The Infinity Link (11 page)

"Hoshi, how long do you think you can keep this bottled up inside you?" Jonders asked, leaning across the desk. "What do you hope to gain?"

Hoshi, as before, would not meet his eyes.

Kelly watched silently from the window ledge, sipping his coffee. "Hoshi," he said, after several more failed efforts by Jonders. "If you've thought this out—and I assume you have—you must know that at this point you can only make matters worse by—"

"She wanted me to do it," Hoshi muttered, interrupting him. The young programmer looked down, and a shadow fell diagonally across his face. "She begged me. I only did it for her."

"What, exactly, did you do?" Jonders said.

Hoshi shrugged. "You already know. Full-spectrum scan." He raised his eyes, peering thoughtfully into the darkest corner of the room. "I used the programs we've been developing."

"But
why?"

Hoshi seemed not to hear the question. "I didn't expect it to hurt her." He suddenly turned to meet Jonders's gaze with his oddly focused eyes. "I didn't want to hurt her!"

"Well, Hoshi, it's too late for that. She
is
hurt. Perhaps badly." Jonders scowled. "Why did she want to be scanned?"

Hoshi gazed down at his hands, clasped together in his lap. A series of expressions passed across his face, ranging from bemusement to sorrow. He opened his mouth as though to speak. Fogelbee, who had been stirring impatiently until now, suddenly leaned forward into the light and snapped, "Answer the question! What was her purpose?" Jerking back, Hoshi glared defensively at the systems manager, his lips drawn taut with anger. Fogelbee straightened up, apparently realizing that he had pushed too hard.

Jonders tried a more conciliatory tone. "Hoshi—can't you tell us what Mozy had in mind? It could be important for us to know—for
her
sake."

Hoshi closed his eyes, lifted his hands toward his face. There was an instant in which Jonders thought he was going to burst into tears. Suddenly he laughed—and dropped his hands. A ghost of pain flickered across his face. "She was in love with him," he whispered.

Jonders felt a band tighten around his chest. "In love with
whom?"

Hoshi chuckled bitterly. "You never noticed, did you?" Hoshi looked up and stared briefly into Jonders's eyes, then Fogelbee's. "No, you wouldn't understand. None of you would."

"Who was she in love with?" Jonders demanded.

"Kadin!" Hoshi hissed. "Who do you think?" He leaned back to gaze up at the ceiling. "She was head over heels, she just
had
to be with him. So I gave her what she wanted."

"Dear God," whispered Fogelbee, his face in shadow.

Jonders took three long, deep breaths. Kelly was utterly still.

"I thought you might be surprised. It's been staring you in the face for weeks, you know."

"Didn't you tell her—?" Jonders said—and a hundred thoughts fled from his mind. "Then she didn't know about Kadin," he finished softly.

"Did you discuss classified information with her?" Kelly asked quietly.

The programmer turned cool eyes upon the security chief. "Nothing much. I told her Kadin was going to be sent somewhere—I didn't say where. She was quite distraught when she found out that she'd never see him again." He shrugged. "So I brought her here." He arched his eyebrows. "That's all."

Jonders scribbled on a note pad:
Check for new personality data. Mozelle?

"I didn't tell her about Kadin, if that's what you're worried about," Hoshi added.

"Just what
did
you tell her?" Fogelbee said harshly.

Hoshi looked away. Quickly Jonders said, "Hoshi. Whether you intended to or not, you may have caused serious harm to the project. If there's anything we should know to minimize the damage, please tell us!"

"I did no damage to the project," Hoshi muttered. "What about
her?
Doesn't anyone care about Mozy?" His face twisted with pain, and he turned to avoid all of their eyes.

It became clear that he would answer no further questions. Kelly ordered him escorted to a detention room for the night. Jonders hoped to persuade him to voluntarily undergo psychiatric examination. Kelly agreed that the incident should be kept an internal matter, as long as possible. Meanwhile, the most urgent task was to assess the damage to the project.

"How the hell," Fogelbee asked afterward, "did this man get hired to such a sensitive position? What were you people thinking?"

