Authors: Greg Krehbiel
Was "implant psychosis" the same thing? Was it like being deceived?
Objectively speaking, he had the symptoms: he was seeing things that nobody else saw -- which, arguably, could be taken to mean that they weren't really there -- and he was beginning to mistrust his doctor. But the self-fulfilling nature of the symptoms bothered him.
If I see something, I have to hide it from my doctor unless I want to live the rest of my life under medication and psychological supervision. And there is no objective test to prove that I haven't seen anything.
He began to replay in his mind the two experiences with the phantom images. Was there any element that could not be explained by madness?
He laughed out loud.
What can't be explained by madness?
After all, he reasoned, you can't prove that all of your experiences aren't a grand illusion. You simply have to assume that your experience of the world is generally valid.
But that doesn't rule out illusions. Some people develop defects in their perception of the world, either from accidents, or liquor, or drugs, ... or, mental illness. The brain has diseases just like the rest of the body, and some people are just sick. They're psychotic.
Am I psychotic?
he wondered.
Implant psychosis resulted from the brain being overloaded by stimuli, and since the implant is connected to the optic nerve, the brain malfunctions appear as strange visions. That seemed reasonable enough, but something bugged Jeremy about it. The things he had seen couldn't really be described as errors in vision: that would make them cloudy, or dark, or distorted. But he saw distinct forms, acting in a rational fashion. Images created by "noise" in the connection between his implant and his brain wouldn't be like that, he guessed.
Furthermore, he only saw them with his left eye. Why would a mental illness manifest itself only in the vision of his left eye? And how had he so quickly developed the ability to generate such elaborate hallucinations. Where did he get the idea that the ghost on the subway would act independently of the inertia of the train?
If that was all part of an illusion, then his visions must have been generated from his higher reasoning centers, and not just the visual part of his brain. But the implant didn't connect with those areas.
Fortunately, he'd seen maps of brain activity in the victims of implant psychosis in the literature. Some of the studies, he remembered, included detailed maps made while the patient claimed to be "seeing something." If they showed evidence of activity in the higher reasoning functions, that might indicate that the images were, in fact, elaborate hallucinations, like his. But if the brain activity was primarily in the visual centers, Jeremy would have to conclude that his visions couldn't be the same kind of thing.
But what if my visions are different? The other cases never talk about the content of the illusions.
This seemed like a nasty problem. What he really needed was a map of his own brain while he was having a "hallucination." But how could he get one without tipping his hand to some doctor?
He pondered that for a moment, and then decided that doubt could only go so far. "Philosophy is a conclusion from the preponderance of evidence," he remembered one of his teachers saying. "Trying to dot every 'i' and cross every 't' is a mistake that has destroyed many hopeful theories."
Still, he wondered. If his visions were of a different kind from the other patients', he might have no reason to fear disclosing his experiences to Dr. Berry. But as his supervising physician, she had the power to have him forcibly restrained and drugged, if she thought that was necessary, and he didn't want to
change
it. All she needed to do was have one other doctor agree with her diagnosis, and as the world's expert on the subject, who would resist her?
"Ah," he said, pounding his aching head, and remembering that he was still in diagnostic mode with Dr. Berry. The real problem, he realized, was doing his search of the medical database without allowing Dr. Berry to find out about it.
His mind raced. There had to be a place where he could access the hole without being monitored. He glanced at the terminal she'd loaned him, which he had forgotten to return. Was it safe? And then he remembered a public terminal in the lobby of the hotel. She couldn't monitor that.
The weariness and strain of the last couple hours faded as his mind focused on a clear, discreet task. Jeremy left his room and started for the elevator, more and more confident that he was neither paranoid nor psychotic.
If I was paranoid, I'd be afraid that she had the lobby terminal monitored.
*
*
*
After the stress of the last couple hours, Jeremy happily fell into one of the deep, leather seats in the Armory and Alehouse pub. A slight scent of ale and stale tobacco called back memories of the publick houses in the Community. Smoking was quite rare in Society, but the Armory and Alehouse used a synthesized imitation of tobacco smoke to help set the mood. The whole place looked like a colonial armory, with heavy, carved wooden furniture, antique lamps, several fireplaces, and rack upon rack of muskets. The minutemen had their own muskets, Jeremy recalled, but it added to the atmosphere. The bar even served hard cider in wooden mugs, and Jeremy ordered one from a period-costumed waiter.
The public terminal was connected to the base of a brass lamp on an end table next to the corner fireplace, as he recalled. He looked in that direction and his blood ran cold. A phantasm was sitting at the terminal, looking straight at Jeremy.
Chapter 6
Jeremy hoped the poor light in the pub concealed the sudden fear on face.
How did it know I would be here? Why is it watching me?
As soon as the thoughts crossed his mind, he knew he had to avoid meeting that gaze. No one else could see these things. He couldn't let on that he did. He also had an instinctive feeling that this was no creation of a psychotic mind. This image -- this ghost, or angel, or phantasm -- was real.
He decided to go ahead with his plan as if the thing weren't there. Perhaps it didn't know that he could see it. He had to play to that possibility. Perhaps the thing would lose interest and leave him alone.
Jeremy walked over to the terminal as casually as he could manage, focusing on the plaid fabric of the couch and the brown wood stain of the paneling -- anything to avoid making eye contact with the ghost -- and then he sat down, right on top of the ghost. He didn't look at his legs, but his peripheral vision told him that the creature was taller than he: its knees stuck out a couple inches beyond his own.
