Текст книги "Architects of emortality"

Автор книги: Brian Stableford

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

The car which awaited them in the underground garage was roomy and powerful.

Once it was free of the city’s traffic-control computers it would be able to zip along the transcontinental at two hundred kilometers per hour. If they were headed for Alaska, Charlotte thought, they’d be there sometime around midnight They’d need a couple of thermal suits.

Michael Lowenthal opened the door to the seat which faced the driver’s control panel and politely stood aside, offering it to her—but she remembered their journey across Manhattan only too well. She shook her head, leaving him no alternative but to take the front himself while Charlotte got into the rear with Oscar Wilde.

As soon as they were all settled, Wilde activated the car’s program. The car slid smoothly up the ramp and into the street.

Michael Lowenthal, who had skipped breakfast on the maglev in order to lay his beautiful hypothesis before the stern gaze of Oscar Wilde, called up a menu from the car’s synthesizer and looked it over unappreciatively.

“I fear,” said Wilde as he scanned the duplicate which had appeared in the panel on the back of the seat in front of him, “that we are in for a rather Spartan trip.” Most hire cars only stocked manna with a choice of artificial flavorings; this one was a deluxe model, but it didn’t have anything else to offer.

“The time to worry about that,” Charlotte said tersely, “is when we reach Guadalajara.” She had taken note of the fact that the car had turned southeast, heading for intersection nine of the transcontinental instead of eight. Wherever they were headed, it was not Alaska.

Lowenthal was obviously used to better fare than the car had to offer; he decided not to bother with breakfast after all.

Charlotte plugged her beltphone into the screen mounted in the back of the drive compartment and began scrolling through more data that Hal’s silvers had collated while she had been otherwise occupied. The artificial geniuses had found a great many links between Gabriel King and Michi Urashima to add to the coincidence of their possible attendance at the same university—more links, in fact, than anyone could reasonably have expected, even allowing for the fact that they had been acquainted for more than a hundred and seventy years. There was, however, no clear evidence as yet that King’s funding of Urashima’s various exploits had been compensated by slightly larger sums paid to him by third parties who did not wish to be seen funding brain-feed research themselves.

Charlotte could see that the AI searches had only just begun to get down to the real dirt. No one whose career was as long as King’s was likely to be completely clean, especially if he’d been in business, but a man in his position could keep secrets even in today’s world, just as long as no one with state-of-the-art equipment actually had a reason to probe. It was only to be expected that his murder would expose a certain amount of dirty linen, but to Charlotte’s admittedly naive eyes King’s laundry basket seemed fuller than anyone could have expected. She began to wonder whether Lowenthal had made a mistake in starting at the beginning of the King/Urashima relationship rather than the end. Even when Michi Urashima had landed in deep trouble, it seemed, his connections with King had remained intact, but they had been hidden. King had not only funded Urashima but had helped to establish all kinds of shields to hide his work and its spin-off. Hal’s silvers had only just begun to build Paul Kwiatek into the picture, but they had already uncovered some commercial links between King and Kwiatek that were as surprising in their way as the links between King and Urashima. Rappaccini’s involvement with Urashima was, by contrast, beginning to seem perfectly straightforward.

Maybe all this flimflam with Wilde, Czastka, and Rappaccini is just a smoke screen, Charlotte thought. Maybe its sole purpose is to blind the silvers with superfluity, to distract us from the real pattern. But what could that pattern possibly be? As the data tying Gabriel King to Paul Kwiatek’s allegedly esoteric and uncommercial research continued to accumulate, Charlotte saw that Gabriel King had not been quite as colorless a character as Oscar Wilde had implied. Perhaps no one was who had lived a hundred and ninety-four years and had learned along the way to despise the affectations and showmanship of men like Wilde. But if King, Urashima, and Kwiatek had been murdered for business reasons, what could those reasons be? And who was the mysterious female assassin? Charlotte broke in on the data stream and said: “Hal—is there any news of Kwiatek yet?” “Any time now,” he said. “They’re executing the entry warrant as we speak, although the building supervisor’s doing his level best to obstruct them.

Protecting the privacy of his tenants, he says. What he’s paid for. Any idea where you’re headed yet?” Charlotte glanced out of the window, but there was nothing to be seen now except the eight lanes of the superhighway. “Mexico City, for now,” she said. “Exactly how far toward it we’ll go—or how much further beyond it—is anyone’s guess. Is there any sign of the woman traveling south out of San Francisco?” “No match yet,” Hal admitted. “As I said, the money trail’s looking better than the picture trail, for the moment. Hold on… they’re in Kwiatek’s apartment now.

