To Live Again and The Second Trip (11 page)

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. O 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.

“C
OME TO JUBILISLE!” THE
barker called. “Games, thrills, pleasure! Three bucks fish, the round trip! Jubilisle, Jubilisle, Jubilisle!” And globes of living light drifted free over Battery Park, soft indigo bursts tipped with yellow, reinforcing the shouted message with subtler pleas, many-hued whispers,
Jubilisle, Jubilisle, Jubilisle…

It was night. The hydrofoil ferry waited at the pier. Crowds shouldered past, hustling toward it, people in rough, low-caste clothes, some of them even waving cash in their fists. Watchful quaestors stood by, ready to make arrests if the mob got out of hand. Charles Noyes experienced a sudden dizzying spasm of resistance. Everything about this outing repelled him all at once: the shouts of the barker, the faces of the people rushing past him, the too sleek hull of the waiting ferry, the quaestors. He turned to the handsome woman at his side.

“Let’s not go,” he begged. “I’ll take you somewhere else, Elena.”

“But you promised!”

“Can’t I change my mind?”

“I’ve wanted to go to Jubilisle for months. Mark won’t take me. And now you—”

Sweat rolled down his face. “I’ve only been out of stasis for a few days. The noise, the tumult—it’s upsetting me.”

She looked at him, wounded. “Before you say yes, now it’s no. That’s your name, isn’t it? No-yes? Don’t disappoint me like this, Charles!”

—Pull yourself together, man, came Kravchenko’s voice. She won’t like it if you back out.

“Ferry leaving now for Jubilisle,” roared the barker. “Hurry, hurry, hurry! Thrills! Games! Pleasure! Three bucks fish, that’s all it costs!”

Elena silently pleaded. She looked radiantly beautiful, her opulent body sheathed in glittering scales of some dark green material that followed every contour of her majestic thighs and breasts and buttocks. Her black, glossy hair tumbled to her bare shoulders. In this crowd she stood out so vividly that even the jostling plebs stepped back in automatic deference. Noyes peered into the dark, large, soft eyes. He observed the small, flawless nose, the full, shining lips.