Ocean in the Sea Read online

  “How long is this going to take?”

  “That depends on you.” Valon stared raptly at the monitor. “Give it a shot.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Want to experience the worst pain you’ll ever feel?”

  “You’ll torture me?”

  “Try me. You won’t try me twice. On my end it’s a button press. On yours it will be neural stimulation across multiple sensory inputs. Ever wonder what it feels like to be burned alive? Yes… I know it lies inside you, Lewis. I know you’ve imagined it. It’s in your files. The nightmares. The guilt. You want to know, don’t you. Shall I give you a taste? It will be… cathartic.”

  “No.”

  “Then evoke the sensation and let’s get started. We’ve a lot to do.”

  Taking a deep breath, Lewis focused on the sensation, trying to repeat it in the same way as he’d learned to evoke sensation yesterday. This was more difficult. He was certain he could sense something toward the back of his head, but couldn’t mentally “grasp” it as he’d done with the other talent. There was nothing to grasp or squeeze. A thought occurred to him. “Would it be easier,” he asked Valon, “if I make the odds of my being able to do this one?”

  “Ha!” The old man laughed and spun around, stroking his neatly trimmed white goatee. “As if I’d unblock your interface. It is a nice bit of manipulation though.” Leaning back he folded his arms and stared at the ceiling. “More importantly, you’ve struck upon the paradox of change. Let’s say you did have control over your interface, and you used it to give yourself knowledge of something you don’t know or a talent you don’t have. It’s tempting to do, and very easy, but when you alter chance in that way, you give the Attistar free license to modify your base programming. Personally, I avoid this for reasons I won’t go into. But you’re a different story.” He shrugged. “Feel free to indulge in that temptation if you wish. Who knows, it may even work. But there’s a good chance you won’t be exactly the ‘same’ when you’re done. Not that you’d notice, but the Attistar operates by rules that differ depending on the simulation. It would likely inject the information, but it might also restore you to the template of your host’s personality, eliminating any ‘you’ tied to the mental interface. That won’t make any difference now, because you’re in your own head, but once you’ve jumped, there will be two sets of memories.”

  “Why two?”

  Valon sighed and slumped, drumming his fingers on the desk. “I suppose I can explain that now.” he cleared his throat. “When you jump from one simulation to another, your personality is transferred to a buffer in the Attistar’s, um… let’s call it a configuration registry. Once the Attistar locates a suitable host – an entity living in the simulation – it translates a copy of your mentality into that neural network, and maintains a realtime connection with the duplicate and the original. But it doesn’t simply erase the host’s mind, oh no! That would be cheating. It would also be messy. So what you end up with is a fragmented dual system, where you’re in control and the host’s mind is effectively ‘put to sleep’ if it wasn’t dead already. It won’t be aware of your actions or of anything at all, but it’s still there – all the memories, skills, drives, and talents it had during life. Those memories are what I’m teaching you to access, but, because you’re not in a host at the moment, you’ll be practicing on your own memories. And the first act is to create a map.”

  “A map?”

  “Yes, a mental map.” Valon tapped his cane on the floor for emphasis. “Now, Lewis, in reading your files I see that you suffered an egregious injury to your left leg when you were a child. You were ten, helping your father build a new room in your home. Do you remember?”

  Lewis squirmed uncomfortably. “The nail gun.”

  “Yes! That’s it. You decided to play with it and fired nails through a piece of sheetrock sitting on your thigh. Not a very smart decision, I must tell you. What surprised me, though, was that you kept on pulling the trigger. Why?”

  “I… don’t know.” Lewis swallowed. “I felt something strange, but it wasn’t really… painful at first, just a pinching sensation. I didn’t think about it. It wasn’t until I hit the bone that I realized what was happening.”

  “Yes, well, painful memories are the easiest ones to reach, so I want you to remember that event as I ‘push’ the mental trigger I’ve given you. When you feel the sensation, search your mind and find that pain. It will evoke the memory in full.”

  “Are you serious? Why would I want to relive that!? Can’t we start with a pleasant memory?”