No sign of him, unless he’s in the cradle…” Charlotte looked up. Michael Lowenthal was peering through the gap between the headrest of his seat and the drive compartment. Oscar Wilde seemed equally rapt, although his posture was as languid as ever.

“Yes,” said Hal, evidently dividing himself between two conversations. “In the cradle. That’s confirmed. Kwiatek’s dead—same method. We already have a fourth name that may have to be added to the list, but it’s going to take time to get investigators out to the place where he’s supposed to be. Same pattern—no response even to top-priority calls.” “Who?” said Lowenthal.

“Magnus Teidemann—the ecologist. Graduated from the University of Wollongong in 2322, with Czastka—a year ahead of King, Urashima, and Kwiatek. He’s in the field, working on some kind of biodiversity project; he hasn’t checked in with his base for a week. Not particularly unusual, they say, but…” “If he’s dead too,” Lowenthal opined, “Wollongong has got to be the crucial link.” “If he’s dead,” Charlotte echoed. “There are other links binding King to Urashima and to Kwiatek. If it’s just the three of them, the motive might have arisen a lot later than 2322. Let’s face it, no one but a madman would formulate a murder plan that would take so long to come to fruition. If you have a powerful desire to kill someone, you don’t wait a hundred and seventy years, until they’re practically at death’s door, before you implement it.” “Czastka called in his report on the first murder weapon,” Hal put in. “It confirms Wilde’s in every respect but one.” “Which one?” Charlotte wanted to know.

“He can’t see any evidence of a link to Rappaccini.” “That fault is in Walter’s sight, not in the evidence,” Wilde was quick to say.

“Even so,” said Hal, “the only name mentioned in Czastka’s report is Wilde’s—because he’s the only one known to have worked with the basic Celosia gentemplate. Czastka’s still on standby. I’ll send him the data on Urashima’s killer—and Kwiatek’s when we have it.” “Did you ask him about being at Wollongong with King and Urashima?” Charlotte wanted to know.

“Of course I did. He says that he doesn’t remember anything about events that long ago. He supposes that he must have known King, given that some of their courses overlapped, but he has no memory of ever having met Michi Urashima.” “He would say that, wouldn’t he?” murmured Michael Lowenthal.

“Got to go,” said Hal, breaking the connection.

Oscar Wilde immediately began tapping out a phone number on the comcon set in the back of Lowenthal’s seat.

“Who are you calling?” Charlotte demanded.

“Walter Czastka, of course,” Oscar replied with his customary equanimity.

“You can’t do that!” Lowenthal exclaimed. Charlotte was glad that he’d beaten her to it, because she knew exactly what Wilde’s reply would be.

“Of course I can,” said Wilde. “We’re old acquaintances, after all. If he’s involved with this business, I’m the best person to find out how and why—I know his little ways.” By the time he had finished speaking, it was a dead issue. The call had gone through and had been answered.

Charlotte could see the image on Wilde’s screen even though she was invisible to the camera that was relaying Wilde’s image to Czastka. She knew immediately that the face must be that of the flesh-and-blood Czastka, not his dutiful sloth. No one would ever have programmed so much wizened world-weariness into a simulacrum.

“Hello, Walter,” said Wilde.

Czastka peered at the caller without the least flicker of recognition. He looked very old—far older than King or Urashima—and distinctly unwell. His skin was discolored and taut about the facial muscles. Charlotte could not imagine that he had ever been a handsome man, and he had obviously decided that it was unnecessary to compromise with the expectations of others by having his face touched up by cosmetic engineers. In a world where almost everyone was good-looking, unmarked by the worst ravages of time and circumstance, Walter Czastka was an obvious anomaly. There was nothing actually ugly or monstrous about him, however. To Charlotte, he simply seemed ancient and depressed. His eyes were a curious faded yellow color, and his stare had a rather disconcerting quality.

“Yes?” he said.

“Don’t you know me, Walter?” asked Wilde, in genuine surprise.

For a moment, Czastka simply looked exasperated, but then his stare changed as enlightenment dawned.

“Oscar Wilde!” he said, his tone redolent with awe. “My God, you look well. I didn’t look like that after my second rejuvenation… but you already had… how could you need a third so soon?” Oddly enough, Oscar Wilde did not swell with pride in reaction to this display of naked envy. It seemed to Charlotte that Wilde’s anxiety about Czastka’s condition outweighed his pride in his own. This surprised her a little, and she wondered what motives Wilde might have for feigning such a response.

