Cogito Ergo Sum

Cogito Ergo Sum
Ben Shirar

I am Seeker. I am Finder. I am Hunter-of-Memories and slayer-of-lies. I bring justice for the victims – the same justice that has been denied me. Hah! Me. As if there is such a person. No, I grant them justice, and in return, they grant me those few fleeting moments of a life long-lost.
* * *
I entered through the shattered doorframe, flanked as always by a pair of armed guardsmen. I bent over to pick up a piece of splintered wood, and the two men swung their rifles in my direction, the clicking off of safeties sounding like a thunderclap in the still room. I lifted my hands up and stared one of the men in the eyes.
“I’m wearing my gloves. I can do no harm. We must await the arrival of the Inspector.”
The men lifted their guns back to port arms, glancing uneasily in my direction. I suppressed a smile. Fools. Didn’t they realize that the restraining device on my hands could only be opened by an authorized Inspector?
With the heavy tread of booted feet, a squadron of the Home Guard marches down the dingy corridors. I hear the soft whisper of the Inspector’s heavy cloak as he enters, and turn to face him. His cold eyes look into my own, and I recall all the things I’ve heard about Inspectors. He beckons me forward, and gives me my instructions.
“I want a complete memory sweep of the body. Also, there is a bloodstained fragment of a wine glass. I require a memory read on that as well. There may be additional objects later, but for now, simply the victim and the glass will be sufficient.”
“Did she die unshriven?”
The souls of those who are killed immediately following any of the thirty-four officially recognized atonement procedures are often too restful to yield much in the way of evidence. Fortunately, the use of the P.I.N. (parishioner identification number) and similar devices allows the government to keep track of the spiritual state of all citizens.
“Of course- why else would I request a memory sweep? Now, begin your work.”
So saying, he drew the key from the chain around his neck, and bade me raise my hands to him. With an audible click and hum of pent-up energy, the systems that powered my gauntlets were deactivated. Now I could remove them without suffering any ill effects.
Striding further into the apartment, I glimpsed the body: a young woman, with pale skin and fair hair, lay dead on the kitchen floor, a pair of bullet holes in her chest bearing mute testimony to the manner of her death. I squatted down beside her and braced myself before tentatively grasping her hand.
* * *
Fear. It washes over me, a tidal wave that threatens to overcome my own senses. This is not unexpected. As the initial onslaught of sheer terror subsides, I examine the detritus it has left behind. Affection. Betrayal. She knew her killer – I know because her final thoughts were tinged with shock at the treachery done to her. Ahh…here’s something unusual. Resignation. Many humans expect their deaths; few have the wisdom not to struggle. When one combats death, the conflicting emotions prevent a clear reading – an unwilling soul often refuses to accept its demise. Most curious.
* * *
“She knew her killer. And she wanted to die – there was no outrage, no sense that she had been wronged – shock, certainly, but only because of the suddenness of the act, not the act itself.”
“Do you see anything?”
“Let me look again.”
* * *
Once again, I am submerged. None can know the bliss that is memory diving. I attempt to access her visual memories – these are extremely difficult, as the electrical impulses to the brain are short lived, but I can trace her neural pathways back to their source.
* * *
“Do we have a technician?”
A middle-aged man in a white lab coat stepped forward.
“I need ocular access. Make the incision.”
The man hesitated for a moment, until the Inspector nodded his assent.
“Right away sir.”
The procedure completed, I turned to the Inspector.
“I’m requesting you remove the second barrier layer. I need complete immersion.”
“Request granted.”
Punching a button on his key, the man removed the electrical interference generator implanted in my skin. I knelt back over the body and plunged my hand down, brushing the surface of her brain.
* * *
Fulfillment. A sense of completion long denied. This is what any Reader feels when he connects with the brain of a subject. Sensitive nerve endings react to the electricity flowing through my skin, and I bare myself to their intrusions. Like seeks like, as the residual energy in her neurons connects with my own, and supplants my own memories. Everything vanishes. It does not go black – the sensation is like nothing I can explain. It is a nothingness so palpable I could smell it, were my nose not hers, or see it, were my eyes not her own.
* * *
“John!” I scream, my voice sounding raw through my throat.
“Please, I didn’t mean to hurt you! It wasn’t what you think! He was my brother! You have to believe me!”
A vision passed before my eyes; a tall, light-skinned man, holding an antique .45 pistol, rage and betrayal burning in his eyes. I felt an inexplicable connection to this man, confirming my initial suspicions: an estranged lover, a murder committed in the heat of passion.
“What is his name? His full name. Answer me!”
“John….John Brokaw…”
“Disconnect, Reader. Disconnect now!”
* * *
I try. The disorientation that accompanies disconnection elicits a moment of absolute terror from me, the fear that I will never make it back to my own body. Briefly, some vestigial part of her soul attempts to grasp my own, and I force it back down, manipulating the electrical impulses of my body to negate her own nerves. She returns to what she was – a cold corpse, before being brought to life again.
* * *
“Good work, Reader. Time to wipe you.”
I struggled as the Inspector drew a scrambler from his belt. Two guardsmen held my arms while their captain began charging the device. In spite of my efforts, the hated gauntlets are forced back onto my hands, and the static generator reactivated.
* * *
I must savor these moments. For only seconds more, her life shall be mine. However painful or agonizing her last moments in this world may have been, I shall treasure them.
* * *
The scrambler charged, the Inspector placed the device next to my ear. A whine, a brief pulse, and nothing remained.
* * *
I am Seeker. I am Finder. I am Hunter-of-Memories. And I am born anew, my mind an empty vessel. Cogito ergo Sum? Perhaps. Man is the sum of his experiences, they say. In this sense, I am both the least and the greatest. I have experienced countless lives. But none of them has been my own.