  Valon glanced at the screen. “Pleasant memories are largely irrelevant to my purpose. Pain is a lesson – negative feedback sends a spike through the hippocampus, instructing you to remember what you did. Sometimes it even forms a lesion. That’s what we need.” He raised his finger. “Ready, set, GO!”

  Click.

  A swirl of visions and memories accompanied the energetic sensation. Reflecting in pulses, it opened Lewis’s mind, revealing a collage of data that was nearly impossible to navigate. Trying to focus, he searched the mosaic stream, peering backwards for a road mark or milestone. His father’s house, the old split-level with blue trim and yellow siding at the end of the block. The unfinished basement infested with mice and spiders. The smell of the damp foundation came to him, and the crack of the nail gun as his father covered the walls with the chalky white sheetrock. The ring of the doorbell.

  “Don’t touch nothing, Lewis,” his father told him. He set the nail gun down and ran upstairs to see who it was. Lewis picked up a broken fragment of the walling. Holding it in his hands, he looked at the nail gun and reached for it. Having watched his father, he knew exactly how it worked. He set the piece of sheetrock on his left thigh and placed the business end of the gun against the surface. Listening to his father talk with someone upstairs, he knew he had time before his father came back. He pulled the trigger and the cap inside snapped with a shot. Something pinched his leg, but he ignored it. This was fascinating. He could make nails appear! Moving the gun a little further, he pulled the trigger twice more, feeling a pinch each time. More nails! He pulled the trigger.

  PAIN! An agonizing burning sensation erupted through his left leg along with an unexplainable icy chill that shot up his thigh and into his skull. He screamed and the gun clattered to the floor. Grabbing the piece of sheetrock, he tugged it from his leg, but it would not come free. Pulling harder, the nails came out with a sucking sound and a splatter of blood. Crimson liquid poured from his thigh. Feet pounded on the staircase and he saw his father standing over him. “LEWIS!”

  Grabbing the bloody sheetrock his father stared at the three crimson nails and the fourth nail still stuck in Lewis’ leg. “SHIT!” Tossing it aside, he reached down and gathered Lewis in his arms. “I’ll get you to a doctor. What were you thinking! Godammit, your mother is going to kill me. I TOLD you not to touch the nail gun!”

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” cried Lewis. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  As if surfacing from a dive, Lewis gasped and the memory ended. “I’m sorry,” he was still crying. His head pushed against the restraint. “I didn’t mean to, Dad!” The pain vanished, but its memory throbbed in the bone of his thigh. His faced reddened in shame for doing something so stupid. His parents had fought that night, he remembered that too, and the screaming. His father had slept on the couch.

  Valon nodded at the computer console. “Not bad,” he muttered. “Soon, you’ll be able to focus the trigger on your own. This isn’t through the Attistar, you realize. This interface is strictly between you and the host.”

  “That was horrible.”

  “Yes, I imagine it was,” muttered Valon.

  “I’m not doing that again.”

  Valon rolled his eyes and shook his head. Opening a file on the computer screen he scanned Lewis’s records. “Hmm… Let’s try something less physically traumatic and more… shall we say… limbic? Yes. Let’s ping the old medial temporal
lobe and see what we can dig up. How about school? Human education is rife with emotional trauma. Remember little Jacky Jacobson?”

  “NO!” Lewis pinched his eyes shut. Good God, if Valon could make him remember that in as much detail as the nail gun… “Please, Valon. Not Jacky. Pick something else. PLEASE! I’m begging you.”

  “You were willing to discuss it with your therapist.”

  “She wasn’t asking me to relive it.” Tugging harder, the metal around his wrists bit tight. He felt the ring around his head pulling at his hair. He had to get out.

  “Jacky was something of a turd, wasn’t he?” Valon skimmed the file. “You tried to befriend him, even to the point of protecting him from bullies, but he turned on you." Gesturing to the screen, Valon scrolled the image down to the next page of the report. “Jacky hid a pill bottle in your desk at school. Prescription medication he'd stolen from Garth Smithmaster's house - a boy two years your elder. Your teacher found it and sent you to the Principal’s office. When he realized the prescription belonged to Mr. Bill Smithmaster – Garth’s father – the Principal summoned Garth to the office as well. Both your parents were informed, along with the school board and the Superintendent. Despite your protests of innocence, you were placed on restriction for stealing the drugs. But it was much worse for Garth, wasn’t it, Lewis? His father was enraged. Do you remember why he was so angry?”

