Déjà Vu: A Technothriller by Hocking, Ian (red scrolls of magic .TXT) 📕

“Hey, listen, love. You’re not a murderer. You were. Past tense. You’re a blank slate, now. From last Friday, you’re a different person.”

“But...surely I’m still responsible.”

He said sharply, “No, you’re not. You’re not responsible for the old you anymore than you’re responsible for your parents.”

“But surely I’m more than just my memories.”

“Look, if you want to get philosophical about it, maybe yes and maybe no. But be pragmatic. Do you feel like a murderer, like a criminal? Could you kill someone now in cold blood? That’s what’s important.”

Saskia’s eyes were fixed on the article. The nonsense words seemed to blend together. “You did,” she said quietly. “That Polish fisherman and his sons.”

“That was self defence. Besides, he wasn’t Polish.” He took the cutting and put it in his pocket. Saskia wanted to take it back but, suddenly, she was too weak. Perhaps she should have another cigarette.

“Saskia, I have to go. You’ve seen the past, now let go of it.”

“Let go of it? Are you insane?”

“I just wanted to help you. This article is what you’re looking for, and there’s nothing more to it. You’re just a tabloid horror story. Editorial fodder. Now watch your back and avoid Germany. See ya.”

He walked away. “Wait, Frank!” she called.

He jogged back immediately. “Keep your voice down.”

“Where do they get the memory implants?”

Frank vacillated briefly then sat down. “OK. Here it is. The long version. So you won’t keep asking me questions.” He smiled. “Now, your brain is made of little cells. Most of them very similar. Actually, they’re similar to mine too. The reason that I’m me and you’re you is that they’re wired-up differently. One pattern of wiring is me, one pattern is you, and another might be the King of England. It’s all about the pattern. If you took a recording of my brain somehow – no mean feat, I can assure you – and imposed that pattern over another brain – even more difficult – then the other brain, and therefore the other person, will start to sound and act like me. They’ll think that they are me, and, in important ways, they are. It would be like having a mental twin. Cool, eh?”

“Cool,” she whispered.

“At the moment, the way they do it involves a wet-wire chip. That’s computer chip that interfaces directly with the brain. It’s usually placed on the surface of the brain itself. Let me feel the back of your head.” His fingers touched the base of her skull. It was still tender from the hat maker’s blow. “That’s it. You have a scar. They fire it in. No surgery required. That chip contains the memories of another person – probably a medical student getting some extra cash – and is connected via tiny nano-filaments to over half the neurons in your neo-cortex. Your neo-cortex is where the more ‘human’ brain functioning goes on. The chip is more like a processor than a memory storage. It stays in constant contact with the rest of your brain, constantly imposing the alien pattern over your own ‘normal’ pattern.”

“Why does it have to be constant?”

He shrugged. “The reality of playing about with the brain, I suppose. They say that the person’s own pattern soon becomes dominant again. You see, your own pattern is not really destroyed by the new, alien pattern – it’s kind’ve knocked sideways. The chip is really mixing the new pattern with the old. It isn’t a straight swap. If the update only happened once, then your old personality would eventually take over the new one. Sounds awful, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. But whose memories do I have?”

Frank took a slow, clear look at his watch. “Dunno. Normally someone clever though. J says that I was a bit of an idiot before the chip went in. Only spoke English. Now I speak fluent Russian, Polish and...what language are we speaking?”

“German.”

“And German. Maybe one or two others. I won’t know until I try. People’s brain patterns don’t come with instruction manuals.”

“So me, I person I think is my ‘self’ right now...that isn’t me? I mean, it’s someone else?”

“Like I say, I’m not a philosopher.” He stood up. Saskia could see that he needed to leave.

“But if I have someone else’s brain pattern, why don’t I have any memories of childhood, for instance?”

“With memories, it’s not what you’ve got but what you think you’ve got. I mean, you can’t find memories unless you know what you’re looking for, or they’re jogged by something similar.” He walked away. “Try some free-association tasks, it might help those memories surface. And remember – you’re brand new. You’re not responsible for your old self. Bye-bye.”

She examined the backs of her hands. She needed another cigarette. “Goodbye.”

“Oh, which way to the central station?”

“Out of here, get a blue tram going south. It’s four stops. You can’t miss it.”

“Bet I can. Bye.”

Half an hour later, Saskia left the park and walked home. The robot manager watched her. When she was out of sight, he whistled. The litter robots halted and turned their cameras in his direction. He pointed at one and it skipped over. He crouched and pressed a button on its back. A panel slid open. Inside was a flat screen. He said, “Rewind forty-five minutes,” and the picture became a shaky close-up of Saskia and Frank. Frank was saying, “I saw you in the internet café.” The robot manager rose up and clapped his hands sharply.

“Alright, you lot. In the van.”

The Office

She rose at six when the sky was blank, unwritten. The night before, she had sipped a martini on her balcony. In the middle distance, the casinos had sent up multi-coloured searchlights, fountains of water and balloons: the Aurora Las Vegas. She had read that Las Vegas was the brightest man-made object visible from space. She preferred the day. The dawn over that. A blank sky, unwritten. She took the elevator down to the subterranean car park. The traffic was already heavy, but manageable if she