“Need,” Wilde murmured, “is a relative thing. I’m sorry, Walter—I didn’t mean to startle you. In my mind’s eye, you see, I always look like this.” “You’ll have to be brief, Oscar,” said Czastka curtly. “I’m expecting the UN police to call back—ever since they got past my AI defenses they’ve been relentless. Someone’s using flowers to murder people. I’ve given them one report, but they want more. People like that always want more. I should have known better than to respond to the first call, I suppose. Terrible nuisance.” Charlotte noticed that Czastka had dutifully avoided mentioning to Oscar Wilde the fact that he’d been obliged to mention Wilde’s name in his report on the lethal flowers. Czastka did not seem to relish the idea of a long conversation with his old acquaintance.

“The police can break in on us if they want to, Walter,” said Oscar gently.

“They showed the Celosia gentemplate to me too. I came to one conclusion that you apparently failed to reach.” “And what was that?” Czastka asked sharply. Charlotte knew that Hal Watson wouldn’t want Wilde putting ideas into Czastka’s head, but she was powerless to prevent it.

“It seemed obvious to me that Rappaccini had designed them,” said Oscar. “Do you remember Rappaccini?” “Of course I remember him,” snapped Czastka. “I’m not senile, you know.

Specialized in funeral wreaths—a silly affectation, I always thought. Haven’t heard of him in years, though—I thought he’d retired on the proceeds. I daresay you know him much better than I do. You were birds of a feather, I always thought. It was your Celosia, wasn’t it? What makes you think that Rappaccini had anything to do with it?” Charlotte didn’t need to make a mental note of the fact that Czastka considered Wilde and Rappaccini to be birds of a feather.

“How’s your ecosphere coming along, Walter?” asked Oscar softly. Charlotte frowned at the change of subject Czastka didn’t answer the question. “What do you want, Oscar?” he asked rudely.

“I’m busy. If you want to slander Rappaccini to the UN police, go ahead, but don’t involve me. I told them all I know—about the plant, about everything. I just want to be left alone. If this is going to carry on, I’m going to disconnect permanently. If anyone wants to talk to me, they can get the boat from Kauai.” Charlotte wondered when Czastka had last been rejuvenated. He looked as if his second rejuvenation had somehow failed to take—as if he were degenerating rapidly. He looked as if he couldn’t possibly have long to live, and he looked as if he knew it.

“I’m sorry, Walter,” said Oscar soothingly, “but I do need to talk to you. We have a problem here, and it affects us both. It affects us generally, and specifically. Genetic art may have come a long way since the protests at the Great Exhibition, but there’s still a lot of latent animosity to the kind of work we do, and the Green Zealots won’t need much encouragement to put us back on their hate list. Neither of us wants to go back to the days when we had to argue about our licenses, and had petty officials demanding to look over our shoulders while we worked. When the police release the full details of this case there’s going to be a lot of adverse publicity, and it’s going to hurt us.

That’s the general issue. More specifically, there’s a great deal of confusion about who planned these murders and why. I’m in a car with Sergeant Charlotte Holmes of the UN police and a man named Michael Lowenthal, who represents certain commercial interests. We all have our various theories about the affair, and I think you’re entitled to be copied in on them. To be brutally frank, I think Rappaccini is behind the murders, Charlotte thinks I’m behind them, and Michael thinks you’re the guilty party—so it really is in your interest to help us sort things out.” “Me!” said Czastka. If his outrage wasn’t genuine, it was the best imitation Charlotte had ever seen. She only wished that Michael Lowenthal could see it “Why on earth would I want to kill Gabriel King or Michi Urashima?” “And Paul Kwiatek,” Wilde added. “Maybe Magnus Teidemann too. Nobody knows, Walter—but if this goes on, you might soon be the only survivor of that select band of famous men who graduated from Wollongong University in the early 2320s.” Czastka’s face had a curious ocherous pallor as he stared at his interlocutor.

Charlotte noted that Czastka’s eyes had narrowed, but she couldn’t tell whether he was alarmed, suspicious, or merely impatient.