  “It was antipsychotic medication,” said Lewis. “No one knew that Mr. Smithmaster had mental problems… until then, and he was… a policeman.”

  “Correct,” nodded Valon. “Apparently only his wife knew, and his brother-in-law had helped him gain his position in the local police force by arranging for certain aspects of his background check to be ‘adjusted.’ As a result of this harmless childhood prank, Bill Smithmaster’s mental state was revealed to the community. You lived in a small conservative town. Word got around quickly. People petitioned the Mayor, insisting that Mr. Smithmaster be removed from his job. That’s probably why he was so hard on his son, beating him nearly senseless that night. A week later, when your restriction ended, Garth took revenge on you, punching you in the stomach when you weren’t looking, tripping you, destroying your school books, and spreading rumors that you were mentally handicapped. The other children called you a retard. But that wasn’t the worst of it, was it Lewis? There’s something more. Something you did.”

  “Jacky...”

  “Do you regret what happened?”

  “Of course I regret it! But…”

  Valon raised an eyebrow and lowered his head, focusing his gaze. “I want you to find it. I want you to relive it. And then I want you to tell me if you think what you did to Jacky was something you’d do again.”

  “NO!” Lewis balked, pushing against the restraints. “Of course I wouldn’t do…”

  Valon stabbed the keyboard, and Lewis writhed in the chair.

  No, no, Lewis protested with the force of his will. He would not do this. And in the flowing stream of thoughts he pushed against the memories of Jacky. As if planned by Valon, they rushed to the forefront anyway. It was not as if Lewis could ever forget them – not as if he could ever remove the stain of that nightmare. Clawing his way free, he spun through the river of thoughts, seeking any stone he might cling to against the torrent. Finding a different humiliation, he threw himself into the vision, and in a flash, he took it up, dropping into the memory. At once, he found himself at the restaurant – Benburgy’s Bar and Grill – his first job – his senior year of High School. Long after what had happened to Jacky.

  Years after, but not forgotten.

  Dressed in his waiter’s uniform, Lewis approached the table, daring not to think of what he was doing lest he lose his nerve entirely. The family waiting for the check consisted two adults, two younger children, and a girl his age. He knew her quite well, but only from a distance. Layna Karrigan, one of the most popular girls at school. She was beautiful and never rude to Lewis whenever he’d greeted her in class. During fourth period English, she sat behind him. He’d always wanted to ask her on a date, but never dared muster the fortitude to weather such a rejection. Seeing his chance to do so without much risk on his part – or so he assumed – Lewis had scrawled a note, intending to slip it to her when he gave her father the bill.

  Setting the receipt for their meal on the table, he put the note into Layna’s coat pocket where she’d hung it on the hook next to the benched seat. Retreating to the waiter’s station, he held his breath and watched as the family departed. But when they grabbed their coats, Lewis realized to his horror that he’d put the note into her mother’s jacket, not Layna’s. With wide eyes, he excused himself to the kitchen, and watched from behind the refuge while the family made their way out the front of the restaurant. It was there that Layna’s mother found the note. After reading it, she handed it to Layna’s father. With a curious expression, he flipped it open and read the message.

  Mr. Karrigan didn’t get angry. Nor was he amused. He merely folded the note and took it to the cashier, then hurried after his family who had already left for the car. Later that night, when the crowds had left and they were cleaning up, Don Freyd, the Restaurant’s manager called Lewis aside.

  “The next time you want to ask a girl out,” Don told Lewis, “take care where you put your invitation.” Don gave him the note. “Mr. Karrigan phoned me. He says his wife isn’t interested in having coffee with you sometime. Nor is his daughter interested in dating a sick sadistic retard. Sorry, Lewis. I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings and all that, but the Karrigan’s are… well… let’s just say they’re picky when it comes to who they socialize with, and you’re not exactly, um… normal, if you know what I mean.”

