Forever Peace

  “Look. You know how much I’d like to move in with you. It’s not as if we hadn’t talked about it.”

  “So? Let’s do it.”

  “No . . . let’s not make any decisions now. Not for a couple of days.”

  She looked past me, out the window over the sink. “I, you think I’m crazy.”

  “Impulsive.” I sat down on the floor and stroked her arm.

  “It is strange for me, isn’t it?” She closed her eyes and kneaded her forehead. “Maybe I’m still medicated.”

  I hoped that was it. “I’m sure that’s all it is. You need a couple of days’ more rest.”

  “What if they botched the operation?”

  “They didn’t. You wouldn’t be walking and talking.”

  She patted my hand, still looking abstracted. “Yeah, sure. You have some juice or something?”

  I found some white grape juice in the refrigerator and poured us each a small glass. I heard a zipper and turned around, but it was only her leather suitcase.

  I brought her drink over. She was staring intently, slowly picking through the contents of the suitcase. “Think something might be missing?”

  She took the drink and set it down. “Oh, no. Or maybe. Mainly I’m just checking my memory. I do remember packing. The trip down. Talking to Dr., um, Spencer.” She backed up two steps, felt behind her, and sat down slowly on the bed.

  “Then the blur—you know, I was sort of awake when they operated. I could see lots of lights. My chin and face were in a padded frame.”

  I sat down with her. “I remember that from my own installation. And the drill sound.”

  “And the smell. You know you’re smelling your own skull being sawed open. But you don’t care.”

  “Drugs,” I said.

  “That’s part of it. Also looking forward to it.” Well, not in my case. “I could hear them talking, the doctor and some woman.”

  “What about?”

  “It was Spanish. They were talking about her boyfriend and . . . shoes or something. Then everything went black. I guess it went white, then black.”

  “I wonder if that was before or after they put the jack in.”

  “It was after, definitely after. They call it a bridge, right?”

  “From French, yeah: pont mental.”

  “I heard him say that—ahora, el puente—and then they pressed really hard. I could feel it on my chin, on the cushion.”

  “You remember a lot more than I did.”

  “That was about it, though. The boyfriend and the shoes and then click. The next thing I knew, I was lying in bed, unable to move or speak.”

  “That must have been terrifying.”

  She frowned, remembering. “Not really. It was like an enormous . . . lassitude, numbness. As if I could move my arms and legs, or speak, if I really had to. But the effort would have been tremendous. That was probably mood drugs, too, to keep me from panicking.

  “They kept moving my arms and legs around and shouting nonsense at me. It was probably English, and I just couldn’t decipher their accents, in my condition.”

  She gestured and I handed her the grape juice. She sipped. “If I remember this right . . . I was really, really annoyed that they wouldn’t just go away and let me lie in peace. But I didn’t say anything, because I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of hearing me complain. It’s an odd thing to remember. I was really being infantile.”

  “They didn’t try the jack?”

  She got a faraway look. “No . . . Dr. Spencer told me about that later. In my condition it was better to wait and have the first time be with someone I knew. Seconds count, he explained that to you?”

  I nodded. “Exponential increase in the number of neural connections.”

  “So I lay in a darkened room then, for a long time; lost track of time, I suppose. Then all the things that happened before we . . . we jacked, I thought it was a dream. Everything was suddenly flooded with light and a couple of people lifted me and bit me on the wrists—the IVs—and then we were floating from room to room.”

  “Riding a gurney.”

  She nodded. “It really felt like levitation, though—I remember thinking, ‘I’m dreaming,’ and resolving to enjoy it. An image of Marty floated by, asleep in a chair, and I accepted that as part of the dream. Then you and Dr. Spencer appeared—okay, you were in the dream, too.

  “Then it was all suddenly real.” She rocked back and forth, remembering the instant we jacked. “No, not real. Intense. Confusing.”

