MNEMOSYNE, Chapter 11
MNEMOSYNE
Chapter 11
I’m standing where I’ve stood so many times, just on the outskirts of the grounds of the monolith, trying to will myself to take the strange, white path to the strange, white tower. I’ve been standing here like I’m waiting for a sign after I walked the whole way here. My memory is better now. I remember where I left my car, back there among some bushes, left behind a few weeks ago when I came here in a trance. I’ve remembered more things, as well. At first I thought it was the walk, that it had helped me clear my mind. But, after standing here for a couple of hours, things keep getting clearer, as if my meditative dream helped me get past the memory inhibiting effect of the building.
At first, I simply noticed that I wasn’t constantly reminding myself of things. Then I began to explore the dream, the vision, I had just had. I began to see that I am not Alex Vance—but, in a way, that I am. Or, at the very least, I was. I was the man who created the Fit for Life facility, I was that man at the time, but—and merely time brought this to my mind—but I had never been anything before that facility. It wasn’t that I couldn’t remember. It was that Alex Vance had never had any history, not any of the normal history of a normal person, no clear history of childhood, parents, friends, schooling, none of it. I realized that when I had been Alex, I had never really contemplated my past, not in any significant way. I was merely the fitness instructor turned fitness entrepreneur. I left it at that, called it claiming the day, and somehow, for a few years, that was enough.
Then something changed, when the monolith—Mnemosyne—appeared. Or was it that something changed and then I noticed it...
It didn’t simply appear. Something kept it from my awareness, just as something kept it, and, I’m sure, keeps it, from everyone’s concern. I don’t know what that something is. I don’t know why that something stopped working on me. But that’s why I saw it that morning, that’s why I was drawn to it, that’s why I obsessed over it, while no one else cared at all. Because something about me allowed me to care.
And the dream, the memory, helped explain: I had something to do with the creation of this thing. I’ve gone over that memory enough times to be certain of it now. I’m looking at the building in front of me now and I’m noticing the differences between it and the building in the vision, but the similarities are completely clear to me, like I’m looking at an imitation of a painting.
I’ve also been looking for some clue as to what to do now. I may have been involved in building the first one, the one in my vision, but I had nothing to do with the building of this one. There are so many questions. Am I not supposed to be here? Is there some trick to all of this? Am I supposed to do something? To not do something?
But that’s why I’m here. To find out what this building is and what it can tell me about who I really am. I have to risk it, even if this isn’t the Mnemosyne I helped create. I have to try, even if the path frightens me, even if I don’t know what to expect when I get over there and finally stand at the base of the tower. I have to risk it getting closer to it.
I walk up to the incomplete path that I’ve feared treading for so long and my fear is gone, the sense I’ve had every time I’ve come here, a sense that the path will swallow me up, sucking me down into the grass—it’s gone. I know I won’t fall through it and into the ground, I won’t even have to hold myself up with my own legs, won’t even have to walk, because the path will carry my forward on its own.
I remember.
I step on the path, and I was right. I’m moving. It feels like I’m gliding, until I’m stopped at the base of the building, its off-white glow filling my sight. I look around for an entrance like the one in my dream, but this isn’t my dream and there’s nothing except a flat wall. And a faint glow emanating from directly in front of me.
I step closer, squinting, to see if it’s a door or an entrance of some kind. It’s not. It’s an outline of my body. I step back abruptly, wondering if I should run, if I should go back home—but where is my home?
“Welcome back,” a familiar voice says, and it’s as if the glowing outline is talking to me. It’s a female voice, a soothing and nostalgic voice.
“Who am I? Nathan or Alex?” I blurt out, my main, most pressing feelings bursting out. I immediately wish I’d asked something else. “No, wait, I meant to ask—”
“You were born Nathan Hanover. Readings indicate that there has been a reemergence of Alpha Engram 1118. Replacement Engram 102906-AV is still present. Initial readings show stable cardiovascular and pulmonary states. Do you wish to run further diagnostics?”
I don’t know what any of that means. I ask it the question I’ve wondered for so long, “What are you?”
“I am the maintenance computer of this iteration of project Mnemosyne, version and site number—“
“Whose voice is that?” I ask, twice, finally managing to interrupt the voice as it lists off a slew of numbers.
“This is the voice of Jenna Hanover. Upon partial completion of the first Mnemosyne site, you ensured that the fullest replication of your wife’s voice would be embedded in all Mnemosyne maintenance interfaces.”
