Seoul Survivors (18 page)

“Technically speaking, the chair sends out signals that affect the serotonin receptors in the brain,” Da Mi explained. “The pleasure this produces allows the mind to move beyond fear and anxiety, into what I would call a higher, more evolved level of consciousness. You could say that the chair fine-tunes our brain waves, or perhaps, as the inventors do, you could call it an Enlightenment Chair.”

Sydney wanted to follow the science, but she was still trying to understand what she'd just seen and felt. “I just don't get it. I mean, a few minutes ago I was in pieces—and then I was
forgiving
that man, and I think I
understood
that woman, how she survived, how strong she was, everything. I guess it was all just in my head. But it felt
amazing
. How does it work so
quickly
?”

“It doesn't normally. The chair is a German product, a meditative tool used to induce a profound state of calm. But I have discovered that when I take the honey drink before I use it, the chair not only makes it impossible to even conceive of a whole spectrum of negative emotions, it also replaces them with a euphoric sense of forgiveness. After two teaspoons of honey, you could lie in that chair and think of people you absolutely detest, but you would be unable to feel anything but love and compassion for them.”

Sydney's body was still singing, her mind translucent as the paper in the latticed
anbang
screen. Unbidden, an image of her mom dancing in the kitchen with Blaine came into soft focus in her mind. They were laughing and kissing, and then her mom turned to her.
Come here, Sydney
, she called,
come and have a hug
. Up close her mom's face was lined but pretty; her lipstick was smudged and she smelled of menthol cigarettes. She had been happy once, Sydney remembered. Blaine had a beer in his hand. He ran the other one through Sydney's hair. Yeah, even Blaine had been nice to her when she was little. It was only later that he changed, after she grew tits and he lost his job and started slobbing around the house and drinking all day. People were weak. Sometimes you did just have to forgive them.

She stretched her legs. “You could be the leader of a new religion, Da Mi.”

“No, I couldn't.” Da Mi smoothed her skirt. “The effect is temporary. Taking regular sessions in the chair does help one aspire to a certain level of emotional detachment, but they can't permanently alter the structure of the brain. I still feel annoyance, anger, jealousy, every day, in the usual petty ways. Even now, you're probably wondering if you really forgive that man.”

“No!” Sydney exclaimed, “I do!” But even as she said it, there was an uncomfortable twinge in her stomach. Forgiving a rapist—wasn't that pointless and stupid? A guy like that didn't care how nice you were to him; he'd hurt you in a second if he could. And as for her mom . . .
You're the biggest mistake I ever made
, her mom had said to her once—did a mother like that deserve to be forgiven?

“I mean, I
did
,” she said awkwardly. “But it's not about forgiveness, is it? You have to stop bad people, lock them up, not just sit in a chair and understand them.”

“You see? First you start using the past tense, then you start rationalizing, and soon the whole experience will seem like a dream. If you read about a rapist in the newspaper tomorrow, you'll instinctively fear and hate him. Even if you were to use the Chair regularly, you would still need to make a significant, conscious effort in normal life to utilize its teachings.”

Listening to Da Mi now was like being dashed with cold water. It couldn't be, could it, that the beautiful feeling of loving forgiveness she had just experienced was evaporating, leaving the whole world cruel and heartless again?

No
, Sydney thought,
I mustn't panic
. Even if she returned to a normal state of consciousness, she could never be the same. She had experienced the loss of hatred and fear, she had felt peaceful and generous, healed. She wanted to live like that forever. And if she couldn't, she wanted to keep one thing from her session.

“The woman was real, right?” she asked, urgently. “What was her name?”

“Her name,” Da Mi replied gravely, “was Leanne LaRue. Despite the hackers' best efforts, her killer was never found. But at least she was discovered soon after her death, unlike so many First Nations women who have disappeared in British Columbia, and her relatives were able to bury her body.”

It felt important to know everything. “Did she have a little girl?”

“I don't know, Sydney. Why?”

