To Live Again

Chapter 6

It was Tuesday morning. Risa entered Francesco Santoliquido’s office and stood just within the door. He was busy, using a data machine with his left hand while tapping out computer instructions with his right.

At length he looked up and said, “There she is. Our little heroine. Come in, come in, sit down.”

“You got a good tan this weekend,” Risa observed. “There’s nothing like the tropical sun. It was a splendid party, Risa. My congratulations to you and your father. Of course, there were some unusual events—”

“They’ve taken Owens to the therapy satellite. He’ll be there a month, floating in nullgrav until he’s healthy.”

Santoliquido scowled. “Sad, very sad. But nullgrav’s not the therapy for him. He’s a candidate for erasure.”

“I didn’t think you used that word here!”

“I’m not speaking in the political sense,” said Santoliquido. “Strictly the medical. That man’s got more than he can handle under his skull.”

“Much more.” Risa was flattered that busy Santoliquido would take the time to discuss Owens’ problems with her. It was a tacit recognition that she was now an adult. She said, “Is there any provision in the law for mandatory erasure?”

“Well, yes, when the presence of the persona threatens the security and integrity of the host.”

“Certainly that’s true here.” Santoliquido’s eyes twinkled. “But Nat Owens has influence. I’d hesitate to ship him off for erasure against his will. We’ll see how he feels when he gets back from his float. Possibly we can get him to give up two or three of the least compatible personae, the ones at war with one another.”

Solemnly Risa said, “That would be best. It was scary, out on the reef. Big strips of skin hanging loose on him, and he didn’t even seem to know what he was doing, just hurling himself against that sharp coral again and again.”

“It was brave of you to rescue him.” She giggled. “I didn’t stop to think. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have done anything. But it just seemed like the right thing to do. I mean, I knew I could get out there and pull him away from the reef, and so I went and did it, and then there was time to be nervous afterward. Especially when I came ashore and found the other man having a fit too, Charles Noyes—”

“It was a wild moment,” Santoliquido agreed. “Noyes has been in stasis these last two days, hasn’t he?”

“I think they let him out. He’s calm again.”

“Tell me, Risa. Now that you’ve seen two men run wild at once, because they found their transplants too difficult to control, have you changed your mind at all about your own transplant?”

“Of course not,” she said instantly. “Oh, I admit I’ve been a little uneasy, but I wouldn’t be here unless I meant to go through with it. What happened to them isn’t any concern of mine. Owens was asking for trouble when he took on that mob of personae. And Noyes is an unstable character, they tell me. I’m ready.”

“Good girl.” Santoliquido pressed a buzzer. “We’ll get going, then. You’ve chosen the persona you want?”

“Yes.”

“Tandy Cushing?”

“How did you know that?”

“I knew,” said Santoliquido. “Ask your father. I predicted the choice you’d make.” He opened his desk, came through it, took her by the hand, and lifted her to her feet. “I won’t be seeing you again as you are now, Risa. You’ll leave my office as Risa Kaufmann, but the next time we meet, you’ll be Risa plus Tandy. I hope you find it an enriching experience.”

“I know I will,” she said.

Her lips brushed his. She liked him; he was so much like a jolly uncle to her. Though of course she knew it was a mistake to take a patronizing attitude toward a man as powerful as Francesco Santoliquido. He was so kind to her only because she was Mark Kaufmann’s daughter, and it was rash to forget it.

A black-smocked technician appeared at the office door. “This way, please, Miss Kaufmann.”

She waved goodby to Santoliquido. Here we go, she thought. Hello, Tandy Cushing! She followed the technician toward the transplant room. It was a long trip, spanning many levels of the building, and tension grew within her as the moment drew near. She eased her fears by studying the technician. He was young, hardly any older than her cousin Rod, and he seemed plainly in awe of her. It was his job to deal with the rich and mighty, to pump new personae into their receptive brains, but Risa suspected that he himself left this palace of wonders each night to return to some dismal little hovel, full of cockroaches and squalling babies, where he waited tensely for the next day’s excursion into fantasy. How brutal it must be to live in the real world, she thought, earning perhaps a thousand dollars fissionable a month, never able to afford anything, and faced with the terrible knowledge that after death comes …nothing!

“We go in here,” said the technician. “What’s your name?” Risa asked. “Leonards, Miss Kaufmann.”

“Is that a first name or a last?”

