Analog SFF, April 2007 Read online

  "Stop. You're not getting rid of me, Doc."

  "Sam, you'd be walking away from your doctorate work. You have lots more to lose."

  "So what?” Sam grimaced at how loud he had said that, and toned it down. “I'm not going to let Petrusky and his ilk set up their orthodoxy as the standard to which all right-thinking folk have to conform. That's what'll happen in the end, unless we derail it now, get some control back."

  Lucinda nodded gently. “I know. I just wanted to give you the chance."

  Sam grinned. “You're giving me the chance, and about time.” Had Lucinda not reined him in, he might have tried something like this alone months ago. “And I'll get by. I'm going to be famous, after all, or at least notorious. Someone will take me on, just for the publicity. It'll be even better for you."

  Lucinda tried to mirror his smile. “I can hope."

  * * * *

  "We've had this conversation before.” Joshua Muntz paid out some of the leash. “I'm not gonna abandon you because the going gets rough. I owe—you deserve better than that."

  It was a chilly evening, so Lucinda and Josh walked close, arms loosely around each other's waists. Ben, her Rottweiler, snuffled at the neighbors’ greenery.

  "I just want you to understand, if they put me under a microscope after tomorrow, they'll probably put you there too. You haven't done anything to deserve that."

  "I've been under that microscope,” he said tightly. “The first time, I did deserve it. This time around might be easier, with a clear conscience.” He ruminated. “If you're really saying you want me to lay low a while, for your sake—"

  "No!"

  It was the shortest lie she had ever told. Josh had been a patient of her team, cured of a murderous schizophrenia that had kept him institutionalized for thirteen years. Lucinda had seen him through the rough times after his rehabilitation, and over time he had become her ... what?

  Her lover? Not in the usual, physical sense, and she wasn't yet sure about the emotional sense, either. Such distinctions would probably matter little to the enemies she would make among her colleagues the next day. They could condemn her for a breach of ethics, and might make it stick. In a battle over ethics, it was a potent threat.

  Pavel would have a tool to destroy her, and not the only one. Even without this, she'd likely be outmatched.

  "You've got no reason to go into hiding,” she said as they turned up the path to her small house. “And I can handle whatever happens."

  Josh pulled her closer. “You don't need the false front with me, Luci. You're giving up your job, risking your professional reputation. You've got everything on the line."

  She stopped at the front step. “Do you think I shouldn't do this?"

  Josh needed a moment to meet her eyes. “I know someone should. I know better than most, this thing is too powerful to leave in the hands of people eager to use it. You're just being braver about it than I would."

  Lucinda turned away, ostensibly to open the door. She had been eager about overlay in the beginning. Never as eager as Pavel and others, perhaps, but she had believed in it. She still did, within bounds.

  Ben stumbled going into the house. “What's wrong, pal?” Josh said, kneeling beside him.

  "He's starting limping on that front paw,” Lucinda said. “Just getting older, I guess."

  "Oh, no, you're not,” Josh told Ben, and started tickling him. Soon Ben was lolling on his back, his coat scruffy from Josh's attention. Josh slowed to vigorous rubs, then firm pats, his face wilting into sadness as he slowed down.

  Lucinda watched it all. “You didn't come here tonight to exercise my dog. You look like you're having a rough time too. Is it your parents?"

  Josh's hand stopped, and he barely noticed Ben squirming free and trotting away. “Dad finally left the house. He's insisting I come with him. Mom's insisting I stay."

  He had returned to his parents after being released from the institution, for family support in reintegrating into society. It had instead reopened their old wounds.

  "I'm gonna make someone furious,” he said, standing up. “I could look into finding my own place, but even custodial supervisors don't make that much, and my electronics course eats into that. I..."

  As he searched for words, Lucinda put her arm around him, rubbing gently. She then took a step back. “If you need a place, Josh, you can always come here."

