dead, a closed account with all totals drawn. How could a transplanted persona think and react and have things to say?
Judging by the behavior of adults she had observed, a persona was not dead at all—merely suspended from the time of recording to the time of transplant. Then, jacked into the nervous system of its host, it could perceive and respond as if literally reincarnated. That was the whole point of the Scheffing process. It assured the participants everlasting life, with occasional interruptions between transplants. At the same time it provided the living with the benefit of the experiences of the dead. Nothing was lost, except the souls of the poor fish like Leonards who never took part in the rebirth game at all. That was ninety percent of mankind, at present. But did they matter?
As her final hour of independence ticked away, Risa inevitably began to wonder if she really wanted to go through with this enterprise.
No doubt everyone wonders about that, waiting for it to begin, she told herself. At least the first time.
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
Judging by the behavior of adults she had observed, a persona was not dead at all—merely suspended from the time of recording to the time of transplant. Then, jacked into the nervous system of its host, it could perceive and respond as if literally reincarnated. That was the whole point of the Scheffing process. It assured the participants everlasting life, with occasional interruptions between transplants. At the same time it provided the living with the benefit of the experiences of the dead. Nothing was lost, except the souls of the poor fish like Leonards who never took part in the rebirth game at all. That was ninety percent of mankind, at present. But did they matter?
As her final hour of independence ticked away, Risa inevitably began to wonder if she really wanted to go through with this enterprise.
No doubt everyone wonders about that, waiting for it to begin, she told herself. At least the first time.
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
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