“Last.” Last. No doubt he had a first name too, but wasn’t supposed to give it. He was merely a piece of walking equipment. Leonards. He was good-looking, in his own worried way, too pale, pinch lines already forming between his eyebrows, but tall and sturdily built. Are you married yet, Leonards? Where do you live? What are your dreams and ambitions? Isn’t it frustrating for you to work in the soul bank and never have any hope of receiving a transplant yourself, or of being recorded? Wouldn’t you like enough money so you could put your persona on file, Leonards? Suppose I had your account credited with half a million dollars fissionable. Would that be enough? I’d never miss it. I’d tell Mark I gave it to charity. Your life would be altogether different. Or how would you like to meet me when this is over, Leonards, and go to bed with me? Would that please you, sleeping with a Kaufmann? I’m good, too. Ask Rod Loeb. Ask a lot of people. I’m young, but I learn fast.

Together they entered the booth. She kept her face rigid, masklike, hiding her thoughts from the young man. It would never do for him to know what she had been thinking. He might get upset and bungle the transplant somehow. Let him stay calm and cool at least until the work is done. Afterwards, maybe, I’ll have a little fun with him.

The transplant room was a rectangular cubicle, perhaps nine feet by twelve, warm, well lit. It had windows along two walls, one facing the outer corridor, one looking into an inner access room that was part of the spine of the building. Risa saw a couch, a computer terminal, and a cluster of gleaming equipment.

Opaquing the hall window, Leonards said, “Please lie down. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Shall I remove my clothing?” Risa asked. Her hands went to the discard stud. Leonards’ facial muscles rippled in shock at the mere suggestion that she was willing to disrobe before him, and it was a moment before he recovered his poise and said, “That won’t be necessary. Kick off your shoes, if you like.”

She stretched out, shoeless. Leonards grasped a bronze knob and a mass of equipment swung free of the wall. He drew it toward her. “This is a diagnostat,” he told her. “We simply wish to check your physical condition before we proceed with the transplant. It’s important that your health and body tone be at the top of their cycle. This part just takes a minute — there.” The diagnostat hummed and clicked and was silent. Leonards pressed an eject stud. A copper-colored capsule dropped out, and he flipped it into a transfer hatch that would take it to some scanning instrument within the building’s computer bank. He looked more nervous than she was. After a moment a light went on in the access room, and through a slot in the wall came a yellow slip. Risa craned her neck but could not see what it said.

“You’re in fine shape,” Leonards reported. “Where did you get those skin abrasions, though?”

“In the West Indies on Saturday. A man was in trouble on a coral reef and I pulled him free and got cut up a little. They’re healing fast.”

“In any case, there’s no effect on your receptivity to the transplant. Now, I suppose you’re familiar with the Scheffing process, but I know you want to keep up with me on each phase of the transplant, so I’m likely to tell you a few things you already know. For example, the first step is the drug treatment, to enhance your memory receptivity. We inject a nucleic acid booster, coupled with one of the mnemonic drugs. A mnemonic drug—”

“Am I getting picrotoxin or one of the pentylenctetrazol derivatives?” Risa asked. Leonards looked shaken. “You’ve been doing some homework!”

“Which do I get?”

“It’ll be the pentylene,” he said. “We get better response curves on it with women under thirty. Picrotoxin blocks presynaptic inhibition, and some of the others block postsynaptic inhibition, but pentylenetetrazol doesn’t interfere with either. It excites the nervous system by decreasing neuronal recovery time, without reference to inhibitory pathways. Thus it prevents memory decay and significantly increases the response latencies. Still following me?”

“Yes,” Risa lied. She was damned if she’d let his deliberately accelerated flow of gibberish upset her. “The result is to make me more receptive to the imprint from the recording. All right. I’m ready whenever you are.”

He produced a thick, stubby, phallic-looking ultrasonic injector. While he fumbled with the dial settings Risa casually disengaged her tunic, baring the lower part of her body to the groin. Leonards was slow to notice, but when he finally looked at her he was so rattled he nearly dropped the injector.

Staring rigidly at her chin, he said, “Why did you uncover yourself?”

“I understood that the injection was given in the upper part of the thigh.”

“No.”

“In the backside, then?” She grinned kittenishly and rolled over. “The arm will do.” She pouted. “Well, all right.” He was sweating and flushed. She figured she had paid him back well enough for that burst of postsynaptic inhibitions and response latencies. Chastely she covered herself again, not wanting him to jab the injector into the wrong place while he was so shaken. He took a deep breath and put the snout to her arm. There was an ultrasonic whirr.

