They dream about sleeping?"
She shrugged, spread her hands in a what-can-you-do expression. “Not my problem. Anyway, it made me curious, and it turned out nobody had ever extracted it before: an absolute of hunger. Do you like it?"
“Of course. But I—” He was about to say it wasn't what he needed, but paused. Something about it was with him still, a primal desire he suspected even the cleanser would not entirely wipe out. “Actually, send me a sample. I'd like to play with it."
Mireille smiled. “Eh bien. But please, don't let it be so long before we see each other again."
Raf nodded. He had not socialized at all since Naomi developed Prospero's; he had decided to keep her condition private, and most of their friends probably thought he had dropped off the face of the earth. “Sure,” he said, giving the awkward cheek-kisses once more and starting down the walkway.
“And say hello to Naomi for me,” Mireille called at his back. “Tell her she still owes me a boyfriend."
* * * *
“Doctor Parnati, please—sit.” Afternoon light fell through the office window at a painful angle, making Raf squint. Doctor Hamilton—MD, not PhD; a real doctor, his mother would say—gestured to the chair in front of her desk. She was a woman with a brisk manner, dark hair pulled tight in a ponytail, and young. Nearly all doctors who specialized in organic emotion disorders were. It was a young discipline.
“Shouldn't Naomi be here?"
Dr. Hamilton gave a professional smile. “In cases like these I like to talk to the caregiver first. I assume that's you?” She gestured at the chair again.
Raf remained standing, put his hands on the back of the chair. “What do you mean, ‘caregiver'? What exactly is wrong with her?"
Her expression turned into a little moue of concern. “I'm afraid Naomi is in the early stages of Prospero's disease,” she said.
“That can't be. She's not even thirty-five, and she's not a habitual dreamer."
She sighed. “That is the classic model of Prospero's, yes. But—I know you're in the field; have you been keeping up with the literature?"
“I guess not."
“Lately we're finding more young victims, more sudden onset—people in the industry, often. The people who make good testers—"
Raf nodded. “Feel things more. So they're affected more easily."
“That's the theory,” Dr. Hamilton said.
“So what can we do?"
“Like I said, you're in the field—you know the treatments.” She reached into the middle drawer of her desk, drew out a colorful pamphlet titled CARING FOR THE PROSPERO'S PATIENT. “Training, at first, then emotifiers. Low dosage, so we don't aggravate her condition. It's a big improvement on the early treatments.” He remembered those from school: the Koch-Bosshard robot faces that mimicked emotions in a cartoonish way.
“Will it get worse?” he asked.
“I can't say. The progress might arrest itself...."
“Or it might not. I can make her happy, or sad, but she's never going to feel ... anything herself. Never want anything for herself."
“I'm afraid that's right, at the moment. But Doctor Parnati, you know, there's a lot of work going into finding a cure. Your own company...."
He did not tell her that Milne, like all the other companies, had more or less given up. Recreationals were much more profitable; what little therapeutic work they still did was mostly to preserve a cover of respectability, and it was all in the area of treatment, not cure. “Sure,” he said, turned to leave. “I guess I'll—I'll go get Naomi now."
“Doctor Parnati—"
He stopped but did not turn around. “Yes?"
“She's going to understand what's happened to her, but she's unlikely to care. That may be difficult for you."
Raf nodded. “I understand."
“Caring for someone with Prospero's can be very stressful. We have a support group—"
“Thanks,” he said, and left the office without getting any more information. He didn't need a support group; he was going to find a cure. He wouldn't be able to work on it at Milne—it certainly wouldn't pass the cost-benefit test the new CEO required—but one of the smaller firms might let him do it, just for the prestige of having Milne's star designer on staff.
“I'll wake you up,” he said quietly as he left. “I'll find a way. I promise."
* * * *
“Can I speak to you for a moment, Doctor?"
Raf shifted his focus on the one-way glass, turning his attention away from the empty table on the other side to the half-reflection of the room. Mark Davis, head of research at Laboratorios Nullorca, was standing in the doorway.
“Okay,” he said. “What's up?"
“I understand you've put clinical testing of Impulse on hold?"
It took Raf a moment to recognize the trade name that Marketing had developed for the juice he still thought of as Beta one. “There're still some bugs to work out,” he said, avoiding the shorter man's eyes.