  She watched him absorb that and begin struggling inside. She had all but invited him into the physical intimacy he had been avoiding. The attacks his past self had committed had been against women, which made him feel undeserving of a woman's trust and favor. His connection with Lucinda was slowly dissolving that rationale.

  Beyond that, though, was what the overlay had left behind: shadows of the mind whose neural template was used to correct his. That person had had unfamiliar ideas, including quite progressive attitudes on sex, that Josh had been disturbed to find running through his head. He usually mastered all the stray thoughts, and if he perhaps overcompensated in the area of sex, Lucinda let him. The last thing she wanted to do was disregard his conscience.

  "Sorry,” he stammered, “I'm just thinking. It's a little tough to decide, not knowing what rent I'll be paying."

  Lucinda nearly corrected him, but held back. If these were Josh's terms, including what lay unspoken, she would take them. She wouldn't tell him so, but that extra money might be handy to her soon.

  "I hadn't thought that far ahead,” she said. “Give me a few days to figure it out."

  "No problem,” he replied. “Not like I expect an answer tomorrow.” They both laughed, the two strains of tension canceling each other.

  "But just in case...” Lucinda went to her purse on the dining room table, dipped in, and took out a key. “If the tug-of-war becomes too much, you can come here for relief, however long you need."

  Josh took the key tentatively. “Even if the news trucks are staking you out?"

  "I'll trust your judgment."

  His cheeks colored. “Thank you.” He gave her a slow, gentle kiss. “You're probably busy tonight, so I can go."

  "Not at all,” she said, taking his arm and walking toward the living room. “I could use some company for a while."

  * * * *

  It was a dark six forty when Lucinda pulled into the parking garage and walked to her familiar campus lab. She lingered a moment, looking through the gloom at the grassy courtyard bounded by three buildings. Five hours, she told herself.

  Coming out of the stairwell, she almost bumped into Kate Barber. Kate was walking down the hall, engrossed in talking to someone on a cell-pic. Lucinda swerved into a parallel course to avoid a collision, but got close enough to hear who was on the other end: Dr. Petrusky.

  "—to snow, but it looks like it'll miss us. We should have no trouble with our return flight."

  "Great, Pavel. Hold on. Lucinda, it's Pavel,” Kate said, reeling Lucinda in before she could move off. “They're in the Rayburn Building, ready for the hearing. He's touching base before he has to check his cell. Committee rules."

  Apparently, they didn't allow phones into chambers, probably as a security measure. Or maybe Congress had a sense of decency and decorum.

  "The hearing starts in a few minutes,” Kate went on. “They got all the files last night."

  "I know."

  Lucinda tried to get away, but the voice struck fast. “Let me talk to her, Kate."

  Kate held out the cell-pic. Lucinda slowly turned, seeing Pavel on the little screen, with what looked like Dreher's shoulder behind him. “Peale,” he said, “make sure the synesthesia volunteers know we have no interest in altering their condition."

  "They know. It's on the release forms."

  "Remind them."

  Pavel was jerking her chain. Synesthetes rarely considered their condition a handicap, but while Lucinda had no interest in coercion, she realized a few might truly want a standard set of senses. Pavel had been all for giving subjects freedom of choice in previo
us areas—one of which had cost her dearly in the office power plays—but the winds blew him differently here.

  "I'll continue to underscore it, Dr. Petrusky.” She kept from snarling or snapping with the underlying thought, Five hours.

  She handed back the phone, went to her office, and powered up her computer station. Before she could do anything more, Kate swung her door open.

  "There's a TV set up in the conference room, Lucinda. The team's going to watch the hearing there."

  "Oh.” Lucinda sighed. “I've got some work I need to square away, Kate. I'll join you as soon as I can."

  "It can't wait a couple hours?” But Kate was already backing out. With a shake of Lucinda's head, she disappeared.

  Lucinda counted to five, then went to close the door. Gently, she turned the lock. Back at her desk, she started her word processor program, put in a disk, and called up her resignation letter for a last look. It was fine: a few simple sentences, without invective. That would come later, on both sides.

