David Brin: A Stage of Memory

The waiting room was stark and depressing… paint peeling under sharp fluorescents. The pungency of disinfectant failed to disguise the distinct aroma of urine. Every now and then some waiting client fell into a fit of dispirited coughing. Nobody talked.

Derek hunched in a cracked corner seat, hoping to avoid being noticed. Not that many recognized Derek Blakeney anymore. It had been more than two years since the last spate of scandals and scathing reviews had banished him from the theater columns.

The only serious threat to his apathetic downward spiral had come when a certain critic compassionately eulogized “a lost giant of the stage.” Derek had tried to build up a rage over it, but torpidity had prevailed in the end. Now he was thirty pounds lighter and indifferently washed, and it was unlikely anyone would even recognize a onetime star of Broadway. He was probably safe.

A gaunt woman in a white smock periodically emerged to call out numbers. Clients followed her one at a time to a row of cubbyholes against the wall. From the booths came a low mutter of alternating wheedling and officialese. Derek overheard snatches of conversation.

“…You won’t get any more Tripastim until your amino acid balance is better, Mr. Saunders… How? By improving your diet of course…”

And another.

“…Here is your allotment, Mrs. Fine. No, first you sign here. Yes, here. And you must drink this vitamin supplement… I’ve already explained, Mrs. Fine. The government doesn’t subsidize your habit because it’s your right , but in order to drive the Black Chemists out of business. We can undercharge them and see to it you have every chance to kick it if you decide to. Part of the deal is making sure you get the nutritional…”

Derek closed his eyes. The Liberal-Libertarian coalition had trounced the old Republicans and Democrats in the last election, and Drug Centers like this one were among their first steps on taking office. It had been a good move. Too bad Libertarians were so stingy, though, and the Liberals so damned sanctimonious. If only they’d just give over the doses and shut their bloody—

“Number eighty-seven.” The nurse’s sharp voice made Derek feel brittle. But it was his number, at last! He stood up.”

“I’m number eighty-seven.”

The nurse’s look seemed to say that what she saw was both pitiable and vaguely loathsome. “Go to station twelve, please,” she said, referring to her clipboard. “Ms. Sanchez has your chart.”

Derek shook his head. “I wish to see Dr. Bettide. It is a matter of some urgency, requiring the attention of someone with his expertise.”

The woman looked up, surprised. Derek felt a moment’s satisfaction. He might look like a derelict, but the voice was still Derek Blakeney’s. It commanded attention.

“Dr. Bettide is very busy,” the nurse began uncertainly. “He’s good enough to volunteer his time as it is. We only send him referrals from—”

“Just convey him my name, if you please.” He handed her one of his last few cards, certain he could recover it. “The doctor will see me, I am certain of it.” He smiled, a relaxed expression of assurance and patience.

“Well…” She blushed slightly and decided. “Wait here, please. I’ll ask the doctor.”

When she had gone, Derek let his expression sag again. Without an audience he folded in upon himself.

Lord, he thought. I hate this overlit, stinking pesthole. I hate the world for having such places in it. And most of all I hate having to beg for the stuff I need in order to get the hell out of this goddamn turn-of-the-century world.

It isn’t fair . All I want to do is go home again! Is that too much to ask? Frigging scientists work wonders these days. Why can’t they just send me home again?

“It’s not fair, I tell you. The injection and the new dose should have taken me back to age twelve! Not thirty-five, but twelve! What’s the matter with the damn stuff?”

It never occurred to Derek to present a false face to Dr. Melniss Bettide. He acted the age he wanted to be in the presence of the man he hoped would make it possible.

A small, dark man, Dr. Bettide regarded Derek through thick-lensed glasses. Derek grew uncomfortable under the physician’s unblinking stare. At last Bettide pressed a button on his intercom.

“Steve, please bring in a double shot of health supplement four.”

“Yes, Doctor .”

“Hey! I don’t want vitamins! I want—”

Bettide silenced Derek with a bored wave. “And Steve, please also bring me a carton of the new samples of Temporin B.”

Now, that was different! A new type of Temporin? Of Time-Jizz? The possibilities were exciting.

Bettide examined Derek’s file. “You’ve been to group therapy regularly, I see.”

“They won’t give you a drug card if you don’t go. It’s worth sitting around with a bunch of whining marks for an hour a week, in order not to have to go to the Black Chemists for the stuff.”

“Hmmm, yes. But you’re still refusing individual treatment?”

“So what? It’s not mandatory. Why should I go and spill my guts to some shrink? There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Derek stopped abruptly, blinking as a flashback hit—a brief, sudden image of a trapezoid of light, then the sound of a slamming door…

He looked down and spoke again in a lower tone. “At least there’s nothing wrong with me that the right change of environment wouldn’t cure,” he muttered.

Dr. Bettide made an entry in Derek’s file, a sniff his only comment. Derek shrugged. So the man saw through his sophistries. At least Bettide never lectured like a lot of Liberals would. He suspected the doctor was a Libertarian.

Yeah. Let us go to hell however we want to. It’s our own choice, after all .

A pharmacology aide walked in and put down a plastic-capped beaker of orange fluid. Next to it he placed a cardboard box that clinked, the sound of many small bottles. Derek inspected his fingernails as the assistant passed out of the office, ignoring the aide’s expression of bored contempt.

“So what’s this new type of Time-Jizz, Doctor? Will it work better?”

“Drink.” Bettide gestured at the beaker without looking up. He took out a key and unlocked his briefcase, removing a small black ledger.

Derek grimaced and reached for the vitamin suppliment, sighing for effect as he pried off the plastic cover. He drank the orange-flavored concoction, knowing Bettide wouldn’t help him until it was all gone.

At last he put down the beaker and licked the orange coating from his ragged moustache. “Have they found any more cases like me, Doctor?” For a change his voice was serious, earnest.

“A few,” Bettide answered noncommitally, still writing in the small black book.

“Well? Have they found out why some of us get stuck in sequential time trips, instead of just accessing the memories we want at will?”

Bettide closed the book and looked up. “No, Derek. We haven’t. But look on the bright side. At least you don’t suffer the worst syndrome. Some Temporin users with hidden masochistic tendencies send themselves right off to the worst moments of their lives. A few get into flashback loops where many times each day they relive those episodes in vivid detail, with or without the drug.”

Derek blinked. “That’s terrible! But…”

A crafty look spread across his face. “Oh, I get it. That’s one of those aversion stories, isn’t it? Part of trying to get your clients off the very drugs you pass out. Pretty clever. You almost scared me this time.”

Bettide shrugged. “Have it your own way, Derek. As to your problem of sequential access, I believe we might have a possible solution.”