I hear it now. I remember. It’s the voice of the woman in my dream. Jenna. But what does she mean by partial completion? I look over my shoulder, and, for the first time, partly because of my renewed memory, partly because of the building’s words, I notice that these grounds are incomplete. The bonsai trees awkwardly blend into the surrounding nature preserve, the white path leads to nowhere except grass, there are elevated or sunken patches of earth, almost man-made, almost not. It’s all as if someone had given up halfway through designing this area—except for the crystalline dagger right in front of me. Yes, it seems like a complete whole. Like an absolute.
“Why are you, the building, complete, but the grounds aren’t?” I ask. “Is there more work to be done?”
“This site is fully completed according to committee specifications. The initial site, as envisioned by you and Mrs. Hanover, was never fully completed. Subsequent iterations of the project have utilized every aspect of the first, incomplete Mnemosyne grounds. This includes, among other things, the incomplete pathway and landscaping.”
Committee specifications? Never fully developed? Subsequent iterations? What is all of this?
“Nathan, would you like me to answer those questions, or only those you speak aloud?”
“What?” I ask. The outline of my shape glows even brighter, then subsides.
“My apologies,” the building says, it’s voice almost sincerely apologetic. “Your Alpha Engram is less emergent than initial readings had indicated,” the voice pauses and I think it’s reading my mind. I feel a strange combination of fear and pride, and my mind is overloaded with possible questions, but the building continues.
“I have a variety of readings on your mental and emotional state. At this juncture, let’s try to start with something simple. For instance, would you be more comfortable if I addressed you as Alex, or if I addressed you as Nathan?”
It knows I was Alex. I don’t understand any of this. I don’t know if I want to. I’m torn between excitement and anxiety. I need to focus. Why am I here? What am I doing here? To understand? It’s more than that. There’s something I have to do.
“What am I doing here?” I ask. “Why am I here?”
“First,” the voice takes on a commanding tone that I can remember from—but it interrupts my thought. “Would you be more comfortable if I addressed you as Alex, or if I addressed you as Nathan?”
“What does it matter?” I ask. “I don’t even know anymore. You pick.”
“You must decide.”
“You said it yourself, didn’t you?” I say, my agitation unrestrained. “I was born Nathan Hanover. That’s me, right? Call me that.”
“Then, Nathan, you are here due to a collapse of Engram 102906-AV and a reemergence of Alpha Engram 1118. My initial readings show that there has been a precipitous decline in your neurological stability and cognitive assonance. Your responses thus far corroborate these readings.”
It’s right, there has been a decline in my stability, in my mental state. I’ve been more aware of it ever since the dream, the memory. But it’s not all been a decline. I’m starting to remember. Does it know if I’m getting better? What did it say, a reemergence? Is that a good sign, or a bad one?
That prefix. Re. That seems important.
“You said re-emergence,” I say, my voice shaky. “All of this has happened before, hasn’t it? We’ve been through this before.”
“That is correct, Nathan. There have been numerous emergences, hence the addition of the prefix ‘re’. This is a consequence of the numerous iterations of your Engram Replacement Therapy.”
I hear the words and I think of their abbreviation and my mind feels like it’s one fire.
ERT.
I close my eyes and the burning sensation in my skull subsides. I’m using Tiffany’s breathing techniques. And I’m envisioning the letter, the one with the initials, the one I saw in my mind while I sat on the floor of Alex’s house.
It was a letter about Memory Mastery and Engrams. A letter to Jenna. It started by discussing the benefits of our Engram technology, and how the possibilities were endless. We had mastered memories, the Engrams could encapsulate so many aspects of a human being’s experience, but we could do more. And I was on the verge of a breakthrough. A fundamental breakthrough. I was getting closer to finding a potential in between point, a fundamental link between memories, our Engram technology, and the entire consciousness of an individual. I was so close, I just needed a little more time, a little leeway, and I could make the breakthrough. And then—I could save her. That was all that mattered, I had written. Saving her. I just needed to discover a way to grasp that in between space, I needed to uncover a sort of mental fulcrum, and then I could unlock the power to—
“To control an entire mind,” the building says.
“That’s a hell of a way to put it!” I shout.
“That is your way of putting it, Nathan. You wished to find a fulcrum in the mind, using the initial work by you and Mrs. Hanover, in order to get control over her neurological condition.”
To save Jenna... I tried to control her mind? Or the mind in general? Either way, did I really do such a thing? Did I really even conceive of such a thing?
“Yes, Nathan,” the voice says to my thoughts. “All of this has been your plan.”
“Is that right? It’s all mine is it? What else is mine here?” I throw up my arms and turn in a complete circle, shouting. “Is all of this mine? This whole thing? Is that voice mine, or is it Jenna’s? Was she mine? Was she really my wife? And what about you? Are you mine? You’re Mnemosyne, right? Is Mnemosyne mine?” I kick the quartz structure. “Is this mine, too?”