“I don’t remember anything about those days,” Czastka said stubbornly. “Nobody does. It was too long ago. I hardly knew Kwiatek. I never knew any of them, really—not even King. I’ve had some dealings with his companies, just as I’ve had some dealings with Rappaccini Inc., but I haven’t set eyes on King for fifty years, and I haven’t seen Rappaccini since the Great Exhibition. I’ve seen Urashima’s work and I heard about the wireheading scandals, but that’s all.

Leave me alone, Oscar, and tell the police to leave me alone too. You know perfectly well that I couldn’t kill anyone—and I don’t know anything about Rappaccini that you don’t already know.” “What about his daughter?” said Wilde quickly.

If he intended to catch the other man by surprise it didn’t work. Czastka’s stare was stony and speculative, with more than a hint of melancholy. “What daughter?” he said. “I never met a daughter. Not that I remember. It was all a long time ago. I can’t remember anything at all. Leave me alone, Oscar, please.” So saying, the old man cut the connection.

Charlotte could see that Oscar Wilde was both puzzled and disappointed by the other man’s reaction.

“That was a mistake, wasn’t it?” she said, unable to resist the temptation to take him down a peg. “Did you really think he’d rather talk to you than to us? He doesn’t even like you. You should have left him to Hal—you’ve upset him now, maybe so badly that he won’t even take Hal’s calls, and you didn’t learn anything at all.” “Perhaps not,” Oscar agreed. “I certainly didn’t expect him to freeze up like that. On the other hand…” He trailed off, evidently uncertain as to what kind of balancing factor he ought to add.

“Have you changed your mind about the possibility of Czastka having set up the Biasiolo/Rappaccini identity?” Charlotte asked Michael Lowenthal.

“I don’t know,” said Lowenthal guardedly. “But I do wish you hadn’t told him about my suspicions, Dr. Wilde, however absurd you may think them.” “I’m sorry,” Wilde said, still taken aback by the nature of Czastka’s response to his call. “But if he were our stylish murderer, why would he react so churlishly to my inquiries? Surely he’d have made better preparation than that.” “Would he?” Lowenthal parried.

Hal’s face reappeared on Charlotte’s screen. “I just got notification of your little conversation, Dr. Wilde,” he said. “What on earth do you think you’re playing at? I tried to ring Czastka, and I got that bloody sloth again, telling me that he’s unavailable, even though I know he’s sitting right there at his antique desk!” “I couldn’t stop him!” Charlotte complained.

“It wasn’t Charlotte’s fault,” Wilde obligingly added—although she could see that the intervention didn’t improve Hal’s mood at all.

“Well,” Hal said, “you’d better pray that this won’t cost us time and effort.

You might care to know that the money trail is getting clearer by the minute.

Some of Rappaccini’s pseudonymous bank accounts have been used over the years to purchase massive quantities of materials that were delivered for collection to the island of Kauai—that’s in Hawaii.” “So the man behind Rappaccini must live on Kauai,” Charlotte deduced, trying to remember the context in which she had heard the place name mentioned not ten minutes before. She could tell from the way that Michael Lowenthal had reacted to the name that he remembered—and as soon as she had mentally reviewed that observation, she remembered too. It was too late to say anything; Hal was already speaking again.

“Not necessarily,” he was saying. “The supplies were collected by boat. There are fifty or sixty islets west and south of Kauai, some natural but most artificial. Over half of them are leased to Creationists for experiments in the construction of artificial ecosystems. Oscar Wilde’s private island is half an ocean away in Micronesia.” “But Walter Czastka’s isn’t,” said Michael Lowenthal with evident satisfaction.

“That’s right,” said Hal. “All the supplies that Czastka purchases in his own name are forwarded from Kauai, by the same boat that forwarded the equipment purchased by the pseudonymous accounts we’ve just connected to Rappaccini Inc.

Perhaps, Mr. Lowenthal, your wild hypothesis isn’t as wild as it first seemed.”

Intermission Three: A Mind at the End of Its Tether

Michi Urashima was having trouble with time again. He had lost all sense of it and couldn’t remember what day it was, or what year, or how many times he had grown young and then old again. None of that would have been of much significance had he not had the vague impression that there was something he ought to be doing, some important project that needed attention. He could not remember whether or not he was still forbidden to leave his house, or whether or not there was anywhere else he might want to be.

When he asked what year it was, the silken voice of his household sloth dutifully informed him that it was 2495, but Michi could not remember whether 2495 was the present or the past, so he could not tell whether or not he had suffered an existential slippage. There was no point in asking the sloth whether or not he had lost his mind, because the sloth was too stupid to know.

