CAPACITY

The pod noted his hesitation. “What’s the matter, Justinian? You’re asking me questions to figure out why I’ve malfunctioned. Why should I not do the same to you?”

“Because I haven’t malfunctioned,” Justinian said. “Nonetheless, I’ll tell you about Leigh Sony. She had Cotard’s syndrome.”

“Cotard’s syndrome? No, tell me about one of the personality constructs that you counseled, not a real person.”

“Leigh was a construct,” Justinian said. “That was the problem.”

Leigh looked up as Justinian stepped into the room. Once again he was struck by the apparent reality of the modern VR interfaces. If he concentrated, he could feel the slippery touch of the interface mesh he wore at the back of his neck, but that was about it. Directed electromagnetic fields were manipulating his nervous system and were reading what was written there, even as far down his body as his arms and legs, giving him the impression that he really was standing in the hospital ward. The sharp smell of antiseptic and healing accelerants seemed to jumble with the light reflected from the white surfaces.

“Hello, Justinian.”

“Hello, Leigh.”

She smiled up at him politely: white hair, wrinkled face, gentle brown eyes. She looked a lot older than her fifty-four years.

“It’s good of you to come, Justinian,” she said. “Hardly anyone has spoken to me since I died last month.”

Justinian sat down on the plastic bed next to her chair and took her hand.

“You’re not dead, Leigh. You are still a living being, both in fact and in the eyes of the law.”

Leigh smiled at him politely. “You are very nice, Justinian, but I know that I am dead. I was trying to think of the ages of my grandchildren just before you came in, but I could only remember the ones who were older than me. That’s not right, is it?”

Justinian rubbed her hand gently. “No, Leigh. But it is an indication of Cotard’s syndrome.”

“You counselors and your fancy terms. I die and you call it Cotard’s syndrome.”

“No, Leigh. Cotard’s syndrome is an illness, a result of severe depression or neurological disease. You haven’t died.”

Leigh gave a gentle smile, humoring him.

“It’s all the same to me. Now, how is your wife? How long before the baby is born?”

“Six weeks.”

Justinian bit his lip. Leigh squeezed his hand with hers. It felt very dry, hardly human, as if she were dead already.

Leigh gave a warm smile. “Six weeks? It’s your first, isn’t it? You should make the most of your free time now; it will all be different when the baby is born.”

Justinian smiled. “So everyone keeps telling me. Tell me, Leigh, do you remember how old you were when you became a personality construct?”

Leigh laughed. “Personality construct! You’ve got a phrase for everything, haven’t you? I told you, about a month ago.”

Justinian was ready for this. He used his console to open a viewing field on the wall next to where Leigh was sitting. A blue-green series of misshapen concentric circles appeared there.

“No, Leigh, I’m not talking about when you think you died. I mean, do you remember when your atomic self had a copy of herself made?”

Leigh smiled patiently at him.

“I’m telling the truth, Leigh,” he said, glancing away from the viewing field to make eye contact with her. “Let me remind you: you were separated thirty-one years ago when the atomic Leigh Sony was twenty-three. That’s your visual representation on the viewing field there. Can you see your key code in it?”

Leigh looked at the VRep without interest.

“I don’t think so, Justinian. How can you simulate death in a processing space? I’m not a personality construct. I’m a dead woman.”

“You’re a PC, Leigh. Getting you to accept that is the first step in your rehabilitation.”

Leigh rubbed her lips. “I can taste metal and strawberries,” she said. “That’s the worst of being dead. I keep smelling roses, too. They’re the flowers on my grave.”

“No, they’re a sign of the tumor growing in your brain.”

Leigh gave him a sharp look. “I thought you said I was a PC, Justinian? How could I have a tumor?”

“Virtual people have virtual illnesses, Leigh. You know that. They live and die; they get ill just like everyone else. You’ve got to face up to that if you’re going to get better.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s how the cure works. That’s how I work. You’ve got to admit you have a problem before it can be solved.”

“No, I mean why do I have to get ill and die, if I’m a PC?”

“Because…” began Justinian. “I don’t know why. Ask Eva and the Watcher. They’re the ones who-”

“You don’t like the Watcher, do you?”

Justinian felt a sudden sense of dislocation, his memories had been so vivid. The edge of the sun peeped over the horizon, spilling yellow light across the world. Water lit up in brilliant silver curves that curled themselves around the black crescent-shaped mud banks of the estuary. Justinian was in a world of sharp contrasts, of bright light and black shadow, real and imaginary, familiar and alien. The curved shape of the AI pod was half fluorescent green, half mottled darkness.

“What did you say?” asked Justinian.

“I said you don’t like the Watcher, do you? It’s obvious from the way you told the story.”

Justinian gave a snort of derision. “I don’t have any strong feelings for the Watcher one way or the other. Why should I? If it exists, the Watcher is just a fact of life. You might as well say I don’t particularly like the moon. All those tides it causes…”

The pod laughed. “You say that, but I think you’re not being truthful to yourself. Interesting. It could explain a lot.”

“Explain what?”

The pod didn’t answer.

“What happened to Leigh?”

“I was trying to tell you…”

Justinian got the call a week after his last visit to Leigh Sony. He was in a public processing space at the time, counseling a sixteen-year-old who had had himself replicated and was now regretting it.

“But, Loja,” he was saying, “the atomic Loja is another person, alive and well in the atomic world. This processing space here is where you live. The digital world is as much your natural environment as the atomic world was at your birth. There’s no going back.”

Justinian’s console gave a shushing noise. It was Aelfric, his colleague from the Southern Europe sector.

“Justinian,” said Aelfric, “I’ve got some bad news. It’s about Leigh Sony, from EA Public Space number four. She’s killed herself.”

Justinian felt nothing, not even numbness. He merely stared at the man in the viewing field.

Aelfric shook his head. “Half an hour ago. Managed to find the handle of the destructor routine by peeling away her brain with a scalpel. Got it a good way in, too, before she interrupted the motor routines in her arm. It was very messy.”

“Aelfric, do you have to be so graphic? She was a living thing.”

Aelfric looked chastened. “Sorry, Justinian. But you know the case better than I do-Cotard’s syndrome. She thought she was already dead.”

“I know. How did she fool the hospital, though? Surely they saw it coming?”

“No. Her mood swings were too extreme. They couldn’t predict it.”

“She shouldn’t have been let anywhere near the equipment.”

Aelfric nodded slowly. “Tell me about it. Look, I’ve been assigned to you for the short term. Would that be okay?”