Jonders answered, barely containing his own anger. "He passed all the screenings—and he's a brilliant programmer. Obviously, if we had known—" He shrugged in disgust, not bothering to finish the sentence.

Fogelbee snorted. "Have something for me to tell Marshall in the morning. It had better be convincing." He turned to leave before Jonders could think of a reply.

* * *

Jonders parted the slat blinds and squinted out across the grounds, his eyes dazzled by the morning sun. The sheltered little valley glowed with the rosy light of morning. It reminded him that he had scarcely slept. He let the blinds snap together again and turned back to the psychiatrist. "I think we ought to treat her here for the time being, if possible," he said. "Would you consider trying a direct contact, with the computer-link setup?"

Diana Thrudore glanced up from her notes with raised eyebrows. She was a slender, black-haired woman of about forty-five, soft-spoken and quietly competent. She had arrived at six-thirty this morning, and had just finished a brief visit with Mozelle. "We can discuss that after I've examined her more thoroughly. Since there's no outward sign of neurological damage, I would guess that the catatonia resulted from psychological, rather than physical, trauma."

Jonders nodded.

"Can you give me a history on the woman?"

Jonders plucked a piece of paper out of a file folder, and passed it over to her. "Here are the notes from her application interview. We also have detailed profiles from her work in the linkup mode."

Thrudore scanned the paper, frowning. "Family problems, low self-image—but quite intelligent and imaginative. Has her family been contacted?"

"It seems she never provided their correct address. I've asked Security to look into it."

Thrudore rapped the paper with her knuckles. "A linkup could present certain risks. In this sort of catatonia, the patient is usually aware on some level of her own condition. But she's erected a subconscious wall—and she's unwilling or unable to lower it. Whatever caused the trauma, it frightened her so much that she's rejecting contact with the world, for fear of repeating the hurt." Thrudore looked up. "In her case, the trauma was an intrusive linkup. If we evoke her memory of that intrusion, there's a risk that she'll withdraw even further."

"I understand that," Jonders said. "But suppose the contact were done in a nonthreatening manner. We might get through that barrier."

"And who would make the contact?"

Jonders rubbed his eyebrows. He sat down and gazed at her. "I was hoping you would try. I can't claim any real rapport with her—and you're better qualified. I think she might find a woman less threatening."

Thrudore nodded noncommittally. "I'll think about it," was as far as she would go.

* * *

Diana Thrudore was not one to be rushed into questionable actions regarding her patients—but neither would she overlook a potentially valuable idea. As a research fellow at the prestigious Riddinger Institute, she had many other patients to consider, as well. The computer-link setup offered potential in a variety of schizophrenic disorders, not just catatonia; and she knew that she'd be a fool to lightly pass over an opportunity to explore its possibilities.

It took her two days to reach a decision, and it finally rested on the poor prognosis for conventional psychochemical therapy. The standard EEG and central nervous system screening on Mozelle showed none of the usual signs associated with schizophrenic catatonia; and a test injection of a selective neurotransmitter-blocker showed no effect whatsoever. That left her with a choice of either prolonged and possibly futile conventional treatment, or an attempt with the computer-link.

It was, she decided, worth the risk.

* * *

As technicians bustled about, making adjustments, Thrudore breathed deeply and slowly, centering herself, mentally reviewing lessons from the practice sessions. Once the techs were out of the way, she could again see her patient in the reclining chair, capped by a headset. Thrudore was facing her from a straight-backed chair crammed, along with ancillary equipment, into the opposite side of the cubicle. Mozelle appeared completely impassive. Thrudore raised her eyebrows to the psychiatric nurse attending Mozelle, and the nurse nodded.

"Let's get started," Thrudore murmured into the audio circuit.

The lights in the room dimmed. Thrudore sensed a flicker of light that seemed to come from her peripheral vision, but was in fact the initialization of the link. A buzzing sound brushed her inner ears as she tumbled gently into the womb of the computer. She acclimated herself gradually, as she had been trained to do, and reached out to find Jonders, who was monitoring the system unobtrusively.

(Are you comfortable?)

(Yes.)

(Ready to initiate contact?)

Momentary hesitation. (Yes.)