“This product means a lot to the company,” Davis said, his tone even. “I must admit, I was starting to wonder if this line of research was going to produce anything at all."
Raf
shrugged. “Slow and steady wins the race,” he said.
Davis smiled, an expression all the more disturbing for its rarity. “Maybe at Milne,” he said. “At Nullorca we bet on the rabbit."
“Right.” Raf laughed politely. “Look, it's not going to be much longer. We've got the effect we wanted; at this stage it's just tinkering."
“Even if it's just for short term use, this product could have tremendous therapeutic value,” Davis said. “Do you think it's fair to hold it back over a few minor concerns?"
Raf nodded, acknowledging defeat. “I guess not,” he said slowly. “How much time do I have?"
“Shall we say a week?"
“Fine."
Davis left, his unspoken question a sillage lingering in the air. Raf wished he could dispel it, but in fact he had been asking the same thing himself: why was he stalling? What was he more afraid of—that it wouldn't work, or that it would? He knew how excited he had felt when he had first added the new absolute of hunger to the juice, found that it nearly washed out the anger and fear; still, something was gnawing at him, some anxiety he could not isolate and identify. If only he could be sure he was doing the right thing.
He shook his head at his own stupidity, then hooked himself up to the dispenser and keyed for the beta juice. A wave of nearly pure desire rose in him, washing away all doubt. This, he thought, will definitely have commercial applications. Carried by the rush of will, he quickly arranged to have Naomi—subject five, he barely remembered to say—brought to the testing lab.
She found a chair, sat still while Raf hooked the dreamlink to her. He stepped out the door, went into the lab to start the drip, then returned to be with her when the juice took effect. As before, Naomi's face briefly went rigid with anger, then fear; this time, though, her expression smoothed into calm after a few moments.
“Raf ?” she asked. “What—what am I feeling?"
“Do you want to know?"
“Yes,” she said, then stopped as she heard herself. “I do—I want to know."
Holding his breath, he pulled his chair over to hers, leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She looked at him for a long moment, kissed him. His heart jumped; he looked into her eyes, saw that spark.
“I wanted to do that,” Naomi said. “Raf, I'm—” She stopped for a moment. “I'm really hungry."
“Side effect,” Raf said, wiping his eyes. “I think we can live with it. How about a hot dog?"
“Sounds great,” Naomi said. “I'd love a hot dog right now."
“I'll just have to sign you out, then we can go. To the park.” He stood, let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. “Or we could do Chinese, if you like."
“Chinese!” Naomi said, her eyes flashing. “That's perfect. Let's do that."
“Um ... okay. Are you sure?"
“Absolutely.” She closed her eyes, smiled. “I would kill for some pork buns."
“Yeah. Me too.” A tiny part of Raf's brain was screaming, getting louder and louder as the effects of the dose he had taken faded. “How about pizza?"
“Pizza is perfect!” Naomi said, with exactly as much enthusiasm as she had shown before. “Onions, olives, green peppers, bacon..."
Raf felt himself shaking, fought to keep a tremor from his voice. “Do you want to just go to the caf here?"
“Sure! Great! I haven't had one of those Swedish meatball platters in forever."
“That's because you hate them,” Raf said quietly.
“That's why,” Naomi said. “They're so bad they're good."
“Uh huh.” He felt oddly light, like a cartoon character who's run off a cliff, in the moment before he starts to drop. “How about we just bang our heads into the wall?"
“Sure!” Naomi jumped to her feet.
Raf caught her arm. “Do you really want to do that?” he asked. She nodded vigorously. “Why?"
“It feels so good when you stop."
“Let's not do it,” he said.
“Okay. Let's not.” She smiled. “So what do you want to do?"
“What do you want to do?” Raf asked, making a silent wish.
Naomi shrugged, excitement dancing in her eyes. “Anything. Everything."
“Okay,” Raf said. He made himself smile, then kissed her again, felt her kiss back for the first time in three years; when he looked in her eyes, though, it wasn't really her spark he saw. Just neon that he'd thought was lightning.
* * * *
The noon sun shone high above, making Raf squint. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been under natural light this long. His skin, always pale, had turned nearly translucent from years under fluorescents, and before going out he had been careful to cover up. In this, he and Naomi were alike: neither could feel the harm until after it was done.