He turned to the maple-wood end table on which the public terminal sat and suddenly didn't know what to do. He didn't want to do a search on the visual oddities of implant psychosis while this creature sat in his lap. Instead, he did something impulsive and looked through the entertainment directory for a listing of live shows within walking distance of the hotel.
As he spoke his requests to the terminal, the phantasm moved itself behind the end table. Jeremy struggled to keep his eye on the terminal as the thing moved around. First, it was to his left, horribly close, then in front, with its eyes just above the terminal screen, peering at him intently, but Jeremy didn't dare to look at it and give himself away. It reached its hand through the terminal and into Jeremy's face. The hand passed through him harmlessly, as he suspected it would, but it was revolting, and it took all his self-control to keep from reacting.
As Jeremy tried to concentrate on his search, the waiter arrived with his cider. He turned to thank him, trying his best to seem natural and undistracted by the ghost who was passing his hand through Jeremy's head, trying to provoke a reaction. It was obvious the waiter didn't see it.
"Thank you," he said to the waiter, looking deliberately in his eyes and resisting the temptation to look back at the phantasm. "For your trouble," he said, giving him his last piece of cash, a red coin.
The waiter nodded his thanks and turned away, while Jeremy turned back to the terminal. The phantasm wasn't there, anymore. He resisted the desire to look around the room and see where it had gone and forced himself to read three pages of a boring review of a local musical before he let his eyes leave the terminal screen.
He couldn't chance allowing his eye to be distracted if the ghost reappeared. When he looked up from the terminal, he stared directly at his cider mug, picking another safe object with his peripheral vision. He sat for five solid minutes, sipping his cider, staring blankly at a musket on the opposite wall.
The phantasm seemed to have gone. Jeremy made a casual sweep of the pub and saw no signs of it, but he still feared to continue his search in this place, so he got up and headed back toward his room. As he went, he experienced a profound pang of loneliness. He desperately wanted to confide in someone -- to tell his story and talk it out. He needed someone he could trust, but he didn't have many options. Dr. Jenkins, perhaps, but he was too close to Dr. Berry, and she was the last person he wanted to know about this.
The clock on his implant told him it would be another hour before his appointment with Dr. Berry, and he needed something to distract him. He hurried back to his room and changed into swimming trunks, put on the hotel's robe and followed the signs to the hotel's indoor pool. Swimming always set his mind at ease, and the monotony of a few miles of 25 meter laps would give him time to think it all over.
Another public terminal caught his eye, mounted on the wall beside the showers. Two men were using it to consult a movie schedule. He wondered why people with an implant would ever need a public terminal, but ... clearly there were aspects of all this he still didn't understand.
He kept an eye on the two men as he stowed his things in a locker. When they were gone, he casually glanced around the room to make sure no one was watching, and then quickly keyed in the search he was unable to do in the lobby.
Jeremy located the library of research papers on implant psychosis and called up his favorite search engine, which allowed him to describe his search in plain sentences and asked for clarification if it had difficulty with the parameters.
He typed his request on the pull-out, touch-pad keyboard: "Search the entire database for studies that include maps of the brain patterns of the victims of implant psychosis made while they were having hallucinations. Do any of these show unusual activity in the higher reasoning centers?"
An instant later the screen printed a reply.
"Of the 45 cases that meet the stated parameters, only one showed unusual brain activity in the higher reasoning centers," the terminal replied. He accessed and quickly reviewed that case. The patient had a history of mental illness before receiving his implant.
That's good enough for me,
he thought, and headed for the pool, confident that whatever else might be going on, "implant psychosis" was not causing him to see these images.
*
*
*
"Four hundred meter I.M.," he said to himself as he stood on the coping of the pool at lane three. "Four laps each of butterfly, backstroke, breaststroke, and any other stroke not previously swum," he recited, remembering how the announcers did it when they had Saturday-morning competitions at
Beaver
Lake
. "Bang," he said, and dove in to the almost sickeningly warm water.
Beaver
Lake
, he reminisced. It had so much more class than this sanitized, indoor thing of concrete and chemically purified water. At the lake, the entire swim team had to show up early to scrub the algae off the starting blocks and make sure the lanes were clear of sticks and leaves. After summer storms the officials had to measure the distance between the two piers to make sure all the lanes were still precisely 25 meters, and more than once a meet was postponed due to a passing water snake. Once there was even an alligator.
The hotel pool, by contrast, had no spirit. It was a 'facility,' and so very tame. Both the air and water would always be warm. Children wouldn't cry in fear the first time they saw a snake, or set their feet down on the muddy bottom. They wouldn't have to get used to eddies of warm and cold water, or changing visibility, or watching a keeper trout swim under them. This concrete thing was sterile and bland, and although he could see the lane markers underwater from 25 meters away, Jeremy would rather be at
Beaver
Lake
.
He was so caught up in his reverie that he almost forgot his troubles. He was relaxed now, on his third lap of backstroke, and decided it was time to figure out what was going on. What was he seeing, and what should he do about it?
Of the three times he'd gotten a good look at the phantasms, at least two of them were spying on someone. One was scrutinizing a woman on the subway train, one, of course, had been watching him, and the other seemed to be scanning the streets, perhaps looking for someone. He had no way of knowing if there was a connection between himself and the woman, so the only apparent common element was the act of spying itself.
Invisible spies,
he thought.
What government wouldn't kill for them?