There was a soft rumbling of doorways opening. She became aware of new passageways, circuits running mazelike through the realm of possibilities. Options shifted like subtly changing angles, perspectives altering until one passage at last grew steadier and clearer than the others. Thrudore eased herself that way and experienced a sense of turning, falling . . . floating.

She approached Mozelle in darkness, exploring cautiously with her extended senses. She felt Mozelle's presence, like a chilling breeze, but could see nothing in the dark. (Can we have a bit of light?) she called softly. She felt a shifting movement, and suddenly, as though she had rounded the edge of a curtain, her quarry came into view.

The Mozelle that she encountered was not a face, but a spinning globe of liquid, smokily illuminated from within. Thrudore was startled, unsure whether the image was a product of Mozelle's mind or of her own. Mozy was so tightly drawn in upon herself, and spinning so fast, that she seemed in peril of disintegration. Droplets of glowing liquid flew off from her equator, creating an angry, luminous halo-cloud. Thrudore was moved to pity for the anger she sensed here, the loneliness that kept Mozy whirling in such a defensive ball, surrounded by emptiness.

She did not attempt to speak to Mozelle yet, but moved in a wide circle around her, murmuring and gesturing
here
and
there
, sketching images in the darkness. When she had completed her circuit, the emptiness had been transformed into a small and rather cozy chamber, intimately lighted, hung with satin and velvet curtains, and padded with cushions. She turned to the spinning globe in the center of the room. (Mozelle!) she called softly, at last.

The globe shifted slightly on its axis, and swelled almost imperceptibly.

(We don't want to harm you,) Thrudore said, and as she did so she whispered a message back to Jonders. There was a faint sparkle in the air, as Jonders applied an alpha wave-inducing field to the link. (Mozelle, can you hear me? My name is Diana, and I'm a physician. If you can hear me, will you please change your color?)

Mozelle contracted, speeding up. A yellow-green light flickered angrily inside. Thrudore signalled to Jonders for an increase in the alpha-inducing field, and called again. There was no change. She thought a moment, then reached out with teasing sensory vibrations. (Mozy? Will you help me? I feel a little lost in this world. Don't you become confused here, without someone to help you?) She drifted cautiously closer, peering into Mozelle. She was startled by what she saw.

There was movement inside the globe: tiny, humanlike figures darting about the half-illumined interior. All seemed to resemble Mozy herself, and yet were different from one another. One danced about in hopeful leaps; one turned toward Thrudore with a stiff-armed rebuke; one trudged in moody circles. There were more figures than Thrudore could follow, and voices, too—calling and arguing, and crying out in pain. In an effort to hear better, Thrudore slipped closer and extended a thread of her own sensory awareness through the surface of Mozy's spinning exterior.

It was like listening to a meditative chant through the sounds of a family brawl. There were too many voices to distinguish them all, but one louder than the others, echoed throughout.

(David . . .)

(David . . .)

(David . . .)

(Mozy!) Thrudore whispered. (Can you hear me? David is not here. David can't hear you.)

(David . . .)

(David . . .)

(Mozy, please—can you hear me?) So cautiously she was scarcely breathing, Thrudore slipped in further still and whispered urgently, (
I'm here to help, Mozy. Let me help.
)

(David . . .)

What were the other voices saying? Too chaotic to follow . . . screaming and laughing, and crying. Were they Mozy's voices too, or voices she remembered, voices of her past—or of an imagined present and future? Now there were images, or fragments of images: darkness, and sputtering fire, and electricity burning in her thoughts and arcing from one gyrating figure to another. Thrudore felt the pain, Mozy's pain, and it was so sharp that for an instant she could not bear it in silence; and she cried out . . .

 . . .and at once knew that it was a blunder. The dancing figures turned and bore down upon her, and the voices cried in her ears, icepicks stabbing, and the pain doubled, tripled, and became a force squeezing her tightly, squeezing her out . . .

The pain vanished.

She gasped. The voices were gone. The globe, spinning faster and more angrily than ever, receded into darkness, and she could do nothing to stop it, did not even know if she should try.

Mozy had ejected her like a common intruder. It would be twice as hard to reach her the next time—if there could be a next time.