  “Normal?” Lewis muttered. “You mean… because of… Jacky?”

  “Look,” sighed Mr. Freyd, “you’re a special kid, Lewis. You see things differently than most people. You live in a world of absolutes, and the rest of us live in a world of maybes and could-bes. Do you get what I mean when I say that your chances of dating Layna Karrigan are slim to none?”

  “Of course.” Lewis felt his face flush. “I get it. I’m not stupid, Mr. Freyd, but….”

  “I’m not saying you’re stupid,” injected the chubby middle-aged man. The corners of his eyes crinkled in a kind of sympathetic wince. “But… people like the Karrigans… they spend their time with people like themselves. And, by that, I mean, wealthy and influential people. People other than us, Lewis. There are two kinds of people in this world. There’s the rich and powerful, and then there’s the rest of us. Do yourself a favor. Find a girl that’s like you.”

  “I could be rich,” Lewis protested.

  Don Freyd responded with a belly-chuckle. “Me too, if I won the lottery, but I’m not gonna hold my breath. Just be glad Mr. Karrigan didn’t make a fuss, or you’d be out of a job.” He shook his finger. “Don’t try that again, Lewis. No more notes, understood?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good. Now go and help Ben with the dishes.”

  The memory ended. Lewis blinked his eyes, still feeling his face flush with embarrassment. Layna Karrigan had quietly changed seats the next day. She never spoke to him again, friendly or otherwise.

  Across from Lewis, Valon frowned at the screen, shaking his head in disappointment. “Unsatisfactory,” muttered the old man. “I wanted a spike, not a bump.”

  “Sorry,” muttered Lewis, “but I’m not reliving… Jacky.” He tugged against the metal restraints. “Not that.”

  “Bullshit,” Valon snapped. “We’re building a map. You can’t do that without landmarks and milestones. You’ll need them to navigate the host mind, to identify what is yours and what is theirs.” Placing both hands palm-down on his knees, he swiveled his jaw in thought. “I’ll tell you what, let’s make a deal, you have questions you want answered, right?”

  Yes, thought Lewis, he had many questions. “Questions about what?” he prompted.

  Valon rolled his eyes and snort
ed. “Don’t play stupid, Lewis. You want to know how the probability interface works. You want to know where I came from. You want to know who is trying to kill me. You want to know who built the ring. You want to know its purpose. And you want to know what happens to your own body when you make the jump. Do as I ask and I’ll answer one of them. You can pick, and I promise I’ll tell you the truth.”

  “Not Jacky,” insisted Lewis. “I have plenty of humiliating and painful memories. Pick one of them, and you’ve got a deal.”

  Valon shook his head and regarded Lewis with sad eyes. “We need a memory that defines you – a keystone – one that changed your life. I believe this one qualifies as an easy beacon.”

  “A beacon I have to relive every time I use it?”

  “No, no. It’s not like that. You’ll know where it is. You’ll see it in your mind, feel it, but you won’t have to relive these memories. It is sufficient to have them mapped.”

  Lewis pinched his eyes shut and held his breath, considering what Valon was asking. Regret wasn’t an equal description of how he felt. The face of Jacky Jacobson followed him his entire life. “Damn you,” he groaned. A distraction, he needed a distraction to throw Valon off. Bargain with him.

  “I’ll do it then. But I want two questions answered.”

  “Done.”

  “Done!? But…”

  Valon’s finger descended and memories washed over Lewis. This time, he felt the previous memories, the nail in his thigh, the embarrassment of the misplaced note, they flew by him like place markers in a book. What he sought was between them, and he found it easy to isolate the memories when he thought of them that way. The brain was non-linear in its storage of information. Time was a product of activation. Knowing when an event occurred was an instinctive cognitive process – the identification of a “when” based on the “what” of circumstance. In this case, it was his freshman year of High School. He knew that because he could feel the anxiety of the situation. Pushed out of middle school, thrown into a pubescent mixture of turbulent misunderstood social cues, he’d been confused and outcast from the very start. He pushed against it, tried to escape, but it came anyway, as if the bargain he’d made with Valon locked him in.