Chapters Ten and Eleven

Back on Earth they used to say, “Hope springs eternal.”  I didn’t know about eternal, but I could personally vouch for the fact that hope didn’t go down without a fight.  I think I was on a quest, desperately searching for some redeeming nugget to counter my rapidly growing conviction that the Colony was not only a complete sham, but a crime against history and humanity.  Give me just one good reason to believe, I pleaded silently.  Hope was fading, but it wasn’t quite ready to throw in the towel.

Of course, that was before hope heard from Chief Psychiatrist Enid Huw.

I would be navigating a minefield during this interview, so I did a lot of prep work—framing and reframing my questions and rehearsing possible responses, as well as ways to quickly, smoothly disengage if  the conversation threatened to become too personal.  Before I knew it, I was standing outside her portal–she had suggested we chat over tea–adjusting the hem of my canary-yellow tunic and hoping like Hades I could carry it off.  Releasing a slow breath and straightening my shoulders, I pressed my thumb against the scanner.  The portal slid open a few seconds later.

Enid was what the ancients would have called a handsome woman.  Her strong, striking features and creamy complexion were untouched by makeup.  She wore dark blue slacks and a tailored tunic—long-sleeved, button-down collar, soft blue-and-green plaid.  There was an earthy, elemental quality about her—it was easy to picture her statuesque form striding down the blinding, white-sand beaches of her native Wales as the blue sea tossed restlessly and the salty North wind plucked brunette tendrils from her heavy French braid.  “Hello, Kai-Lee.  Won’t you come in?”  Her words sounded musical, the tones fluid, soft, and round.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I said, following her into the salon and glancing around.  “Oh, this is nice, Enid.  Really nice.”  I didn’t mean to sound so surprised, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Thank you.”  She smiled.  “The furniture’s bit rough-hewn for most, but it reminds me of home.”

“I can see why,” I murmured.  I had half-expected décor similar to that in her office—cool, clean lines, tastefully understated–but this room was woody and warmly rustic.  I ran my fingertips over the back of a curved elm settle, admiring the small, carved arms and square front legs.  To my right was a wing sofa with deep seats and a high, button-pierced back; the brown leather well-worn and butter-soft.   Across the room, a tall oak bookcase hugged the bulkhead.  The top half housed four shelves behind glazed glass doors, the lower half four long drawers atop short stubby legs.  Most of the books lining the bottom shelf were about the sea, and the shelves above that one held an assortment of other sea-worthy knick-knacks:  shells in round willow basket, an intricately knotted length of rope, and an ancient brass bell.

I shot an inquiring look at Enid.  “Is that a miniature ship’s bell?”

Lips curved, she nodded.  “I come from hardy Welsh seafaring stock.  Come into the study,” she added.  “I’ve made us some tea.”

Much to my surprise, she didn’t sit behind the desk, but waved me into one of two royal-blue wing chairs angled toward one another.  A couple steaming gray earthenware mugs sat atop a warming panel on the round oak occasional table between the chairs.  Enid took the other chair and handed me a mug.  “Cream?  Sweetener?”

“No, thank you.  This is fine.”  I blew across the tea and sipped gingerly.  “Earl Gray?” I ventured.

She nodded as she picked up her own mug.  “How did you guess?  Are you a tea fancier?”

“Not so you’d know it,” I admitted frankly, “but thanks to Eran and Luana, I do know my Earl Gray from my oolong.”

“Ah.”  She crossed one leg over the other and wrapped both hands around her mug.  Her brown gaze was, as usual, calm and direct.  “Before we go any further, I’m afraid I owe you an apology.  A last-minute appointment has come up, so I’ll have run out shortly.  Since our time is limited, suppose we get straight to what brings you here?  Your research sounds very interesting.  How can I help?”

“I thought you could fill in some gaps for me,” I answered, following my carefully thought-out script.  “I’ve read the Protocols and the supporting documents—”

“All of them?” she interjected.

“Well … yes.”

“The appendices, too?”  I nodded.  “I admire your dedication.”  She grinned crookedly.  “It’s all dry as dust, if you ask me.  We could have done a better job there.”

I grimaced ruefully.  “I have to admit, I did nod off a couple of times.”