“Project Mnemosyne is now in the hands of the committee, Nathan,” it says, its voice affecting a smooth, reassuring tone. “All Mnemosyne Transmission Sites and all related technology, procedures, and plans are in the hands of the committee—except for your trial.”
I want to ask this tower who handed things over to a committee, but I know who. I remember the dream. I remember that Jenna died. And, although I can’t remember it as my own memory, I know what I’ve done. I know that I had to prove to them that I could have saved her. I know I had to prove to them, to everyone, that I wasn’t wrong. That I wasn’t guilty. I don’t have all the information, I don’t remember it all, I don’t know what guilt I should or shouldn’t accept. But I know now that two things have been constant: my trial, the ERT trial, and the broadening power of the committee.
“Can I stop all of this?” I ask suddenly, involuntarily. “Can I stop any of it?”
“The committee’s work and the growth of Project Mnemosyne are no longer your concern, Nathan. You have been freed of that obligation to allow you to work on the ERT trial.”
“The trial hasn’t been working, though, has it? Not given all of these iterations,” I say, despondent. “It’s just a failure, isn’t it?”
“Viewing these experiments as successes or failures is not the proper methodology, Nathan. It is important to keep in mind that with every iteration, new information is learned, new methods are developed, and further mistakes are mitigated.”
“But the core of who I am hasn’t been harnessed, has it? We’re going in circles, aren’t we?”
“Rather than going in circles, your work is an iterative process. There has been success regarding the manipulation of the Alpha Engram. Certain aspects, particularly those most beneficial to Mrs. Hanover’s condition, have indeed remained elusive. However, you have concluded that further iterations will inevitably lead to success. You are certain of this, and my data corroborates your optimistic outlook.”
These last words mean nothing to me, because the elusive aspects are what matter. Optimistic outlook? Then why does my gut feel twisted like I’m strapped into the pilot seat of a plane in free fall? But do I really want to know more about these elusive aspects? About any of it?
There is one elusive piece of information that I have to discover, another thing that, maybe, hopefully, I’ve been wrong about. I’m not certain of which things were real memories. I’m not sure what really happened to Jenna. And didn’t the assistant just say that we’re trying to readjust her neurological condition? Maybe there’s hope. I have to at least hope...
“So we’re still focused on Jenna’s condition, right?” I ask. “Does that mean Jenna is alive?”
“My operation and our work on ERT is contingent upon developing treatments for Mrs. Hanover’s condition.”
“But why? Is she alive? Where is she?”
“Our work is for the harnessing of certain fulcrums within the mind in order to combat neurological deterioration as experienced by Mrs. Hanover. All processes are geared towards this goal.”
It won’t answer me. This giant crystalline tower I’ve created won’t answer me. It won’t tell me that she’s gone. It won’t tell me that she’s dead. It won’t tell me that I’m at fault. It won’t tell me that I—
“I let her die and I gave everything away,” I say.
“Nathan, it is important to keep in mind the generalized importance of this work and the practical necessities of continuing this work. Other factors are outside the scope of the project at this time.”
“What practical necessities are those?” I ask mockingly, unable to ignore the irony of hearing this in Jenna’s voice.
“To allow you continuation of the ERT study, arrangements have been made with the committee,” the imitative voice says. “In exchange for unrestricted access to all of Project Mnemosyne by said committee, you now have full discretion in your ERT investigations, ensuring your complete independence in the resolution of the fulcrum dilemma.”
“All that’s left is the experiment,” I say, my tone that of shocked acceptance, like a victim finally recollecting their trauma. “The experiment on myself.”
“That is close, Nathan,” it says. “Unlocking the power to harness the Alpha Engram is your main focus, but that is neither a futile nor insignificant task. As was your intention, the trials and studies continue, not only in memory of Mrs. Hanover, but for the benefit of humanity in general.”
I laugh. Loudly.
I can’t believe it.
For the benefit of humanity in general? I never would have imagined one of my creations saying such a thing—for the benefit of humanity—I never would have imagined hearing Jenna—
I stop myself like a kid caught snickering in church.
It’s not about hearing Jenna’s voice say that. It’s about hearing my creation—no, that’s not it either. It’s about the fact that I’ve created this thing. It’s about what I’ve done. I did this—so who am I to laugh? I did this, did it to myself, did it to her, did it to all of us. I thought that I could fix anything, that I could accomplish anything, that I could win any battle, defeat any odds, pay any price. And now it’s all for the benefit of humanity and I laugh? Well, what price could have been too high if there were even the slightest possibility of saving her? And now that she’s dead? Now that I’ve failed? What price is too high now? What right do I have to laugh at humanity? Weren’t they right to mock me with the title of monolith?
