Peter Watts - Maelstrom

The voice hung there in the void with him, sexless and innocent of ambience; no reverb, no quiet hum of nearby appliances, no background noise at all. It was almost like a Haven voice, but even that seemed wrong.

"I want you to think about the ocean. The very deep ocean. Think about some of the things that live down there. The microbes, especially. Think about them."

He tried to speak. No vocal cords.

"Good. Now I want you to listen to some names. You may recognize some of them. Abigail McHugh."

He'd never heard of her.

"Donald Lertzman."

Lertzman? How's he involved?

"Wolfgang Schmidt. Judy Caraco."

Is this some kind of Corpse loyalty te—oh Jesus. That Haven contact. Pickering's Pile. It said it could find me…

"André Breault. Patrician Rowan. Lenie Clarke."

Rowan! She behind this?

"Ken Lubin. Leo Hin Tan the Third. Mark Showell. Michael Brander."

Yeah. Rowan. Maybe Alice isn't so paranoid after all.

"Good. Now I want you to think about biochemistry. Proteins. Sulfur-containing amino acids."

??!?!?!..

"I can tell you're confused. Let's narrow it down some. Cysteine. Methionine. Think about those when you hear the following words…"

It's a mind-reading trick of some kind , Desjardins thought.

"Retrovirus. Stereoisomer. Sarcomere."

A quantum computer?

They didn't exist. Of course, that was the official story on most banned technology, but in this case Desjardins was inclined to believe it. Nobody in their right mind would be caught dead around a telepathic AI. That had been one side-effect the Q-boosters hadn't seen coming: the whole quantum-consciousness debate had been resolved overnight. Who'd ever choose to build something that could sift through their minds like a chess grandmaster noodling around in a game of Xs and Os?

Nobody, as far as Desjardins had been able to tell.

"Ion pump. Thermophile."

But if not a quantum computer, then—

"Archaea. Phenylindole."

Ganzfeld .

Not a computer, except for the interrogation interface. Not telepathy either; not quite. Cruder. The faint quantum signals of human consciousness, cut away from the noise and sensory static that usually swamped them. Properly insulated from such interference, you had a better-than-average chance of guessing what your subject was looking at, or listening to. You could feel the vicarious echo of distant emotions. With the right insulation, and the right stimuli, you could learn a lot.

So Desjardins had been told. He'd never actually experienced it before.

"Good. Now, think about the assignments you've had at CSIRA over the past month."

Mange de la marde. Just because some disembodied voice told him to think about something, didn't mean he had to leap up and—

"Ah. There's a familiar pattern. Here's an exercise for you, Achilles: whatever you do, do not think of a red-eyed baboon with hemorrhoids."

Oh, shit.

"You see? Nothing's more doomed to failure than trying really hard not to think about something. Shall we continue? Think about your CSIRA assignments for the past six months."

A red-eyed baboon with-

"Think of earthquakes and tidal waves. Think of any possible connections."

Isn't this a security breach? Shouldn't Guilt Trip be doing something?

Earthquakes. Tidal waves. He couldn't keep them out.

Maybe it is. Maybe Trip's seized up my whole body. If I even still have a body. How would I know?

Fires.

Oh Jesus. I'll give everything away…

Threads of emerald light, lancing through the fog.

"Think of containment protocols. Think of collateral damage."

Stop it, stop it…

"Did you plan it?"

No! No, I—

"Did you know in advance?"

How could I, they don't tell me any—

"Did you find out afterward?"

If Trip's working, my body's already dead. Oh motherfucking blood-spewing sickle-celled savior…

"Did you approve ?"

What kind of stupid question is that?

Nothing, for a very long time.

I feel awful, Desjardins thought. Then: Hey—

Despair, guilt, fear—chemicals, all. Hormones and neurotransmitters, a medley brewed not just in the brain, but in glands throughout the body. The physical body.

I'm still alive. I've still got a body even if I can't feel it.

"Let's talk about you," said the voice at last. "How have you been lately, healthwise? Have you had any cuts or injuries? Anything to break the skin?"

I'm feeling a bit better, thank you.

"Any symptoms of illness?

"Any inoculations within the past two weeks?

"Blood tests? Unusual reactions to recreational transderms?

" Real sexual experiences?"

Never. I'd never inflict that on a person …

Silence.

Hey. You there?

With a blinding flash and a roar like an angry ocean, the real world crashed in from all sides.

After a while everything desaturated to normal intensity. He stared up at his living room ceiling and waited while a cacophony of ambient sounds faded down to a single, rhythmic scrubbing.

Someone's in here.

He tried to rise; a sharp pain in his neck kept him from any sudden moves, but he managed to get erect and stay that way. In only the most innocent sense, unfortunately; his feedback skin was folded neatly to one side. He was completely naked.

The scrubbing sound was coming from the bathroom.

He didn't have any weapons. At this point he didn't think he needed any; if the intruder had meant to kill him, he'd be dead already. Desjardins stepped tentatively toward the hallway and nearly took a header into the wall; Mandelbrot, true to form, had got in his way and tried the classic feline figure-eight-around-the-legs takedown.

Desjardins spared a silent curse and crept toward the bathroom.

Someone was standing at the sink without any pants on.

Seen from the back: medium height, but built like a Ballard stack. Dark hair, flecked with gray; navy cable-knit sweater; black underwear; little scars all over the backs of the legs. Bare feet. His pants were draped along the counter; he was scrubbing at one leg in the sink.

"Your cat pissed on me," he said without turning.

Desjardins shook his head; his neck reminded him of the stupidity of that gesture. "What?"

"When we had our session," the stranger said. (Desjardins glanced in the mirror but the man's face was tilted down, intent on his task.) "I assume someone in your position knows about Ganzfeld techniques?"

"I've heard of them," Desjardins said.

"Then you know you have to minimize extraneous signal. Nerve blocks on all the main sensory cables, everything. I was just as disconnected as you."

"But you were talking —"

The intruder nudged a small beige fanny-pack on the floor with his foot. " That was talking. I just set up the dialogue tree. Anyway," — he straightened, his back still to the door—"your stupid cat pissed on my leg when I was laid out."

Good for my stupid cat , Desjardins didn't say.

"I thought only dogs were supposed to do that."

Desjardins shrugged. "Mandelbrot's kind of a mutant."

The intruder grunted, and turned.

He wasn't exactly ugly. More like what would result if someone with limited artisan skills carved a human face in a totem pole; it might not run to your taste, but there was no denying a certain crude aesthetic. More tiny scars on the face. Still; not quite ugly.

Scary, though. That fit. Desjardins didn't know exactly what it was that made him think that.