He thought, for a moment, of Davis’ desk, back at the office, and the two things on it—his resignation and his report on the clinical trial, stating that Impulse would be both unsafe and, more damningly, unprofitable. He took a deep breath: under the notes of damp earth and spring flowers, he could just make out the smell of bridges burning.
Naomi settled into the bench overlooking the pond and he sat down next to her. The park—their park, the one they had fled to from the conference the day they first met—had hardly changed over the years: kids still squealed as they slid down the slides, hot dog vendors still circled it, occasionally daring the bylaw officers by rolling their carts inside its boundaries. It was easy to believe no time had passed since the first day they came here. That nothing had changed.
He kissed her cheek, and it felt like wax; her eyes were dead and empty. He had taken her off the emotifiers, all of them, left dreams behind and brought her back out into the world. If a cure ever came, it would come from her.
“Wake up, sleeping beauty,” he said, and kissed her again.
One day, damn it, it would work.
Copyright © 2006 Matthew Johnson
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* * *
The Analects of Decomprecius
Translated by Wil McCarthy
1. The master said, the airlock is a place for contemplation. To discuss your task beforehand is good. To discuss your errors afterward is good. To chatter is disrespectful.
When the red lamp is extinguished, the outer hatch may be opened.
When the green lamp is burning, the inner hatch.
If the lamps remain dark, repair them.
2. The master said, decompress for fifteen minutes in a majority nitrogen atmosphere. Decompress for ten minutes in a majority noble atmosphere, and for five minutes in a majority oxygen atmosphere.
3. The master told his students, linearly interpolate. He said, are you fools or spacemen?
4. There are some who decompress for thirty or even forty minutes, as if their time did not have value. Eschew this.
5. The master said, the air grows on trees! It isn't free!
Truly sublime are the words of the men of Apollo, for they are calm.
6. Said the student, my atmosphere is pure oxygen. Since there is nothing to bubble in my blood, shall I open the hatch? Replied the master, has it been five minutes?
7. Prebreathing is acceptable. Decompress anyway.
8. The master remarked, the inside and the outside are different places. In between them you must cleanse your mind. This is the true purpose of decompression.
Do not fill the airwaves with prattle. Remember that the bandwidth of free space is limited.
9. The master said, the working of valves should be attended with respect. Remember that systems can fail.
Let the airlock be your favorite place. Do not imagine you are elsewhere.
10. Obviously, your face will itch when you cannot scratch it. Said the master, are you a spaceman or aren't you?
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* * *
The Edge of the Map
by Ian Creasey
Our June issue seems to be almost a special multi-media i
ssue. James Patrick Kelly's story investigated a brand new medium, while Robert Reed reflected on a familiar entertainment form that regularly invades the average living room. Now Ian Creasey, whose first story for Asimov's—"The Hastillan Weed"—appeared in our February 2006 issue, examines a fairly recent phenomenon that has swallowed the lives of many Internet users, and takes a look at where it's going and what it may lead to when it reaches...
Susanna listened resentfully to the helicopters spraying nanocams over the foothills. She kept her gaze locked on the plantation, rubbing her tense neck as she waited to get the shot. It was a long time since she'd filmed her own footage. She fiddled with the controls on her ancient glasses, practicing framing the scene, zooming in, panning back for a wide angle.
“How long will this take?” asked Ivo. “This isn't what I'm here for. We need to head off soon.” In her peripheral vision, she saw him twitch restlessly as he kept glancing in all directions, like a nervous bird in a garden full of cats.
“I want to film a few things before I'm finally obsolete,” Susanna said. “It shouldn't be long now.” She saw no sign of movement downhill. The cannabis plants, which had grown four meters tall in the African sun, might still harbor a few defiant hippies. Should she move along the ridge for a better angle?
A bar of green light split the sky in two. The crack of ionized air rolled across the mountain like a manmade thunderbolt. Susanna adjusted her glasses, zooming in to focus on the flames. The smell of burning cannabis rose up the hillside.
She gave the glasses to Ivo, then walked a few steps down the hill. “Keep looking at me, but film as much fire behind me as you can."
Ivo donned the glasses with little enthusiasm. He brushed aside the fringe of his ash-blond hair, then gave her a perfunctory thumbs-up sign.
Asimov's SF, June 2006 Page 11