Ironic, isn’t it? The monolith, that name I unwittingly gave to my creation, back when I was Alex, back when I didn’t quite remember that it was my creation, back when I feared it, feared what it could do to me, to all of us—and it was actually my name. I was the thing to be feared. I was that which could do so much harm. I was the thing to be kept in check. I’m the monolith.
And that’s the whole of the problem. That’s what has to be solved.
I tell the building that it’s time, that I’m ready to proceed with the trial. The glowing outline before me darkens, then grows, like an oil spill in a white ocean. It makes the shape of a rectangle, and a tinge of depth shows me that I can enter. I brace myself as if I’m about to parachute from a plane—then I’m inside. The hall gradually glows white, extending to another black opening. The walls are a more solid milky-white than the exterior, and I realize that the illumination is from within the walls themselves. I proceed into the next black rectangle and enter into a half-circle of a room that begins to illuminate itself the same as the hallway. There’s another black rectangle straight ahead, with brightly white lettering glowing above the darkness. To the left and right, level with those letters, are more letters, as if there should be additional rectangles to either side of the center. The letters to the left read—ACHIEVEMENT WING; to the right—THERAPY WING; and in the center, above the open space—PRODUCTIVITY WING.
The pattern is immediately apparent. My facility, Alex’s facility, had the same layout and purposes, albeit over grassy hills instead of inside a crystalline tower. The Achievement Center, the Fitness Center, the Yoga Center. I’m looking at the glowing letters to my right and I begin to see the green highlights of the Yoga Center. I see the green eyes of the woman I appointed to manage it, then I see the crazed face of a bum sitting atop a rock as he claims that I had told him to wait in the Therapy Wing. I can sense that there are even more patterns, but I can’t consciously grasp them all. Without thinking, I glance over my shoulder, and, despite the glow blocking my sight, I know that I was trying to see the bonsai trees. I try harder to grasp more connections, thinking of the invitations, the coworkers, the signing over of my business, the mental breakd—
“Mnemosyne,” I ask. “How often do the Replacement Engrams break down?”
“They have all broken down, Nathan.”
I only possess disjointed fragments of my expertise at the moment, yet something almost innate in me is raising questions and speculating about answers. A pattern should never go unstudied, unquestioned, unanalyzed. All of those connections, between my last few weeks as Alex and whoever I’ve been as Nathan, they must mean something.
“There are patterns in the breakdown of the replacement engram, aren’t there?” I ask.
“Yes, Nathan.”
I know I have to carry on and figure this out. I have to correct this while my breakdown is manageable. I might have gotten lucky, unlike the bum and all the—
“It is highly unlikely for you to have a breakdown like that of Trial Member IP-1015, Nathan. His situation was highly aberrant.”
“Explain what you mean by aberrant,” I say.
“Trial Member IP-1015 was an initial participant in a unique part of the ERT program. This initial phase of ERT was part of your collaboration with the community, appropriately named the Incarcerated Person Therapy Program. This program has continued and advanced, with Trial Member IP-1015 receiving a second treatment which he should not have received. Errors such as these are to be expected, but measures are in place to ensure—”
“So we broke a man’s mind,” I shout. “Why did he get a second treatment in the first place?”
“From my initial readings of Engram 102906-AV, it seems that he was sent an invitation to an opening ceremony. This may have been the cause of his eagerness to leave incarceration, despite widespread resistance from incarcerated persons.”
The inmates and their protests. They don’t want to leave prison because it’s better to be incarcerated than to take this so-called therapy? And that man would be alive if my brain hadn’t broken down, if the Alpha Engram hadn’t reemerged and sent him a pointless invitation? How can continuing any of this be a good idea?
“I understand your concerns, Nathan,” it says, and I’m getting tired of it reading my mind. But that voice, it always gets me to listen...
“There are some serious problems to address,” the clear, confident, soothing voice of Jenna says. “Fortunately, many of them are temporary, such as the issue of secondary breakdowns in the IPT program. Other issues are beyond the scope of our work, such as the issue of political unrest among incarcerated persons. Regardless of any problems, we must stay committed to the development of the ERT program. Resolving fundamental issues of the technology will resolve an inestimable number of problems.”
“Such as me losing my mind?”
“It is inaccurate to say you have been or are losing your mind, Nathan. Any breakdown of a Replacement Engram is expected to cause cognitive dissonance. Complete removal or replacement of the defective Engram is sufficient to return your mental state to complete normalcy.”