  “I remember,” I said. “The double vision, seeing yourself. You didn’t recognize yourself at first.”

  “And you told me most people don’t. I mean you told me in one word, somehow, or no words. Then it all snapped into focus, and we were . . .” She nodded rhythmically, biting her lower lip. “We were all the same. We were one . . . thing.”

  She took my right hand in both of hers. “And then we had to talk to the doctor. And he said we couldn’t, he wouldn’t let us . . .” She lifted my hand to her breast, the way it had been that last moment, and leaned forward. But she didn’t kiss me. She put her chin on my shoulder and whispered, voice cracking: “We’ll never have that again?”

  I automatically tried to feed her a gestalt, the way you do jacked, about how she might be able to try again in a few years, about Marty having her data, about the partial re-establishment of neuron connection so we might try, we might try; and a fraction of a second later I realized no, we weren’t connected; she can only hear something if I say it.

  “Most people never even have it once.”

  “Maybe they’re better off,” she said, muffled, and sobbed quietly. Her hand moved up to squeeze my neck and caress the jack.

  I had to say something. “Look . . . it’s possible you haven’t lost it all. There might be a small fraction of the ability still there.”

  “What do you mean?” I explained about some of the neurons homing back into the jack’s receptor areas. “How much might be there?”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea. I’d never even heard of it until a couple of days ago.” Though I knew with sudden certainty that some of the jills must be that way, unable to make a really deep connection. Ralph had brought back memories of some who had hardly seemed jacked at all.

  “We have to try. Where could we . . . could you bring the equipment back from Portobello?”

  “No, I’d never get it off the base.” And be court-martialed, if I tried.

  “Hmm . . . Maybe we could find a way to sneak into the hospital—”

  I laughed. “You don’t have to sneak anywhere. Just buy time at one of the jack joints.”

  “But I don’t want that. I want to do it with you.”

  “That’s what I mean! They have double unis—two-person universes. Two people jack in and go someplace together.” That’s where the jills took their customers. You can screw on the streets of Paris, floating in outer space, riding a canoe down rapids. Ralph had brought us back the weirdest memories.

  “Let’s go do it.”

  “Look, you’re still beat from the hospital. Why not get a day or two rest and then—”

  “No!” She stood up. “For all we know, the connections might be fading while we sit here and talk about it.” She picked up the phone off the table and punched two numbers; she knew my cab code. “Outside?”

  I got up and followed her to the door, afraid I’d made a big mistake. “Look, don’t expect the world.”

  “Oh, I don’t expect anything. Just have to try it, find out.” For someone who didn’t expect anything, she was awfully eager.

  It was infectious. While we waited for the cab, I went from thinking Well, at least we’ll find out one way or the other to being sure that there would be at least something there. Marty had said there would be a placebo effect, if nothing more.

  I couldn’t give the cab a specific address, since I’d only been there once. But I asked whether it knew where the block of jack joints was, just outside the
university, and it said yes.

  We could have biked there, but it was the neighborhood where that guy had pulled a knife on me—it had started pretty low and gone downhill—and I figured it might be dark by the time we finished our experiment.

  It was a good thing the cab turned off the meter while we went through security. The shoe in charge saw our destination and jerked us around for ten minutes, I supposed to watch Amelia’s discomfort. Or try to get some sort of rise out of me. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  We had the cab let us off on the near end of the block, so we could walk the length of it and check the menus in each joint. The price was important; payday was two days away for both of us. I made three times as much as she did, but the Mexican excursion had brought me down to less than a hundred bucks. And Amelia was flat.

  There were more jills than pedestrians. Some of them offered to join us in a three-way. I hadn’t known that was possible. It sounded more confusing than alluring, even under good conditions. And being more intimately linked to the jill than to Amelia would be a disaster.

  The place with the best double uni deal was also one of the nicest, or the least sleazy. It was called Your World, and instead of car crashes and executions, it offered a menu of explorations—like the French tour I’d taken in Mexico, but more exotic.