“No doubt.  I’m sorry I interrupted.  Please go on.”  She lifted her cup and drank.

“Aside from being, as you say, ‘dry as dust,’ they didn’t tell me all that much.  I had hoped for specifics.”  My lips curved wryly.  “I thought about requesting access to the departmental files but to tell you the truth, I just couldn’t face another boatload of jargon.   I figured a few informal conversations with the right people would be more productive and more interesting.”

“You’ve already interviewed Ampah and Publius?”  I nodded.  Enid’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.  “So you’ve covered infancy and early childhood development.”

“Right.  I was hoping you could take it from there.  Am I wrong in suspecting the educational approach has to be fine tuned for more advanced age groups?”

“No, you’re not wrong.  The challenges that arise during adolescence definitely require more nuanced handling.”

“What kind of challenges?”

“Primarily the drive to self-discover and/or self-differentiate.”

Self-discovery?  Self-differentiation?  That sounded promising!  Restraining the urge to lean forward in my chair, I focused on maintaining my objective-scholar dignity.  “I can see where that could be a dangerous period.  How do you handle it?”

“Good, solid groundwork has to be laid during infancy and early childhood; triggering the formation of the appropriate subconscious infrastructure is essential.”  She paused for another sip of tea before continuing, “Once firm intuitive, emotional, and psychological foundations are in place, faith in the life-continuance program can be easily fostered during pre-adolescent years.  As well, a deep psychological appreciation of its benefits.  The child develops a sense of commitment, what you might call his or her personal buy-in.”

“And that buy-in has to happen before adolescence rolls around.”

“It’s vital,” she agreed.  “The presuppositions have to be unshakable, so deeply rooted in the subconscious, the youngster isn’t even aware they exist.”

“And once those presuppositions are set?”

“Then we can safely encourage the pubescent desire to explore identity,” she answered, catching me by complete surprise.

I had to concentrate to keep my jaw from dropping.  “Really?” I asked, as wild hope rose up in me.  Maybe this was the ray of light I had been searching for!  “You want them to explore their identities?”

She smiled wryly.  “The fact is, they’re going to explore whether we want them to or not.  What we have to do is provide the proper social framework to facilitate and, when necessary, discretely guide the search.”  My spirits took an immediate nosedive, but I managed to maintain as she continued, “The need for guidance falls off dramatically after age eighteen.  At that point, stability becomes our watchword.  Anomalies in mood or thought patterns can be promptly addressed via psychotropic supplement—medications designed to enhance personality, boost self-esteem, or simply deliver the occasional emotional pick-me-up.  More complex cases, although extremely rare, require the concomitant intervention of a trained Psych Adjuster.”

“Alpha Genesis?”

She shook her head.  “Therapy has done the trick so far.  I doubt we’ll ever have to resort to AG.”

“But it could conceivably come to that, right?”

“In theory, yes.”

“So when would that Protocol come into play?”

“When all else fails,” she answered with a shrug.  “Alpha Genesis is an involuntary intervention designed to save the life of a Colonist exhibiting self-destructive behavior or showing signs he or she is in danger of losing touch with reality.”

“Can you tell me more about it, or is the information classified?”

Enid smiled again.  “Hardly.  AG was unanimously applauded and wholeheartedly embraced from the outset.”

I tilted my head.  “If everybody approved of it, how come I don’t know much about it?  Shouldn’t that information be encoded on my ICEs?”

“The fact of its existence, yes.  But it we decided not to encode the exact procedure.  Why clutter up the lay mind with technical data it will never need?  And now centuries have passed without anyone having to resort to its use.”

“That makes sense,” I conceded.  “But for the purpose of my research, I’d like to know.”

“Of course.  You mentioned the Interactive Encephalon Chips.”  I nodded.  “Alpha Genesis is one of them.”

“So it’s what you might call standard equipment?”  I asked matter-of-factly, despite the sudden, queasy roll of my stomach.  Even in my worst nightmares, I never dreamed Hahona and his crew had buried a fail-safe bomb in my brain.