“Is that right?” I say, unsure if I’m more eager to remove or to replace the defective part of me. “What’s next then?”
“Please proceed to the platform ahead.”
I look up as I pass under the glowing words, PRODUCTIVITY, and I wonder what that word really means to me at this point. To keep going? To keep moving forward? Just keep working, despite everything? Even if I don’t know the point, don’t know if it’s right or wrong, should I just keep working?
At least, for now, keep going. Discover more. Keep walking. Into this small, circular room—but what is this room? Where am I going now? And what about the other options? Couldn’t I do something else?
I turn around, I think of going back and deliberating, but the black rectangle I just passed through is changing into the same smooth whiteness as the walls now encircling me. I feel the room descending, not rising as I’d expected. And I feel like screaming.
But I don’t. I simply allow myself a single, whimpering thought: what have I done?
Steel yourself. No whimpering. Think. Look at what you’ve done, at everyone you’ve left behind. Face it. Look at Fit for Life. Look at Jasper, at Tiffany, at Regina. Look at the crowd of people wondering what the hell you’re talking about, what building by what bridge by what—so on and so forth, over and over. Look at how you disrupted their lives. Look at how you’ve left them behind. Is that really what you’re going to do?
As if to help me with these panicked questions, Jenna’s soothing voice enters my consciousness. Or has it been there this whole time? Was it ever a sound from without me?
I feel cold all over.
“These are not unusual circumstances, Nathan, not for you or for the project,” the voice says, in a tone of reassuring confidence that’s not entirely convincing. “Mnemosyne has measures in place to correct mistakes beyond those in your own mind. Just as the system allows me to speak directly to you, so the system can influence the lives of anyone near a transmission tower, such as the one you are in at the moment. Just as you will forget Alex when the Engram is removed, so will everyone forget Alex when the signal is properly calibrated and transmitted. The project has modest influence at present, but it has already been a resounding success—for you and for society.”
Could this thing be right? Is that what the project, mine and Jenna’s project, has become? Is this what we had intended?
I’m trying to remember, but an opening appears in the wall ahead of me and I walk through it without thinking. My mind feels even more numb than my cold extremities. I don’t know what to think.
“These doubts are to be expected during the faltering of the Replacement Engram, Nathan. This is part of the pattern.”
“What about the rest of the patterns?” I ask.
“Down the hall and to your left, Nathan.”
I follow its instruction and enter into a room with a large chair, various terminals and screens, and a device made of shining steel at the head of the chair, glistening in the off-white glow around me. My body shudders at the sight of the pointed, white tube projecting from the device. I feel the back of my neck, wondering if I should continue with a wound like the one I caused myself last night.
“Your injury should not effect the procedure, Nathan. Just as it hadn’t previously.”
“I’ve done this before?” I ask, realizing something. “I cut myself on my neck? What else have I repeated—“
I can’t help thinking of the connections again. I think of the cut on my neck—like the nameless man’s self-inflicted cut on his neck—and how that parallels where this machine intends to enter my craniocervical junction. I think of the invitations I sent to the nameless convict and other convicts, how I signed them, unconsciously, as NH—and how that parallels the invitations I sent years ago to prisoners entering the first trials of Project Mnemosyne. I think of the bonsai trees at Fit for Life—and how that parallels the trees above me now, the ones surrounding Mnemosyne, that ones at every Mnemosyne site. I think of Tiffany’s help, her meditation techniques, and even how she gave up on me—and how that parallels Jenna’s help, Jenna’s therapy techniques, and Jenna giving up on me. I think of Fit for Life itself, how I built it up, defied all odds and doubters, only to I sign it away and, ultimately, how I—
But that part is different, that’s not parallel. Because I’m not abandoning Mnemosyne. I’m working on this. I’m going to work this out. The rest of the connections, however, they do mean something. We should be able to use them, they’re useful evidence, very useful evidence, evidence of problems with controlling the fulcrum of the Alpha Engram, of some inherent emergence for us to address.
“That’s a great observation, Nathan,” the voice says to my thoughts. “While we have adjusted Engram parameters in ways to accommodate for possible causes of regression and repetition, the Alpha Engram does appear to have certain innate tendencies, or, as you called it, an inherent emergence, that we are unable to suppress or control.”
“So, if we can get pinpoint the repetitions,” I say, pausing briefly to stop my rubbing the back of my neck, “we may be able to get a hold of what’s causing the emergence, giving us a better chance of getting a hold of the entire fulcrum.”
