Ron raised an eyebrow as he inserted the chip into his headset. Micah triggered the connection that would allow him to share its feed, and a moment later the translucent image of a dead animal appeared. Its flesh was so decayed that one couldn’t tell what species it had originally belonged to, and the stink of putrefaction that arose from it was so powerful, so nauseating, that Ron instinctively put his hand over his mouth to keep from gagging. After a moment he turned away from the image, and though he didn’t actually vomit, he looked like he was about to.
Then the virtual image disappeared, and with it the noxious smell. When Ron turned back, his face was two shades paler than before.
Ron shook his head. “Jesus, man. You could have warned me.”
Micah grinned. “Pfft. No fun in that.”
“I thought you couldn’t code smells into a virt?”
“You can. It’s just hellishly difficult. Smells don’t map neatly onto the cortex or resolve into a simple wave form, so they’re harder to manipulate. Most designers just don’t bother with them. But I’ve got a theory . . .” He hesitated. “Tell me, what did you feel when you saw that?”
“It stank like bloody hell.”
“No, that’s what you smelled. But what did you feel?”
Ron thought about it for a moment. “Disgust. I felt . . . disgust. Revulsion.”
“The emotion. Not a physical sensation?”
“That’s right.”
“Smell is rooted in the limbic system. That’s the same part of the brain that governs our most primitive emotions—fear, aggression, lust, hunger, despair—and also memories. So I’m thinking, if I can identify specific smells that trigger those responses, and figure out how to code them into a virt—”
Ron’s eyes widened. “You’d be able to trigger specific emotions.”
“Real emotions. Not the usual suspension-of-disbelief crap but a genuine visceral response. Which means that gamers running from Dobson monsters would experience actual fear, as if their lives were really in danger! Imagine what that would be like! Imagine what kind of an edge it would give to the company if we could successfully bring that to market.”
Ron was silent for a moment. It was certainly not the enthusiastic response that Micah had expected. “Put this away for now,” Ron said quietly. “Just for a while. Go work on something else.”
“But you don’t get it. This is cutting edge stuff. The first person to establish a fully functional olfactory model will go down in the history books. It’ll usher in a whole new generation of virt technology—”
“I get it. I do. Game designers will be able to manipulate human emotions. That’s one step away from manipulating human thoughts, right?”
Micah’s smile faded. “I don’t know if I’d go that far—”
“Because you understand the limits of the technology. As do I. But a corporate investigator might not be so well educated. He’ll come here looking for a link between Dragonslayer and the incident on Harmony, and when he finds out that one of our designers has been experimenting with mind control . . . what conclusion do you think he might draw?”
A chill ran through Micah. “It’s not mind control—”
“Technicalities. Tridac will have to blame someone for this, if only to preserve their stock value. If they can’t find the real perpetrator, but know you’ve been experimenting with mind control . . .” He let the words trail off suggestively. “Put this away for now. Please. Delete all your working files from Dobson’s network. You can leave the stuff on scent coding; that’s a reasonable project for any designer to be working on. But for God’s sake, anything that talks about direct manipulation of human emotion . . . wipe the system clean of it. For your own protection.”
Micah wanted to argue with him, to protest that things couldn’t possibly be that bad, that there was no need for him to abandon the work that had so consumed him. But he couldn’t. Because deep inside he knew his friend was right. If Tridac learned about Micah’s current research, there was no telling what it might do. “Yeah.” His tone was bitter. “That’s probably best.”
Ron handed him back the game chip. “I never saw this. I don’t know what you’re working on. We never had this conversation.”
“Never.” Micah’s voice was distant, hollow. “And I don’t know anything about the investigation.”
“Best that way,” Ron agreed. He hesitated. “I’ll let you get back to work . . .”
“Yeah.” Micah’s tone was bitter. “I’ve got a lot I have to do.” A lot of work I have to destroy.
He watched in silence as Ron left the room, waiting until the doors closed behind him. Then he picked up the pencil case and hurled it against the wall with all his might. His custom-made pencil went flying, its precious mock-graphite lead snapping as it hit the floor.
Fuck Tridac!
It was him against corporate security. Him and his files. Him and his code. Him and the paradigm-shattering research that could have launched him into the history books forever. Only now that would all have to wait. Maybe a short while. Maybe forever.
They’ll find the perpetrator, he told himself. Then everything will go back to normal.
With a sigh, he started making a mental list of all the files he was going to have to delete.
Society requires boundaries. Boundaries require common understanding.
How shall we seek commonality, after rejecting the concept of mental conformity?
BELLA AGINCOURT
New Horizons: Birth of a Social Contract
GUERA
(MEMORY)
“RUISA. COME in.”
Executive Lifestyle Counselor Ian Cyprus put aside the tablet he had been reading and offered her a smile that looked surprisingly genuine. He was a lean man with a ruddy, sun-kissed complexion—aggressively healthy—and cleanly defined muscles running down both forearms. Not what she’d expected by a long shot, but it was a nice change from the career bureaucrats she’d been dealing with. The kaja pattern painted on his face in fine black lines was the nantana, symbol of a personality type that Ru neither liked nor trusted. Nantana were always trying to discover things you weren’t ready to reveal, reading your face and body posture like others might read a book. Some nantana were so good at it that the mere twitch of an eyelash or the subtlest change in vocal pattern might lay bare one’s most guarded secrets. She always felt naked around them.
She nodded him a terse greeting. “Hey.” She had painted the raj on her own face, an edgy, aggressive kaja that suggested she had a low tolerance for bullshit. She liked the way it looked on her, its sharp black lines accenting her high cheekbones and the natural angularity of her face. Around the edges of the main design she’d added a hint of kita, which was a token gesture of respect to his authority. I acknowledge your rank, the combination said, but I’ll give you less trouble if you’re direct with me. It was a deliberate counter to the nantana’s love of social banter, and she waited to see how he would respond to it.