  Next, she studied the statement she'd be giving at noon with Sam. She noted a couple of possible revisions on the screen of a pad, and tried to think them over. Her eyes kept being drawn to the clock in the corner. Four minutes of seven; four of ten in Washington.

  Lucinda shrugged. She turned on her secondary monitor, went to C-SPAN's site, and called up the web simulcast. She might not be part of the pack, but she was still curious.

  The camera was panning across a large room, paneled in dark red wood. The angle went from a nearly full public seating area, across long tables festooned with mics and small consoles, to the double arc of desks, already half-filled by Congresspersons, and backed by portraits on the wall. The caption at the bottom identified it as the House Science Committee's hearing room.

  As a mellow-voiced announcer told Lucinda more things she already knew, she drifted back to her pad for a couple of minutes. She only looked back when there was movement. There they were, entering the hearing room, led by an anonymous staffer. Pavel was in the lead, and took the middle seat at the nearer table.

  Someone came up to shake Pavel's hand and exchange a few words. By the time the announcer identified him, he was headed away, toward the arcs where the Representatives sat. Lucinda was unsurprised. Pavel had minted myriad such connections. However many he had cashed in to arrange this hearing, he had plenty more.

  Just past the hour, the image switched to the Chairwoman's seat at the top arc. The camera caught an inscription in the wall above her head—"Where there is no vision, the people will perish"—before zooming in on her. She formally opened the session, and rattled off introductory remarks. She then introduced the other committee members, who made their own remarks. Lucinda made herself listen, but was nearly lulled to sleep before the chair introduced Dr. Urowsky.

  Leonard burned some of his time explaining the mechanics of neural overlay to the committee, needing that time to find a rhythm. Two banks of emitters set into the desktop created a light interference pattern, so his scripted statement unfolded before him in the thin air. He needed time to fine-tune his use of the scrolling controls, but soon was reading steadily.

  "...has already proven its great therapeutic worth, through the nearly two hundred patients treated by our program alone,” Urowsky said. “All it needs is some salutary oversight, to prevent a patchwork of ethical guidelines in various states from sowing confusion. The AMA is currently working on developing such a framework. If Congress feels it must act in the matter, I urge it to study that framework, and..."

  Too bad. Leonard had been doing okay until then. The AMA board had flailed about for nearly a year without producing this framework. Leonard's appeal for patience and restraint was lame, and he probably knew it. At least it showed he still had ideas independent of Pavel.

  Urowsky went on in similar veins. One long camera angle showed Pavel, his body taut, one foot twitching with impatience. He didn't need to wait long. Once attention was on him, he was the image of calm and intelligence, and he was in his stride within seconds. He didn't even need his ghostly prompter.

  "The greatest proof of the value of overlay is in how much it has accomplished despite wholly adverse circumstances. Research is scattered across half a dozen universities; oversight is disjointed and weak; worst, there is no overall mandate for what overlay can and should provide to humankind. We can continue to function in this environment, but a rationalized system would unleash us to make far swifter and broader gains."

  Lucinda split her pad screen, so she could take notes on Pavel while still having her speech in view, to adjust her words to rebut his. And he had plenty of words.

  Pavel was proposing a national overlay study center, to conduct research and coordinate the efforts of subsidiary labs—meaning everyone else. All researchers and practitioners would submit to its oversight. That oversight would come from an advisory board, ideally appointed, he said, from the ranks of those most experienced in the field, the research scientists themselves.

  It was what Lucinda had expected. Heavy-handed as it was, the scheme might work, with the right people. If Pavel picked those people, starting with himself, she saw disaster.

  Her attention snapped back from her note-taking. “...pool of brain templates, from which we pick the best matches of physical structure for our overlays, must be rescreened. Anecdotal reports of stray ideas, opinions, and memories being transmitted to template recipients, while still unsubstantiated, indicate a potential failure point. In correcting the original pathologies, we might possibly sow the seeds of new ills."