Sydney rubbed the edge of the silk cushion with her fingers. “I just wondered, that's all.”

Leanne LaRue
. One day she'd go to that alley and leave flowers on that mattress for her. In the meantime, she had to help Da Mi put an
end
to this shit. She leaned forward, intently. “Can you develop the Chair?” she asked. “In your project?”

“Develop the Chair? Possibly. But the problem is, Sydney, you're right.”

Her, right? “About what?”

“In fact, it's not
us
who need to radically change, but violent people. And there are so many of them: far too many to help with the Chair. Currently, there are fewer than one hundred of these Chairs in existence, and the rare orchids needed for my honey—that's just enough for me and my friends—require a huge greenhouse and constant maintenance. Even if I could work with the manufacturers to make the effects permanent, we wouldn't be able to make the Enlightenment Experience available to the population of one small prison, let alone the world.”

Oh. She got it. The Chair was a temporary high for people with money—just like the Girlfriend Experience, in fact, though Sydney wasn't going to explain
that
to Da Mi.

“What the chair demonstrates, however,” Da Mi continued, “is that it is possible to alter human behavior by altering our emotions. We experience emotions physically, of course, as reactions to our environment, but in fact, they are regulated by the brain. So if I can't change the world, then what I need to do is design a new brain: one that generates more love and less fear and aggression—a hi-speed broadband kind of brain, one that instantly downloads compassion and joy, skipping the tedious dial-up process that turns so many people off meditation. If I can do this, I can give birth to a new kind of person, one who will help create a new world ruled by happiness and generosity instead of greed and anger. Sydney, let me ask you seriously: is that something you would like to participate in?”

Da Mi's voice was like the candy-colored river in the goggles. It flowed smoothly through Sydney, uplifting and caressing her, soothing her moment of fear.
Yes
, she thought,
yes
. If she could love and forgive a
rapist
, if she could experience understanding and compassion for her mom and Darren, even for a moment, then anything was possible in the world.

“Yes way, Da Mi!”

“Thank you, Sydney. I'm so glad. Please, take a look at this.” Da Mi pulled out a glossy color brochure.
VirtuWorld
it read in a pointy, elegant font on the cover, above a picture of a castle surrounded by a daisy-chain of blond children in flowery hats.

“It's the place in the Chair!” she exclaimed.

“It is. It's also the project I would dearly love your help with. VirtuWorld is a GRIP and ConGlam co-production, a European theme park presently under construction on the banks of the Han.”

Sydney opened the brochure. The first page was bursting with pictures of hi-tech Euro-style rides. “The Kremlin Gremlin, the Eyeful Tower,” she read. “It looks really fun.”

“It will be a fantastic day out, Sydney, but the main attraction of the park won't be its virtual reality jousting tournaments, but the Peonies: one hundred and twenty cloned children, genetically gifted with superior musical and athletic ability and, most important of all, truly peaceful minds.”

Sydney turned the page to find a picture of an orchestra composed of sixty blond peas-in-a-pod girls and boys. They must all be photoshopped, the same two kids, but still, it was freaky to look at.

“Clones? You can do that, Da Mi?”

“We've been able to do it for years, but only recently has the law been changed to allow us to bring these new, much-loved and inherently loving children into the world.”

Sydney leafed through the rest of the brochure, which was filled with pictures of the children: dancing, doing yoga, meditating, playing badminton, singing in a pop group wearing silver skirts and trousers. “The Peonies is a cute name,” she said, hesitantly.

“ConGlam expects they will be a huge draw for Koreans, who value social conformity, but also admire excellence in achievement and the culture of the West. What ConGlam doesn't know is that the Peonies will also be the world's first race of truly enlightened human beings. Only you are privy to that secret.”

Sydney examined the pictures more closely. The children looked like kids at some fancy boarding school, their beautiful faces shining with intelligence and happiness. She took a deep breath and closed the brochure. “But why are you telling me?” she whispered. “I'm just a hick from Sticksville, BC.”