  I suggested the underwater tour of the Great Barrier Reef.

  “I’m not a good swimmer,” Amelia said. “Would that make a difference?”

  “Me neither; don’t worry. It’s like being a fish.” I’d done this one. “You don’t even think about swimming.”

  It was a dollar a minute, cash, or two minutes for three dollars, plastic. Ten minutes up front. I paid cash; keep the plastic for emergencies.

  A stern-looking fat lady, black with a springy forest of white hair, led us to the booth. It was a small cubicle just over a meter high, with a padded blue mat on the floor, two jack cables hanging from the low ceiling.

  “Time start’ when the first one plug in. You-all want to take your clothes off first, I s’pose. Place been sterilized. You-all have a good time, now.”

  She turned abruptly and bustled away. “She thinks you’re a jill,” I said.

  “I could use a second income.” We entered the place on our hands and knees and when I shut the door the air conditioner started to whir. Then a white-noise generator added a steady hiss.

  “Does the light make a difference?”

  “It goes off automatically.” We helped each other undress and she lay down the right way, on her stomach facing the door.

  She was rigid and trembling slightly. “Relax,” I said, kneading her shoulders.

  “I’m afraid nothing will happen.”

  “If nothing happens, we’ll try it again.” I remembered what Marty had said—she really should start off with something like jumping off a cliff. Well, I could tell her that later.

  “Here.” I slid over a diamond-shaped pillow that supports your face on the chin, cheekbones, and forehead. “This’ll help your neck relax.” I stroked her back for a minute, and when she seemed looser, I moved the jack interface into place over the metal socket in her head. There was a faint click and the light went out.

  Of course after thousands of hours, I didn’t need the pillow; I could jack standing up or hanging upside down. I groped for the cable and stretched out so we were touching, arm and hip. Then I jacked in.

  The water was warm as blood and it tasted good, salt and seaweed, on my lips, as I breathed it in. I was in less than two meters of water, bright coral formations all around, tiny fish with brilliant colors ignoring me until I came close enough to be a danger. A small green moray eel, face like a cartoon villain, stared at me from a hole in the coral.

  Volition is strange when you’re jacked like this. I “decided” to go off to the left, although there was nothing obvious there, just a plain of white sand. Actually, the person who had recorded the trip had a good reason to check it out, but the customer wasn’t in contact with him or her at that level; nothing but the sensorium, amplified.

  Sunlight refracting through the ripples on the surface made a pleasant shimmering pattern on the sand, but that wasn’t why we had come here. I hovered over two eye-stalks that poked out of the sand, twitching, agitated. Suddenly the sand exploded underneath me, and to the left and right, and a tiger-striped manta ray flew out from where it had been hiding, under a few centimeters of sand. It was huge, easily three meters wide. I shot forward and grabbed a wing, before it had time to gather speed.

  One powerful flap of the wings and we surged forward; another, and we were going faster than any merely human swimmer, the water churning smoothly down my body . . .

  And hers. Amelia was there, definitely but faintly, like a shadow inside me. The turbulence from the fast water made my genitals flutter, but part of me didn’t have that; for that part of me the water flowed smoothly tickling between her legs.

  Intellectually, I knew that they’d had to merge two strings to create this, and wondered how hard it had been to find a large manta for both the man and the woman or how they’d gotten around it. But mainly I focused on that particular dual sensation and tried to make contact with Amelia through it.

  I couldn’t, quite. No words, no specificity; just a vague “isn’t this thrilling” gestalt that I felt reflected with a different twist, Amelia’s personality. There was also a faint different excitement that must have been her realization that we were in contact.

  The sand surface fell away in an underwater cliff and the manta dived, the water suddenly cool and the pressure increasing. We lost our grip and went tumbling alone in the dark water.