Although he had lost touch with himself, Michi still had command of vast treasures of factual information. He knew, for instance, that sloths were called sloths because the Tupi word for the three-toed sloth was ai, and AI had stood for artificial idiot or artificial imbecile ever since the concept of artificial intelligence had been subdivided. A sloth could not possibly judge whether or not he had lost his mind; for that he would have needed a silver. Silvers were called silver because the chemical symbol for silver was Ag, which stood for artificial genius. There was no popular shorthand for “artificial individual of average intelligence” because the obvious acronym sounded like a strangled scream. Because AP had been claimed by artificial photosynthesis—LAP for liquid, SAP for solid—there was no such thing as a mere artificial person, and an acronymic rendering of artificial mind would have been too confusing by half.

Actually, Michi thought, the attempt to possess an artificial mind of his very own had indeed led him into dire confusion.

“I am,” he said, and giggled. “I am an AM, or am not an AM, or am caught like a half-living cat between the two. Perhaps I was an AM, and am no longer, or was not but now am, or would be if only I could think straight, like an AM. Perhaps, on the other hand, I am no longer an AM, and am no longer, but am merely an it, held together by IT.” He sat in his armchair and breathed deeply: in, out; in, out; in, out. Slowly but surely, his sense of self came together again, and his sense of temporal location returned. His IT was probably stretched to the limit, but he was not yet an it. Precarious though his grip on reality was, the Miller effect still had not obliterated him from the community of human minds.

Morgan Miller must have been a kindred spirit, he thought. The first man ever to beat the Hayflick limit and discover a viable technology of longevity, and his reward for taking such infinite pains over the project had been two bullets in the back. Unfortunately—as Miller had understood, although his assassins had not—the method had worked far too well. It was so utterly irresistible in renewing the body that it wiped out the mind. Even internal nanotech did that eventually, but at least it gave a man time to breathe, time to play, time to work, time to be… and time, in the end, to lose himself.

“I am,” he said again. “I am Michi still, at least for a little while. Do I have any appointments today?” “Yes,” said the sloth. Before Michi could rephrase the question, he remembered.

Yes, indeed—today, he had an appointment.

“Oh yes,” he said aloud. “I am, I am, I definitely am.” He reached up his hand to caress his skull, running his fingertips over the numerous sockets which sat above the main sites of his implanted electrodes. He wondered whether he ought to put on a wig, or a hooded suitskin. Did she wear a wig, or a hooded suit-skin? Could that luscious hair really be rooted in her skull? Maybe, maybe not. He would find out. But in the meantime—to obscure or not to obscure? He decided not. She was fascinated by what he was, what he had been; why try to hide it? A martyr should wear his stigmata proudly, unafraid to display them.

They were, alas, mere relics of the past, but they were the remnants of a glorious endeavor.

Michi still wondered, sometimes, whether he ought to make one more attempt to break through to the unknown. If he were to flush out all his IT and douse the sockets so as to flood the underlying electrodes with neurostimulators, the neurons further beneath would resume the business of forging new connections, further extending the synaptic tangles which already bound the contacts to every part of his brain. The removal of his IT would condemn him to death, of course, but he was dying anyway. Suppose he could trade a few months of not knowing what day it was for just one moment of enlightenment, one flash of inspiration, one revelatory proof that everything he had tried to achieve was possible, was within the grasp of contemporary humankind, if only people were willing to try, to take the risk.

Just suppose… It would be his triumph, and his alone. Official sources of finance had bailed out on him a hundred years ago, and he had been forbidden to call for further volunteers. The funds channeled from the Pharaohs of Capitalism by way of Gabriel King and his fellow buccaneers had dried up fifty years ago. The private backers had held out a little longer, but the law had built walls around him to keep their funds out. Like Kwiatek, he had been left high and dry—but Kwiatek had at least avoided the indignity of a show trial and subsequent house arrest.

If Kwiatek eventually ended up in susan, it wouldn’t be the law that had put him there; he would go of his own accord, unbranded and uncondemned.

“I was the only one prepared to go all the way,” Michi said aloud. “If they hadn’t abandoned me, I might even have got to where I wanted to be. Do you hear me?” “Yes,” said the sloth, as pedantically terse as ever.

“How long is it before my visitor’s due?” Michi demanded, determined to make the stupid machine do a little work to justify its keep.

“Thirty seconds,” replied the conscientious machine. Doubtless, in some abstract and ideal sense, it was absolutely right—but even as it spoke, the door chime sounded.

