Factoring Humanity

“I told you I didn’t take anything,” said the boy, trying to sound utterly offended at such a baseless accusation.

“You are lying. I saw you — and so did the camera.” The shopkeeper pointed to a small unit mounted on the wall.

The boy closed his eyes. His view of the exterior world went dark, but his brain was still lit up with images — of people who must have been his parents, of a young friend named Geoff. Geoff always got away with it when he nicked sweets.

Heather was fascinated. She recalled her own foolish youthful attempt at shoplifting, trying to steal a pair of jeans from a clothing store. She’d been caught, too. She knew the kid’s fear and anger. She wanted to see what would happen to him — but she didn’t have unlimited time. She’d have to break off eventually to attend to the necessities of life; she was already regretting not visiting the washroom before entering the construct.

She blanked her mind and conjured up the image of crystals of her precipitating out of the liquid, leaving the boy just as she had left Ideko.

Darkness, as before.

She organized the crystals, restoring her sense of self. She was back facing the wall of hexagons.

It was astonishing — and, she had to admit, one hell of a lot of fun.

Suddenly, she was hit by the tourist potential. The problem with virtual-reality simulations was just that: they were simulations. Although Sony and Hitachi and Microsoft had invested billions in creating a VR entertainment industry, it had never really caught on. There was a fundamental difference between skiing in Banff and skiing in your living room; part of the thrill was the possibility you might break a leg, part of the experience was the full bladder that couldn’t be easily voided, part of the fun was the real sunburn that one got during a day on the slopes, even in the middle of winter.

But this popping into other lives was real. That English lad was indeed going to have to face the consequences of his crime. She could stick with it for as long as she wished; follow him through the torment for hours, or even days. All the appeals of voyeurism, plus a simulation more vivid, more exciting, more unpredictable, than any that came in a shrink-wrapped package.

Would it be regulated? Could it be regulated? Or would all of humanity have to face the possibility that countless individuals might be riding around inside their heads, sharing their every experience, their every thought?

Maybe the quantity of seven billion wasn’t that daunting; maybe it was, in fact, a wonderful number; maybe the sheer randomness of the choice, the sheer number of possibilities, would be enough to prevent you from ever ending up in the mind of someone you knew.

But that would be the real appeal, wouldn’t it? It was what Heather had come looking for, and it was surely what those who followed would want as well: a chance to plug into the mind of their parents, their lovers, their children, their boss.

But how to proceed? Heather still had no idea of how to find a particular person. Kyle was here somewhere, if only she could figure out how to access him.

She stared at the vast hexagonal keyboard, perplexed.

Kyle continued to walk through the cemetery. He could feel a sheen of sweat building on his forehead. Mary’s grave was not far behind. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

So much death; so many dead.

He thought about the zebra being stalked and killed by the lion.

It had to be a horrible way to die.

Or did it?

Repression.

Dissociation.

Those were the things Becky was claiming had happened to her.

And not just to Becky. To thousands of men and women. Repressing the memories of war, of torture, of rape.

Maybe, just maybe, the zebra didn’t feel itself dying. Maybe it detached its consciousness from reality the moment the attack began.

Maybe all higher animals could do that.

It beat dying in agony, dying in terror.

But the repression mechanism must be flawed — otherwise, the memories would never come back.

Or, if not flawed, it must at least be being pushed beyond… beyond its design parameters.

In the animal world, there are no truly traumatic physical injuries that aren’t fatal. Yes, an animal could be frightened — indeed, terrified — and go on to live another day. But once a predator had sunk its jaws into its prey, that prey was almost certainly about to die. Repression would have to work for only a matter of minutes — or, at most, hours — to spare the animal the horrors of its own death.

If no one ever survived physically traumatic experiences, there would be no need for the wiring of the brain to be able to suppress a memory for days, or weeks, or months.

Or years.

But humanity — an ironic name, that — had devised non-fatal traumas.

Rape.

Torture.

The horrors of war.

Maybe the mind did come pre-wired to suppress the very worst physical experiences.