“Yes.  By signing the Prime Tenet, we all solemnly pledged to do everything in our collective power to preserve the life—meaning the genome and the consciousness—of each and every individual on board.  Taking care of one another in this way is nothing less than our sacred duty … and Alpha Genesis is one of the most powerful safeguards we have.”

“How does it work?”

“Keep in mind,” Enid cautioned, “Alpha Genesis is an in extremis intervention.  The procedure might sound—” she hesitated “—barbaric … but medicine is often forced to employ drastic measures in order to save a life.”  She paused to set her mug back on the table.  “When activated, the chip delivers the equivalent of a series of powerful electronic jolts to the brain.”

“Is it painful?”

“Excruciatingly, I’m afraid—both physically and psychically.  So much so, the treatment usually triggers convulsions followed by loss of consciousness, frequently with the patient curled in the fetal position.  Bleeding from the ears, nose, eyes, and/or mouth is fairly common.”

“And after the treatment?” I managed.

Enid continued in a calm, clinical tone, her lilting Welsh accent at vicious odds with the draconian measure she was describing.  “When consciousness returns—usually in a few days—the patient is somewhat disoriented and may suffer severe headaches.  Fortunately, these are transient; but the retrograde amnesia induced by the bursts is permanent.  The subject has no memory of the months preceding the treatment or the treatment itself.  He or she becomes compliant to the point of being a willing participant in rehabilitation.  Once that stage is reached, the therapist can begin to re-establish the proper definitions of selfhood, eventually returning the brain chemistry to its normal pre-diseased state.  The Alpha state.”

Some feelings you simply can’t cover up.  I knew my expression was a dead giveaway, but there was nothing I could do about it.  I was shocked and appalled, and it showed.

“I know the procedure sounds brutal,” Enid soothed, “but in the final analysis, the exact opposite is true.  Think about it!  Which is more humane—inflicting temporary agony in order to restore a fellow Colonist to decades of happy, productive balance; or letting that individual gradually self-destruct?”

For an uncomprehending second or two, I could only stare.  Then it hit me:  She had accepted the look on my face as the perfectly natural reaction of an uneducated lay person … which it was, in part.  But somehow, this trained observer had seen only what she expected to see and missed the bolt of fear inspired by the possibility she had just described my not-too-distant future.  It was all I could do not to slide out of the chair and onto the deck in abject relief over my temporary reprieve.

She was waiting for a reply.  I managed to nod and murmur convincingly, “I see your point.”

I was still struggling to recover, when Enid glanced at a wall-mounted chronometer behind the desk and smiled apologetically.  “I’m sorry to have to cut this short, but I really must go.  Perhaps we can continue some other time?”

I put my mug on the table and stood, praying my unsteady legs wouldn’t give me away.  “Actually, I think I got most of what I came for.  If I have any questions, I’ll get in touch.  Thanks for your time.”

“Thank you for your interest,” she said, leading me toward the portal.  “I’ll look forward to your article.  You have a lively writing style, as I recall.  We could use an engaging summarization of our methods—something with a bit of color and without the standard gobbledygook.  Prose that won’t have readers nodding off,” she added with a smile.

“I appreciate the compliment, Enid.  I’ll certainly do my best.”

“I’m sure you will, but don’t work too hard.  You look a bit tired to me.”

# # #

I don’t know how many times I replayed our conversation during the twenty-four hours following the interview.   Enid’s speech had been peppered with words like foster, encourage, and guide—language found throughout the Protocols.  On the surface, it sounded caring, noble, and beneficent.  But strip away the altruistic euphemisms, and you had naked, no-holds-barred indoctrination.  As a historian, I recognized the template.

If consciousness was genetically determined—and none of us had ever doubted it was—why the need to “create conditions that will enable its undisturbed, unaltered continuance?”  Why anoint a professional priesthood of personality to keep us all safely in synch with our Primes?  Did the program in fact work?

Objectively speaking, it was hard to say, given the fact that I lived in a society where maintaining a predetermined brain chemistry was the cultural definition of personal wellness, and folks were conditioned to run for therapy at the first unexpected thought or unpleasant emotion.  But based on personal experience, I knew the program didn’t work all the time, in every situation.  Psychological glitches the system could handle; running head-long into an undeniable existential truth was something else again.  Facts were facts:  I didn’t gibe with my Prime anymore, I was out of step with my world, and the interventions touted in the Protocols hadn’t kept that from happening.