The woman was early.

“Let her in,” said Michi, levering himself up from his armchair, hoping as he did so that he would not lose himself again before she left.

“I’m sorry,” Michi said to the young woman as they lay in bed together. “I’ve grown unused to visitors of any kind, let alone lovers. All the old skills…” “I understand,” the woman said very gently. “Fifty years of solitary confinement is a very harsh penalty to pay for trying to push back the frontiers of human understanding.” “Most people thought of it as getting off lightly,” Michi said morosely. “They don’t realize. There are millions of people in the world who spend days on end—weeks on end if they’re VE addicts—cocooned in their apartments, and there are millions who routinely protect their privacy by filtering all their electronic communications through clever sims. They don’t know the true value of the power of choice, which allows them to break the pattern anytime they wish.

They don’t understand how demeaning it is to be forbidden the use of credit, of the most elementary privacy screening. Everybody nowadays thinks that they’re under observation, but they don’t really know what it means to have ever attentive eyes trained so intensively on the minutiae of one’s everyday life.” “I can’t pretend to know how it feels to be withdrawn from human society for fifty years, after having lived in it for over a hundred,” the young woman told him as she eased herself from his embrace and reached for her suitskin, “but I have spent a good deal of my own brief life in enforced solitude. I’ve learned very quickly to appreciate the worth of being in the world.” “Part of the problem,” Michi observed, grateful for the opportunity to mumble on, hoping thereby to cover his embarrassment, “is the ongoing debate about the susan long-termers. They’re the ones whose punishments attract all the public attention. Everybody carps about the unreasonableness of the jurists of the past, who just wanted to get supposedly dangerous individuals off the streets during their own lifetimes and didn’t care about the ethical problems they were handing down to their descendants. House arrest is seen as a more reasonable alternative—but communication control ensures that the victims don’t have a voice. When the sentence ended… I was a hundred and eighty-three years old, and I hadn’t talked face-to-face with anyone for fifty years. Most of my former acquaintances were dead, and most of the rest had forgotten me. Even the ones who had stood by me and helped me as best they could, had to impersonalize the communication process. The ones who wanted to carry forward my work—the ones who did carry it forward, insofar as the law allowed them to, had to do so without any input from me—I wasn’t even allowed to help. By the time it ended, it was impossible to pick up the fifty-year-old threads, and there was no hope of changing everything back again. The only real relationships I’ve been able to form in the last thirteen years have been new ones, but so many of the authentically young seem to think of me as some kind of monster or demon… sometimes I feel like the Minotaur made by Daedalus, lost in the labyrinth of Minos.” Michi knew that he should not be running on and on in this ridiculous manner, but he couldn’t help himself. He had lost the knack of conversation as well as the knack of making love. His social skills had atrophied.

Had he gone to the freezer he’d have emerged into an altered world, but this wasn’t the twentieth century; the pace of technological change was much less fierce than it had been at its peak. He could have adapted readily enough—but actually having to live the fifty years of his sentence, aging at a normal rate, had turned him into an old man in every sense of the word: a social and sexual incompetent, hovering on the brink of mental incompetence.

It would probably be best for everyone, he thought, if he were to flush out his IT and stick his head into a bath of neurostimulators—or perhaps to attempt a third rejuve, disregarding the 90 percent probability that the Miller effect would wipe his mental slate clean.

“The time will come,” the young woman assured him as she adjusted her suitskin and ran her fingers lightly through her hair, “when you will be recognized as a great man. When brain-cyborgization technology is finally perfected, you’ll be remembered as a bold pioneer, tragically frustrated by the enemies of progress.

You are a great man, and there are people in the world who know it now.” “I’m not a great man,” he told her uncomfortably. “I never pretended to be. I never did anything for the benefit of future generations. It was all for my own self-gratification. The people whose brains were wrecked were the victims of my ambition. No matter how resentful I may become about my punishment, I have to remember that I was guilty.” As he spoke, reflex lifted his wrinkled hand and passed it over the hairless dome of his skull, the gnarled fingers dancing on the sockets embedded in the bone as if they were dancing on a keyboard. The continued presence of the sockets was oddly reassuring, despite their uselessness. While they were there, he could never entirely forget who and what he was. Those who had set out to punish him had not dared to remove the apparatus lest they kill him in the process. His neurons had forged too many synapses with the compound electrodes; it was no longer possible to say with any exactitude where he ended and the brainfeed apparatus began.