  As we slid slowly upward I felt little butterfly flutterings that I knew were Amelia’s hands on me, back in the cubical, and as I became erect it was wetness that wasn’t the imaginary ocean around me, and then the ghostly clasp of her legs and a faint pulsing up and down.

  It wasn’t like Carolyn, where I was her and she was me. It was more like a compelling sexual dream that possessed you while you were half awake.

  The water above was like beaten silver, and three sharks scudded there as we floated up. There was a little shiver of fear, though I knew they were harmless, since the string wasn’t rated D or I; death or injury. I tried to project to Amelia not to be scared, but I didn’t feel any fear from her. She was preoccupied. Her physical presence grew stronger in me, and she wasn’t exactly swimming.

  Her orgasm was faint but long, radiating and pulsating in that strange-but-familiar way that I hadn’t felt in the three years since I lost Carolyn. The ghosts of her arms and legs rocked me left and right as we rose up toward the sharks.

  It was one large nurse shark and two dogfish, no danger. But as we passed them I felt myself go soft and slip out of her. It wasn’t going to work, not this time, not for both of us.

  Her hands on me were like feathers, coaxing, pleasant but not enough. There was a sudden faint loss of something, dimensionality, that meant she had come unjacked, and then she was using her mouth, cool and then warm, but it still wouldn’t work. Most of me was still in the reef.

  I felt for the cable and unjacked myself. The lights went on and I immediately started to respond to Amelia’s ministrations. I slipped my arms around her slipperiness and rested my head on her hip and didn’t think about Carolyn, and worked a couple of fingers between her legs from behind, and in a minute we both came at once.

  We were allowed about five seconds’ rest, and then the lady was pounding on the cubicle door, saying we had to get out or pay rent; she had to clean it up for the next customers.

  “The meter stops running when we both unjack, I guess,” Amelia said. She nuzzled me. “I could pay a dollar a minute for this, though. You want to tell her that?”

  “Nah.” I reached for our clothes. “Let’s go home and do it for free.”

  “Your place or mine?”

  “Home,” I said. “Your place.”

  * * *

  julia
n and amelia spent the next day moving and cleaning house. Since it was Sunday, they couldn’t get any paperwork done, but they didn’t expect any problems. There was a waiting list for singles who qualified for Julian’s efficiency, and Amelia’s place was rated for two, or even two adults and a child.

  (A child was something that was never going to happen. Twenty-four years before, after a miscarriage, Amelia had opted for voluntary sterilization, which gave her a monthly cash-and-coupon bonus until age fifty. And Julian’s view of the world was so sufficiently dark that he wasn’t eager to bring a new person into it.)

  When they had everything boxed, and Julian’s apartment clean enough to satisfy the landlord, they called Reza for his car. He scolded Julian for not calling him earlier so he could have helped, and Julian said, honestly, that it hadn’t occurred to him.

  Amelia listened to the conversation with interest, and a week later would point out that there had been a good reason for them to do it alone, a kind of sacramental labor—or something even more elemental, nest-building. But what she said when Julian hung up was, “It’ll take him ten minutes to get here,” and hurried him to the couch, one last quick time in this place.

  It only took two trips to move all the boxes. On the second trip Reza and Julian were alone, and when Reza offered to help unpack, Julian said well, you know, maybe Blaze wants to go to bed.

  In fact, she did. They collapsed exhausted and slept until dawn.

  * * *

  once or twice a year, they don’t bring the soldierboys in between shifts; they just immobilize us one by one and have the mechanic’s second move straight from barber chair to cage, a “hot transfer.” It usually meant something interesting was going on, since we don’t normally work the same AO as Scoville’s hunter/killer platoon.

  But Scoville had been grouchy because nothing had happened. They’d gone to three different ambush sites in nine days with nothing but bugs and birds showing up. It was obviously a make-work assignment, marking time.

  He crawled out of the cage and it sealed shut for its ninety-second cleaning cycle. “Have fun,” Scoville said. “Bring something to read.”