I had gone into my investigation searching for understanding, maybe even a compromise that would enable me to return to at least a semblance of normalcy.  I had wanted to understand the forces that shaped me.  Now I did.

Note to self:  be careful what you wish for.

Ω

Chapter Eleven

From the Personal Journal of Kai-Lee Fox Delta

Intangibles.

I sense them everywhere these days—invisible, elusive, filling the Universe and lurking in the gaps between the things we know and the things we don’t.  Dark energy.  Dark matter.  The million or so things we don’t understand about the human brain, consciousness, and the non-coding regions in DNA.  Nothing in the universe is as straightforward and concrete as we make it out to be.

Perfect example:  I talked to Gregor Sterling the other day.  He has this theory.  He says—get this—he says the Known Laws might be breaking down, decaying almost imperceptibly.  The speed of light, gravity, you name it.  I expect talk like that from Zivon—philosophers go off the deep end at the drop of a hat—but Gregor’s the chief navigator and a trained astrophysicist, for crying out loud!

Well, I have a theory, too:  The more our best minds figure out, the less we actually know.  All our so-called answers have a nasty habit of fading in the backstretch … after they’ve spawned a hundred or so new questions, of course.  Why in Hades are there so many questions?

Sometimes the struggle to understand seems futile.

I don’t mean to sound bitter, but I suddenly find futility a tough pill to swallow.  Actually, I’m not sure I could continue to swallow it and function. So how am I supposed to go back to life as usual, knowing life as usual—mine everyone else’s on this ship—is one more lap on a circular treadmill?  Every single person I know is habit incarnate.  They do what they’ve been programmed to do with the same people they’ve always done it with, and they think that’s living.  Everyone accepts his or her place in the order.  But the order is meaningless, and thanks to the way we’ve been taught to live them, so are our lives.  They’re historically irrelevant.

Speaking of history, I shudder to think what damage the Alphas’ egotistical determination to live forever has done to mankind’s journey.  And what will it cost us?  I don’t doubt the bill will come due, because if there’s one lesson history teaches without fail it’s this:  Arrogance always gets its comeuppance.  It’s only a matter of time until we get ours.  Can we have a little humility, a little reverence here?  If my situation has taught me anything, it’s that every single life is precious.  Every life matters.  Every life should leave a unique, indelible mark of some kind.

Even mine.

That’s right, I’ve taken the leap—decided to make some changes … on purpose this time.  It’s either that or self-destruct.

Look, Kai-Lee Fox Alpha obviously had a fierce, overriding desire to live forever.  I guess I can’t blame her for that, but I’m not her.  Granted, I’m an exact genetic copy, but  I’m also someone else and getting more so with every passing day.  I’ll admit a small, scared part of me wants to sink back into that nice, safe place where everything is familiar and the hardest question I ask myself is, “Which tunic should I wear today?”  But another, bigger part of me is ravenous for more.  I want to stake a claim on a life I can call my own … and I’m going to do exactly that.

Poor Kai-Lee Alpha!  All those best-laid plans for immortality gone up in smoke.  I almost feel sorry for her. What did she think about, anyway, when she thought about dying? (Beyond the fact that she didn’t want to, that is.) Did she give any thought to what it would mean if she didn’t die?  She was, after all, a historian.  The way I see it, she had a professional responsibility to reason it through.

I’ve started to think about dying–now that I’ve accepted it as part of my future.  What is death?  Do you just stop?  Unfortunately, I haven’t got any data to go on; death is the one life-changing experience no Alpha managed to encode on a memory chip.  I would love to ask some of the others what they think about it, but my new outlook on life wouldn’t last five minutes if I did.

Now about those changes I mentioned ….

First of all, I’m no longer going to think of myself simply as Kai-Lee Fox.  I’m Kai-Lee Fox Delta, a small but vital distinction.  I can’t take the helix out of the woman, but I can try—at least in limited, covert ways—to wrest an identity, a woman of my own, out of the helix.