“We allow one hour for the nucleic acid booster to reach the brain. By then the mnemonic drug will have already taken effect. I’ll leave you to relax until the next phase can begin. Perhaps you’d like to look through this information leaflet.”

He made his escape from the transplant room, looking visibly relieved.

Risa sprawled on the couch and examined the booklet. SOME FACTS ABOUT THE SCHEFFING PROCESS, it was headed. She glanced through it without interest. It told her things she already knew: how her brain was prepared for the persona to come, how the recordings were made, how transplants were effected. Toward the back was some material of more direct importance: tips on making the transition after your first transplant.

You will have complete access to the memories and life experiences of your imprinted persona, the booklet told her. As with your own memories, some of the experiences you receive will be blurred or distorted and not immediately retrievable. During the period of adjustment you may feel occasional confusions of identity, particularly if the new persona was noted for strength of character in its previous carnate existence. THIS SHOULD NOT BE CAUSE FOR ALARM. After a few days you will establish a satisfactory working relationship with the persona. Your new companion will enhance and support your responses to your environment. You will have the advantage of extra perspective and an additional set of life experiences on which to base your judgments. Think of the persona as a guest, a friend, a partner. It is the most intimate possible human relationship, and represents the finest accomplishment of our era.

A few pages on, Risa found information on how to communicate directly with the persona. At any time, she could simply reach into the pool of experience and memory that was being transplanted to her brain, and haul out whatever was useful to her immediate situation. But if she-wanted to speak to the persona, to address her as an individual, she would have to talk out loud. At least at first, though the booklet said it was possible after a while to talk to the persona via the interior neural channels. Meanwhile the persona, having no other communication access, was able to key herself right into the brain and make her thoughts known.

Did a persona have thoughts, Risa wondered? A persona was nothing but a set of memories. It didn’t have real existence. You couldn’t see a persona, any more than you could see an abstract concept. And the persona was dead, a closed account with all totals drawn. How could a transplanted persona think and react and have things to say?

Judging by the behavior of adults she had observed, a persona was not dead at all — merely suspended from the time of recording to the time of transplant. Then, jacked into the nervous system of its host, it could perceive and respond as if literally reincarnated. That was the whole point of the Scheffing process. It assured the participants everlasting life, with occasional interruptions between transplants. At the same time it provided the living with the benefit of the experiences of the dead. Nothing was lost, except the souls of the poor fish like Leonards who never took part in the rebirth game at all. That was ninety percent of mankind, at present. But did they matter?

As her final hour of independence ticked away, Risa inevitably began to wonder if she really wanted to go through with this enterprise.

No doubt everyone wonders about that, waiting for it to begin, she told herself. At least the first time.

And of course it would be eerie, carting about someone else’s soul in her head. Risa was accustomed to privacy when she wanted it. An only child, wealthy enough to isolate herself from the world, never called upon to share anything with anyone-and now she’d have to make room in her head for Tandy Cushing. Strange, strange, strange! Yet appealing, too. She had been alone so long. In a world where everyone she knew carried two or three personae, Risa felt pallid and childlike in her solitude. Now she would be like the others. In one bound she’d shed the last vestiges of immaturity. Merely sleeping around hadn’t brought her far enough into the adult world, but this transplant would, especially with worldly, sophisticated Tandy Cushing like an older sister inside her mind.

As the booklet pointed out, it was irrational to fear or mistrust the persona. The persona wasn’t going to get any charge out of snooping on you, any more than you could snoop on yourself The persona would be you, and herself as well, a joined identity. Risa’s mind whirled a little at that concept. She thought she understood it, but of course she knew she did not, could not. No one who did not have a persona already transplanted could really comprehend what it was like. This was a new thing in the world, a fundamental break with the human condition. No longer were people walled up alone in their own skulls. They could have company.

What if she didn’t care for Tandy Cushing’s company? Cast her out like a demon. That could be done, for a price. Her own father had had a persona erased when he was young. Of course, a lot of people preferred to suffer along with their personae even when incompatibility was obvious. Just the way, Risa thought, people will stick with a hopeless marriage, or fight to prevent the amputation of a diseased limb, purely because they can’t bring themselves to give up anything that has been part of themselves, no matter how much harm it’s doing them.

Look at that Owens man, for example. Driven twitchy by all his personae, and yet he brags about them.

Or Charles Noyes. Right there on the beach, he had almost been engulfed and ejected by his own persona. Why didn’t he stop in for an erasure? Did he like to live dangerously, knowing that he might get kicked out of his mind at any moment?