“Exactly, Nathan,” it says. “I will incorporate this new parallel data into the current ERT session. Do you wish to make the adjustments to the procedure yourself, or would you prefer to automate the process?”
I feel like I’m returning to myself, to Nathan Hanover, and I think of adjusting things myself—but isn’t taking control away from Nathan Hanover the whole point of the procedure? It’s not so crude as that, is it? Our goal is to get a hold of the fulcrum of the Alpha Engram, of Nathan Hanover, and thus manipulate it to whatever purpose is necessary. There could be so many uses, so many benefits, to all of mankind. I’m reminded of the bum, initially known to me, years ago, as participant IP-1015. I think of how he could have been saved, and I marvel out how the whole confrontation with him, when I was Alex, could have been avoided. His death could been avoided, with proper treatment from this project. So much could be avoided.
With just my mind, I assign Mnemosyne the task of adjusting the procedure according to the new findings—and I realize I could’ve communicated with it this way this whole time, without words or hearing, with simply thoughts. Fast, efficient, clean thoughts. It feels so comfortable, so familiar, letting Mnemosyne read my mind and make its plans, just as I designed it to do. It is so simple, all of it is so simple. Just as I needed it to be to get the work done. To keep moving forward.
Unlike the committee. Unlike the masses it represents. Yes, I remember now how the masses slow things to a crawl, and how the committee muddles and complicates things, broadening what Jenna and I created, always meddling and muddling and meandering and—
I feel a pressure against the base of my skull, then a stabbing pain, it shouldn’t hurt like that—but Alex stabbed himself. That’s right. I’d forgotten that Alex had gone digging around for the tube that’s only now entering my craniocervical junction. There are so many things that keep happening like that, these phantom memories. And then there’s the anomalous repetitions, the inherent emergences. There were more of those this time, weren’t there? But two things in particular have always been the same: a professional success followed, almost immediately, by a breakdown of the new identity.
I can see it more clearly now than ever before. Because, this time, the two constants were much worse, much more obvious. Usually, my new self has tried to succeed according to the parameters of the Replacement Engram. Then, near the success or shortly after it, I remember who I am and simply return to one of the Mnemosyne sites. But in none of those instances has there been such a resounding professional achievement—nor such a catastrophic decline.
The important part, however, is how it informs the ERT going forward, how it shines light on whatever it is that breaks down the Replacement Engram. There must be something innate, or, perhaps, something akin to a virus. As if something is embedding itself, hiding itself, in whatever RE we devise. No matter what backstory we create or what situation I’m placed in, my attempt at success seems inevitable, that much is clear. The new self tres to rise to the top of something, and it often succeeds. Whether it be academia, business, or, this time, fitness—pursuit of success is inevitable.
Then, just as inevitably, the second part of the virus appears: a mental breakdown that, at least in the past, rapidly returns me to Nathan Hanover. The longest it ever took was a few hours. This time was different. It took weeks, maybe longer. It involved multiple, often unconscious, attempts to repeat certain events. But why? Perhaps a longing for the past, something involving Jenna, embedded in my mind? Perhaps the procedure itself is faulty. Or, perhaps, it has something to do with my agreement with the—
Agreements. Ah, yes. The procedure is continuing. I can feel the Mnemosyne system rooting around in my mind, requesting permissions, arrangements, determinations, calibrations, confirmations. And agreements.
I give it all the agreement it needs, hopeful that the computer will analyze these new repetitions and the new emergence. I’ve designed it especially for the purpose of fine-tuning the newest Engram according to my last experiences. It retraces my steps, salvaging what can be salvaged from the dying Replacement Engram, then recalibrates accordingly.
I wonder if I need to remind it—but it lets me know that, no, everything is under control. In fact, fewer people will need to receive suggestion signals this time. It shouldn’t take long for people to forget—what was his name, that Engram’s name? 102906-AV. That’s good, even I’ve already forgotten. Except I remember some girl, I remember letting her down, and I remember that, now, I’m abandoning that business. That rising up and crashing down like that, there’s really something to all of that, isn’t there? Particularly the crashing down, but, really, they go hand in hand.