Which brings me to this journal. As far as I know, there aren’t now and never have been any diarists among us.  That would make me the first, an achievement I find pathetically gratifying.  Not that I plan to advertise this landmark undertaking.  I may have gone radical, but I’m not delusional.  The Quingenti wouldn’t tolerate my mini-rebellion, and no way do I plan to be first in line for Alpha Genesis.  I’ll have to be a cautious, clandestine rebel.  I can live with that.  For now, it’s enough that I know a revolution is underway.

I’m venturing alone into unexplored territory, searching for answers to questions nobody else seems to be asking—except maybe Eran, but I can’t say for sure, because I still haven’t heard from him.  Well, I’m through waiting.  It’s high time I cleared up a few minor points like who I am, and why I am, and what contribution can I make with my life.  My thought process has been chaotic for so long, I feel like my head’s about to explode.  With any luck, this journal will help me keep track of revelations, thoughts, questions, and maybe even a conclusion or two.  Of course, I don’t know for sure documenting everything will help, but I’m hoping.

And in all honesty, I’m already enjoying this.  Didn’t Enid say I have “a lively writing style?”  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll discover an unsuspected streak of creativity.  One thing’s for sure:  I’m determined to discover something about myself.  I mean, that’s the point, right?

Okay, not the whole point.  The rest of the point is, I’m determined to leave something behind.

The idea came to me yesterday, when I got to thinking about memories.  How much of who we are is determined by them?  The Alphas evidently thought quite a bit, otherwise, they wouldn’t have gone to surgical lengths to make sure the Prime memories were passed on in the most accurate possible form.  Thanks to those chips they implanted in my head, I’ve got Alpha memories galore–but they’re hers, not  mine.

You know, once upon a time, people lived the years allotted to them.  They made and shared memories the old-fashioned way—telling stories to the grandkids, pasting photos in albums, keeping diaries.  Their recall might not have been perfect, but their hearts were in the right place.  They wanted to remember and be remembered.  There’s something touching about that.

Injecting memories in someone’s head, even if that someone is genetically identical to you, is supposed to be you and, thus, should welcome those memories?  That doesn’t give me the same warm fuzzies.

Maybe it has something to do with the gaps.  Since the Prime Tenet is all about preservation of the Alpha, every subsequent generation starts at square one with the standard set of memories.  Aside from professional developments, intervening spans’ personal memories aren’t passed on.  Understandable, I guess.  It’s not like the techs can keep loading chips and sticking more and more of them in people’s brains!  The setup pretty much dictates the existence of gaps.

I have to admit, up until now I’ve never had the slightest interest in bridging those gaps, never once wondered about the personal experiences that might have been unique to Kai-Lees Beta and Gamma.  For all I know about their lives, they never lived.  I was getting pretty down on myself when I realized that, when I remembered that in about ninety years it will be as if I never lived.  Not a happy thought.

Well, I’m going to do my best to make sure that doesn’t happen, and this journal is my insurance.  Call it my mark, that iota of physical evidence that proves I was here, and I was unique.  Somehow, someday, someone will be faced with the fact that I lived, and my life was my own.  One fine day, Kai-Lee Fox Epsilon or Zeta or whoever will come across these notes on the meaning and nature of life … hmm … got a nice, lofty ring to it, doesn’t it? … anyway, she’ll read this, and if she hasn’t had the sense to wake up and smell the coffee, this diary should do the trick.

I guess I sound over the top, but individuality is heady stuff!  A higher high than the Psych Adjusters can provide, that’s for sure.  I have to keep reminding myself to take it  in small doses until I’m sure I’ve got the self-control to keep my act together in public. Every fifteen minutes or so I’m not absolutely sure I can carry it off.  Even if I manage to keep Kai-Lee Fox Delta under wraps for a while, the change in me is bound to become noticeable at some point.  The probability of future public exposure and the horror bound to follow scare me witless, but not enough to extinguish the flame.

I’ve got to live!

So life starts today.  I’m not sure what they’ll be just yet, but I’m out to indulge in unsanctioned behaviors.  Try new things.  Explore beyond my programming.  I’m going off-Alpha.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Ω

Kathy DiSanto, 2010, all rights reserved