“No, Sydney,” Da Mi spoke with steady force, “you are a brave, charming, resourceful young woman. As soon as I met you I knew you had something special to offer this project. ConGlam is looking for an egg donor, to provide fifty percent of the Peonies' raw genetic material. I want you to be that donor, but I also want you to be the Queen of the Peonies, to be a central part of the image of VirtuWorld, and to work with me over the next decades to make a small but very real paradise on earth.” Da Mi's eyes misted, but she continued speaking, softly, almost as if to herself. “For so long, I've been keeping this a secret. Even my most trusted medical staff know only that the children will be talented and gentle. I'm not a mad scientist, Sydney, I'm a human being who needs to share her dreams,
and after the way you responded so deeply to the Enlightenment Machine tonight, I know that I can share those dreams with you.”

Sydney hardly dared breathe, let alone speak. “Of course you can, Da Mi,” she whispered.

“My dreams are the dreams of all people who have suffered, Sydney. I know from the little you've told me about your life that you are a survivor. You've overcome many difficulties and lonely times to arrive here tonight. Epigenetically speaking, that kind of spirit is an inheritable trait, and I want the Peonies to have it. If I can also give you the chance to thrive, that will bring me the greatest pleasure and honor.”

Da Mi bowed deeply from the waist, and Sydney reciprocated. When they rose again, Da Mi had tears in her eyes. “Oh dear,” she said, “you're going to think the Peonies are simply the pie-in-the-sky daydreams of a soft-hearted old woman, but I have the scientific proofs of my intentions. Here—I want you to ask every question you can think of.”

“You're not old, Da Mi,” Sydney protested as Da Mi handed her the leather notebook. It was filled with page after page of diagrams and equations, strange terminology, sets of initials circled in red ink. Sydney leafed through it, wondering if she would ever understand a single thing about “genomes” and “proteins,” if she'd ever even be able to pronounce the words scattered throughout the pages like magic spells: “serotonin,” “oxytocin,” “noradrenalin.” She'd had a friend called Nora once . . .

“So, um . . .” she started tentatively, “how exactly are you going to change the brain?”

Da Mi leaned forward. “Stem cells,” she said, with an air of quiet triumph.

Sydney nodded wisely. She sort of knew what stem cells were. Or at least she could Google them later.

“I've found a way to use them,” Da Mi continued, “to alter the genes that govern the areas of the brain responsible for regulating love, altruism, and empathy. I'm building on decades of work by others, of course. I am just the vehicle, not the driver of this evolutionary change.”

Sydney closed the notebook and placed it back on the table. “Won't it be weird for the clones, looking exactly like each other?” she asked. It was a dumb question. In response, Da Mi sighed.

“Science fiction has so much to answer for when it comes to the common perception of human clones,” she said. “Twins and triplets
are genetically identical and no one fears for their sanity, do they?” But the scientist wasn't expecting Sydney to answer. She was talking forcefully now, as if she were lecturing to a hall full of people. “No, the Peonies will look alike, but each will have their own unique personalities and gifts, and they will also have loving and supportive surrogate mothers. Physically, psychologically and spiritually, the children will be among the healthiest people in the world. They might need protection from the cruelty and greed of society at first, but VirtuWorld will provide just that sheltered environment.”

Da Mi was back in the room now, smiling at her again. Sydney thought hard, trying to pick a better question this time. “What about later?” she asked, “when they've grown up?”

“As intelligent and confident adults, they will be free to live wherever they wish,” Da Mi assured her, and in a dreamy voice added, “Perhaps they will start new religions, write great books, lead new political coalitions of the dispossessed and the right-thinking . . . At the very least, their own children will inherit their powerful consciousness, and spread peace into future generations. Once our ‘experiment' is proved successful, all parents in wealthy nations will be demanding Enlightenment genes for their own children, and if the UN could oversee the procedure in the developing world, the Peonies would multiply, like a single cell, indefinitely, until, two hundred years from now, the world will be the paradise visionaries and saints have always known it could be.”