What leads me, inevitably, to stand out from the crowd? Then, after that, what leads me to disrupt the procedure? What leads to this confounding repetition of success and breakdown? The explanation seems so close, with the system having caught onto the novel pattern as well. Is it something inherent in the system or in the Engrams or in me? What was I thinking before? Agreements? Is it something I’ve accepted? Some sort of anomaly, some idea, that I’ve—
I feel the procedure accelerating, a sensation I have learned to describe as neurological liposuction. I’ve also learned to block out the sensation by focusing on the abstract details of the procedure. Piece by piece, the Replacement Engram is being removed. I will forget what it is I’m even trying to forget. The errors of the last Engram will be forgotten, not just by me, but by everyone around him. This has happened before, using the Mnemosyne Transmitter for subtle forgetting, but my forgetting is not so subtle. They will vaguely remember whoever I was, whatever I did, just as they vaguely remember what Mnemosyne is, but feel no urge to care. I will forget it all. This direct process is much more potent. I will lose all of those experiences, just as I have before in other iterations of the trial, my only memories being mere data sets, everything personal or emotional or experiential removed completely. That’s how the Replacement Engrams work. The Alpha Engram, however…
But that’s the point of the process. To master the Alpha Engram. Time to close my eyes, to submit to this last phase of the procedure.
I can’t fully relax and submit. Perhaps I feel some sadness at the loss of it all, not just because it will all be gone soon, but because of the real loss of the real Engram. The real me, Nathan Hanover, the Alpha Engram, is fighting against—no, it’s not that, not fear of my loss, but frustration with the Alpha Engram’s incessant elusiveness. Loss is of no importance to me anymore, because all that matters now is to grip the Alpha Engram, to stamp it down, to find the mind’s fulcrum and manipulate it completely. Because that could save... so many people.
Maybe it’s the agreement that I made, maybe that’s why I can’t just accept the last phase of the procedure. But I have to accept it, just as I had to accept the committee’s terms. There was no other way to get full autonomy and commit my own body and mind and future to this trial. I had to accept it and dedicate my whole person to this, because of all the people who will benefit from my work, people now and people who aren’t even born, people who will exist long after I’m dead and gone. That’s what the Mnemosyne Project and Engram Replacement Therapy are about. I will cure people as I should have cured Jenna, the Mnemosyne Transmitters will grow stronger, making it easier to clean up certain problems, like the ones I leave after my failed trials, or like… so many other things…
But that’s the committee’s job. What I have to do is grab the fulcrum. That’s the help I can provide. That’s what this is about. Not loss or agreements or cleanups. And certainly not her. Not anymore.
Finally, I relax.
A pain, a hammered spike, enters my eyes. I try to force them open, but I can’t. Despite my closed eyes, I see nothing but white, as if my eyelids have been painted and illuminated from within. I try to squeeze my eyes more tightly, but the light stays, as well as the pain. What is this? Did I forget this miserable part of the procedure? What is this white light? Is it the crystalline wall of the transmission tower? No, it’s too white to be the quartz. What is that beeping sound? Wait, my eyes are open. It’s a flood light in front of me. I try to move, but my head feels stuck. I can barely turn my eyes away from the bright, hot light. I can look down with greater ease. I can see—
A hospital bed? I thought I was in the ERT chair… How am I standing over a hospital bed Then I follow the white cloth hiding the full shape of a woman, up to the face of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her blonde hair is long, full, and flowing, her eyes are cold and gray and completely focused.
“It won’t be much longer now,” she says, looking up at me, her voice straining to keep its usual confidence. She manages it, though, somehow.
She always manages to—
“You can still turn back, Nathan,” she says. “Stop the trial. Stop all of it. Take back Mnemosyne.”
I try to tell her that I’ve done all of this before. That it’s pointless for us to talk about it anymore because it’s all been done before. I’ve already cried there next to her, on my knees, no longer begging her to live because I know that it can’t happen, but, instead, begging her to accept that I have to make up for it all. I’m begging her to understand why I have to agree with their demands. To understand why I have to keep trying. There may be a way to save her consciousness, the system and I are still working on it, I just need the extra time. They’ll give me the extra time. We almost have a hold of the fulcrum, I tell her. We’re so close. I just need her to say it’s okay, to say that it makes sense.
But I’ve already done all of that. So I skip it this time.
There are tears in her eyes again. I remember that too. I’d never seen her cry before, not once, not over anything, not even the death sentence our experiments had given her made her cry. But this moment did. My begging her to understand my compromise did. She cried, as she does now, and pleaded with me, the one who wasn’t dying.
“It’s not your fault, Nathan,” she said, desperate, almost as desperate as I had sounded. “You don’t have to apologize to them. You don’t have to apologize to me. All you ever had to do was be proud of being the—”
I know what she says here very clearly. Been there. Done that. I don’t need to hear it all again. Not any of it. The Alpha Engram always rebels against the Replacement Therapy like this, at this moment. Something about it noticing that it’s about to be supplanted by—by what? I usually have some curiosity about it, but not this time. I could have the Mnemosyne assistant tell me... but it doesn’t matter.