Suppose Tandy tries that with me? It happened, Risa knew. It was a bit improper to speak of it, but she was aware that powerful personae sometimes overwhelmed and destroyed weak hosts, and took possession of their bodies. Dybbuks, they were called, after some medieval myth. According to the law, a dybbuk who had completely vanquished his host was a murderer, and subject to mandatory erasure. But most of them were too clever to fall into that trap. They continued to use the name of the dead host, keeping their dybbukhood a secret. Someone like James Kravchenko, if he finally succeeded in countererasing Charles Noyes, would probably go on calling himself Noyes for his own safety, and nobody might ever be the wiser.

Risa shuddered. Tandy, will you try to be a dybbuk?

Very strong individuals went in for such things. Waking up in a stranger’s brain, they found it intolerable to be relegated to the status of a mere persona. So they pushed the host out and took over. Essentially, they lived again, body and soul, real rebirth, if they got away with it.

Tandy was a strong individual, Risa knew. But so am I. So am I. If I were in Tandy’s place, I’d try to take over. But I’m in my place, and I won’t let her win if she tries anything like that.

The door opened. Leonards returned, carrying the oblong metal box that contained the persona of Tandy Cushing.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “Fine. Impatient.”

“I’m supposed to ask you if you’d like to cancel at this point.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Well, then. Here we go. I want to check to see how well the drug has worked.”

“I haven’t felt anything,” Risa said. “You shouldn’t.” He wheeled the diagnostat over and ran a test on her. When the report came, he nodded and smiled encouragingly. “You’re in maximum recept now.”

“That sounds dirty.”

“Does it?” he asked, embarrassed again. He leaned toward her and slipped a cool metal band around her forehead. “This isn’t for the transplant,” he said. “It’s merely to let you sample the persona. We take every precaution against an error. You’ve got to tell me that this persona is actually the one you’ve requested.”

“Go ahead,” Risa said. This part was familiar. He activated the sampler and Risa found herself once more in contact with Tandy Cushing. The memories were unchanged. After perhaps half a minute, Leonards disconnected the sampler.

“Yes,” said Risa. “You’ve got the right one.”

“Please sign this release, then.”

Risa grinned and thumbed the thermoplastic. Leonards dropped the sheet in the access hopper.

“Lie back,” he said. “Relax. Here we go on the actual transplant.” Panic seized her. Leonards was a step ahead of her, though, efficiently shackling her wrists and ankles to the couch, and telling her in a low, soothing tone, “We do this for your own safety, you understand. Some people find it a big impact and start thrashing around. You’ll be all right.”

She was stiff with fear, and that surprised her. Forcing a laugh, she looked down at her spreadeagled body and said, “How do I know you’re not going to torture me? Or rape me? This is a good position for a rape, isn’t it, Leonards?”

His laughter was even more forced than hers. He was in motion, never pausing, adjusting electrodes, manipulating scanners, balancing switches. Risa thought about the booklet she had read. Odd: it had been completely secular. No mantras, none of the Tibetan stuff, not even a quotation from the Book of the Dead. Nothing about sangsara or nirvana, the cycle of karma, all the other fashionable words people tagged to the Scheffing process. She realized the fundamental truth of something Nathaniel Owens had said on the beach Saturday at Dominica: the whole religious part of the rebirth business was external. It came after the fact, a moral justification, a dodge, a blind. The work of the Scheffing Institute went on serenely in a spiritual vacuum, and the mumbo-jumbo of the rebirth religion had no place within this building.

“Look up, please,” the technician said. “Open your eyes wide.” Twin spears of white light stabbed at her pupils. She could not close her eyes. She was frozen, immobile, penetrated by those sharp beams of brightness. It seemed to her that she heard a voice intone, “Now thou art experiencing the Radiance of the Clear Light of Pure Reality. Recognize it. 0 nobly-born, thy present intellect, in real nature void, not formed into anything as regards characteristics or color, naturally void, is the very Reality, the All-Good.”

She had summoned out of memory the words to welcome the newly dead into death. Surrender to the Clear Light and attain nirvana. Yes. Yes. So her words were directed to the persona of Tandy Cushing, emerging from that spinning reel of tape, but what she offered Tandy was not oblivion but rebirth. Yes. Yes. Now and at the hour of our birth. Come on, Tandy. I’m ready for you.

If only the light wasn’t in my eyes! Time ceased Eons passed between heartbeats. Risa could feel the blood creeping along her veins and arteries, impelled by the last spasm and not yet at its destination. She could not see. She could not hear.