  Lucinda remembered when Pavel put no stock in those anecdotes. A good scientist would change his mind with the facts, but the timing of Pavel's change was certainly convenient, for him.

  "The greatest threat here is not from familiar mental disorders or violent tendencies. It arises from the less recognized diseases of political, evangelical, and cultural extremism, whose kernels can more easily lie undetected, but are just as destructive to modern society. I am speaking of hate: legally culpable hate."

  Lucinda almost dropped her pad. The stakes had just gone way up.

  "Hate crimes are a stain on American society. The underlying prejudices that inspire them are stains on the mind. Combating this scourge is now crucial, not only for its own sake, but to ensure that its evil does not reproduce itself, unseen and unknown, by being imprinted into minds we mean to heal."

  Well, he had a new target, one that might encompass an older one. Cast a wide enough definition of “hate crime,” and you could catch a lot of people: for example, her. It might be his way, incidentally or not, of purging her from the program.

  Too bad she'd beat him to it.

  "We must scrutinize existing files, and we must closely screen new template pattern donors, by background check and under brain scan, for these aberrations, to ensure our donors are of sound and trustworthy mind."

  Lucinda nodded sadly. She centered the paragraph she had been mulling.

  Overlay is drifting toward becoming a political tool. The solution to that is not to put control in the hands of a political body.

  Out came “drifting;” in went “being driven.” She scrolled downward, adding the more forceful words and phrases she had been hoarding. She had held herself back, out of a persistent professional respect, and a remembrance of what once had been friendship. That was past now. She was making Pavel her open foe, and she had to go all out, as Sam had urged, to win this contest.

  "But this is only a stopgap, until we end our tolerance of extremist hate, treat it the way we treat the more explicit violence in our society, and remove this lurking risk from our work. I call upon Congress to give full support to a program of research to identify the root patterns of hate mentalities. Only then can neural overlay be free from menace and fear."

  It might even be too late now, whatever words Lucinda used. She had given Pavel the first move, and he played politics like a chess master. He could lock up the committee, maybe even the whole Congre
ss, if his zeal swept them up. And right now he was—

  Saying nothing. Had she missed the rest of his statement, lost in her own thoughts? She looked up, cursing softly.

  The camera was swinging, blurring the picture. There was a murmur, loud and rising. She could hear the scrapes of chairs. The camera stopped at the top arc, where one man in a security uniform was pulling on the arm of the nonplussed chairwoman, while a second pointed to a side door.

  The camera wheeled again. Before it reached the gallery, with people jostling in the aisles to reach the main door, she caught a flashing glimpse of incomprehension and alarm on three familiar faces.

  Lucinda caught the mood, confused and a little panicky. “What's happe—"

  The picture cut to a glass-walled studio. A man, the host of C-SPAN's call-in show, was at the glass, pointing. Someone shouted “Move!” off-screen, and he did.

  The camera zoomed, catching the airship as it fell from an overcast sky. The gondola was smashed and smoking. Rips in the skin fabric widened as air tore at them. One antenna came away, tumbling to earth.

  The ship was a fixture in Washington's sky, a sensor and security platform. Now it was a wreck, crashing somewhere well north of the Mall.

  "It came from the west,” the studio host said, voice cracking.

  "What did?” Lucinda said, her voice cracking too.

  "What's that?” The camera slewed left, past the Washington Monument. Somewhere beyond the Lincoln Memorial, there were two dots low in the air.

  The picture cut out, and Lucinda's breath caught. When it returned a second later, it showed a new, lower angle on the crashing airship, as its tail caught the corner of a large building.

  "—the convention center,” said some woman. Only now did Lucinda see the “LIVE—WJLA 7” logo. C-SPAN must have picked up a local feed, a reporter and camera on one of the lawns of tourist Washington. “The missile came from west of us, maybe from the Watergate—and now there are—"

  The camera caught the same dots, now with visible short-winged silhouettes. One was banking toward the Lincoln Memorial, the other flying nearly head-on to the camera. There were shouts, and a scream, drowning out the distant buzz.