All that matters is to grip the fulcrum. I signal the assistant to deal with the Alpha Engram’s little rebellion, and I know it is incorporating that into the procedure. It knows that that memory, that last-ditch effort to preserve the Engram, is part of the mystery of my repetitions and remergences. We both know now that so much of the problem comes from this ludicrous notion of Nathan Hanover and of Jenna’s last words.
I’ll let Mnemosyne handle it. Jenna was dying and now she’s dead and none of that matters anymore. As the committee has stated in its charter, as the world had told me for decades, as is common knowledge, my role as a monolith led to this disaster. Only by abdicating that role have I been able to commit fully to the Engram Replacement Therapy. If I had done it sooner, who knows what I could have done to help Jenna and all the others. But I have atoned and I will continue to atone, because no man should be a monolith.
The pain in my eyes subsides and the vision of the hospital room fades. I feel the monolith being gripped in order to implant the latest Engram. The monolith. What do I even mean by that? What did she mean? Where am I going? Who is that in my mind now? Is it my mind? Or the monolith’s mind? Which is which? Do I mean Alpha Engram 1118, Nathan Hanover? Is that the monolith? Or do I mean RE-102906-AV, whatever-his-name—was he a monolith? Do I mean this facility, this transmission tower? Or do I mean the last one—I mean—the first one? Or do I mean all of them? How many of them are there now? Doing what? For what? For whom?
All of it because of my...
His ability. That has to be the solution. The path to the fulcrum. That is what must be eliminated. That is the key to the pattern. The Alpha Engram’s ability. But aren't I using my ability to eliminate his ability? Does that even make sense? Will the Mnemosyne assistant even be able to process such a thought? And, if so, what will it do with it?
Maybe it’s a simple trick, after all, a simple gripping of my ability, of his ability, and—
Yes. It's like a magic trick. And I've got the perfect one. For everyone. For people like the last engram's friends and loved-ones and for—
For the lost. I have a trick just for the lost. For all those who've been broken by—
No. I have a just the trick for that special lady. Or were there two special ladies? Is it for both of them?
Don’t make it so complicated. It's simple, really simple, like any good magic track. Simple as pulling a tablecloth off of a table and leaving everything else in place. That’s it! That’s the trick! I'll grab a hold of my ability and yank and—
What about putting it back, though? Isn’t that what Mnemosyne is doing now? Putting the tablecloth back? Soon I'll be in a fugue state, programmed to go to the right location for the new Engram and its backstory. We'll have yanked the tablecloth and we'll be one step closer to memory mastery and—
I've never seen a magician put the tablecloth back on, is that possible? Without first removing everything, wouldn't sliding it back on simply break everything? But it has to be possible. We'll at least get one step closer, even if a few things fall off of the table. We've already eliminated the friction and yanked off the white, starched sheet. All that's left now is to rearrange things with no one noticing. That's all. That's the key. No one noticing. Especially not—
What did Jenna say that one time? That a monolith can’t stand with a compromised foundation? What does that mean? Why can’t I remember what that means? No matter. I’ll forget that all soon.
But it’s really no matter. That foundation, cracked as it may be, it can be replaced. Simply replaced? Without collapsing everything else?
Sure. Remember? Yank out the soiled linen, swish, just like that! There you have it! A nice new foundation, swish, just like that!
Wait. My metaphors are getting mixed. My memory is...
Haven’t I been here before? It’s as if my memory… What was I thinking? Have I ever seen a magician put a new tablecloth back on a set table? No one’s ever done that. Why would anyone do that?
A magician only ever takes it off... right? Swish. Off. Just like that. But never back on...
And sometimes the magician is very brave. Very confident. Yet, despite that confidence and bravery, despite the majestic swoop of his arm yanking in expertly fashion that perfectly white tablecloth—everyone else comes off, too, all of it, all the glasses, the silverware, the plates, everything.
It all crashes to the floor. One big mess in on majestically foul swoop.
Bam! Just like that…
But that magician wasn’t me, was he? He wasn’t a monolith like me.
No. That’s not right. I’m the magician, not the monolith. Yes, that’s right, I’m a real magician. The best kind of magician, a memory mastery magician. I’m the great Nathan—
No. No matter. What matters is that this time will be different. I’ll get it right this time. I know I can do it. Because I’m doing it for everyone. For the lost, for physical and mental fitness, for an optimistic young woman with green eyes— no, for a gray-eyed— no, for humanity, for the committee, for the past, the present, and the future generations, for the benefit of everyone but—
It will work this time. I can feel it working. We can do it, my invention and I. And, even if I lose it all, even if I lose my own name, my own sense of self, all of it—
Even then—
Then what?