The tension broke, and she heard a stranger’s voice whispering in her skull. — Where am I? What happened? “Hello, Tandy. Welcome aboard.” — Did I die? “Yes.” — When? How? Why? “I don’t know. I’m Risa Kaufmann. I’m your host.” — I know who you are. I just want to know how I got here. How long have I been dead?

“Since last August,” said Risa. “You were killed in a power-ski accident at St. Moritz.”

—That’s impossible! I’m an expert skier. And I had every safety device! I’m not dead! I’m not!

“Sorry, Tandy. You must be.” — I can’t remember anything past June. “That’s when you made your last recording. Two months before you were killed.” — Stop saying that! “If you’re not dead, what are you doing in my mind?”

—There’s been a mistake. They can transplant a persona even when the donor’s still alive. Sometimes they slip up.

“No, Tandy. Get used to it.” — It isn’t easy. “I’ll bet it isn’t. But you’ve got no choice.” — If it’s a mistake? “Even if it is, that doesn’t affect you. Assuming Tandy Cushing is still walking around alive somewhere, you’re still where you are. A persona in my skull. You aren’t Tandy, you’re just an identity of Tandy’s memories up to the day she recorded you. Well, now you’re off the shelf and in a body again. You’re lucky, I’d say. And in any case Tandy is dead. You’re all that’s left of her.”

There was silence within. The persona was digesting all that. Risa, too, made adjustments. She still lay shackled. The light had gone out, and she could not tell if Leonards was still in the room. Cautiously, gingerly, she made contact with the persona at a variety of points. She picked up a memory of her late body, tall, dark-haired, with high, firm, heavy breasts. A man’s hand ran lightly over those breasts, hefting them, savoring their bulk. His fingertip flicked across her nipples. So that was what it was like, Risa thought. You’re less aware of them than I expected. Suddenly she darted back along Tandy’s timeline and was eleven years old, staring in a mirror at her budding little chest and frowning. And then, coming forward five years, Risa saw Tandy soaring on personnel jets eighty yards above the Sahara, a strong, dark-haired man beside her as they flew.

I have never done that, Risa thought. Yet I know what it’s like. I am Tandy!

She did not go deeper. There was time to explore the depths of the persona later. For Risa the world was suddenly tinged with wonder, all objects taking on new hues, extra dimensions. She saw through four eyes, and she had never seen such colors before, such greens and reds and yellows, nor had she tasted wine so sweet scented flowers so pungent.

“Tandy?” she said. “How is it now?” — Better. So you’re a Kaufmann? “Yes. Lucky you.” — Why did you pick me? “You seemed interesting.” — You’re very young for this. “I’m past sixteen, you know.” — Yes, I know. But I was twenty-four, and I hadn’t had my first persona yet.

“Don’t you wish you had?” — I was waiting until I was twenty-five. “I never wait,” Risa said. “Not for anything.” — I see that. We’ve got so much to talk about. “We’ve got all the time in the world. You’ll be with me forever, Tandy.”

—Forever?

“Of course. The next time I record myself, your persona will be added to mine. Someday I’ll need rebirth, and you’ll be going along to the next carnate with me.”

—People can get awfully bored with each other like that. “We won’t,” Risa said. “I promise you, we won’t.” The shackles dropped away. Risa sat up, feeling a little shaky. Leonards was eyeing her hesitantly.

“You’ve made a good adjustment,” he said. “Is that so? Fine.”

“How does it go?”

“I’m very pleased,” said Risa. “What happens now?”

“We take you to a rest booth. You can lie down, relax. get to know your persona. After an hour you can leave the building.”

“You’ve been very kind, Leonards.”

“Thank you.”

“Maybe we can get together after hours.” He looked smitten with confusion. “I’m afraid-that is — I mean to say—”

“All right. Take me to the rest booth.” She lay down on a comfortable webfoam cradle, closed her eyes, sent her mind roaming through the treasury of Tandy Cushing’s experiences. Risa felt faintly uncomfortable, seeing the older girl so nakedly exposed. But she told herself that she had every right to explore that material. At this very instant, wasn’t Tandy peering into her own soul? By definition they now were one person. They would share everything.

Risa felt no regrets. Her fears had evaporated. She felt only tremendous relief, for she had accepted a transplant and it was good.

She smiled. She said softly to Tandy, “I’ll record the two of us in a week or two. Just to be on the safe side.”

—Good. And then I want you to help me find out how I really died.