The Weapon - Oblivion  - part 7

By Diana the Valkyrie

At that rate, she loses her entire memory in three months.

Update: 30/07/2003 to valkyrie05





David:



"I'll get the computer in my little office running, and you can dump all those

checksums onto that."



"Don't bother, baby, I've already done it." "But Wendy, you haven't written

them to the computer, you mustn't rely on your memory for them." "I know that,

babe, I've dumped them onto your computer." "But is isn't even powered on."

"No need, it's just magnetic domains on the disk platters, I induced them

there, they'll be safe for a while." So much for our most advanced technology.

She thought so highly of it, she didn't bother to switch it on when she used

it.



That night, instead of me falling asleep in her arms, we fell asleep clutching

each other as if one of us might not be there in the morning. I know what I

was thinking - what will she have forgotten when she wakes up? How much is she

forgetting? What if some of it doesn't come back? What about false memories?



You are what you remember. Without memory, you're a blank sheet of paper. With

false memories, you're someone else. I didn't want Wendy to be someone else.



. . .



When I woke up the next morning, I was still me. At least, I thought I was.

How do I know I'm the same person I was when I fell asleep? I don't, of

course. I just assume that, because people usually are. Because my memory is

reliable. Actually, I mean unreliable, but reliably so. I forget things

slowly, gradually. Not in sudden chunks. And I don't get false memories. Or do

I? How would I know? Damn. This problem of Wendy's was starting to get to me,

too. Speaking of which, where was the Guardian of Humanity this morning, she

certainly wasn't in bed with me. Had she woken up as someone else? Would I

ever see her again? Had I lost her for ever?



Then I heard the jaunty syncopated melody of the Chrysanthemum rag coming from

downstairs, and I don't have a piano. I pulled on my somewhat disreputable

dressing gown, and blearily struggled downstairs. The piano stopped playing,

turned to me and said "Hello, sleepy head!" Well, I suppose if she can make a

noise like a dinner gong, a piano can't be that difficult. "Hi, honey, how are

you today?" "You really mean, 'who are you today', don't you?" "Er, yes." "Sit

down, eat your kedgeree, and I'll tell you."



Kedgeree turns out to be a sort of curried haddock, eaten for breakfast. She

hadn't forgotten who she was. I sat down and started to wrap myself around the

fish. It was good. Tasty. She sat opposite me, waited until my mouth was full,

then started. "You want the good news or the bad news?" How could she be so

light-hearted about this? "Tell me, tell me." "The good news, is that I

recomputed the checksums this morning, and less than half of one percent of my

memory had changed or gone, in half a day." "And the bad news?" "In three

months, there's ninety days."



How is that bad news? Oh, wait. I see what she's saying. At that rate, she

loses her entire memory in three months. I stopped chewing and stared at her,

appalled. "But some of it comes back, remember," she said, "or at least, I

still have the shadow of the memory, I can remember myself remembering it."

"How much of it?" "I don't know yet."



"Wendy, this is terrible!" She sat there silently; I wasn't telling her

something she didn't already know. "How can we fight this?" She sniffed, and

looked at the table. "Eat your toast before it gets cold." "Maybe we could ask

Simon again," I suggested, "he came up with the checksumming idea." She

nodded. She didn't look too enthusiastic about the idea. "Do you have a better

idea then?" I asked.



"No."



"Right, then."



"But."



"But what?"



"Well, you know the problem I had before, it was really a sort of spiritual

problem?" "No, not really, it was emotional." "Whatever. Anyway, maybe I could

get help from ... "



I could see what she was getting at. I wasn't sure I liked it. "Wendy, it was

people with daft religious ideas that were the main cause of your problem

before, you want to go back to them for help now?" She nodded. "You can think

of something better?" she threw back at me. My own argument, used against me.

"How can you even think of talking with, what was his name?" "McPherson."

"Yes, him. You know I punched him on the nose? He isn't exactly going to

welcome me." She giggled. "I know, but I forgive him, he should forgive you.

Anyway, what's to lose? And I wasn't thinking of just him. I though we'll also

try a couple of his competitors, that Grand Wizard of Satan, Jim Humbold. And

I'll even give the Church of the Holy Guardian bunch a visit. David, the way

things look right now, your doctors don't even know how your brain works,

never mind about mine, your top quantum physicists haven't gotten around to

inventing the wheel yet, your computer people are still banging rocks

together, and, and ... well. Three months. You know? I'm not going to just sit

here and wait for it."



Suddenly I snapped my fingers. Of course! "One more person we should consult,

as a matter of high priority." "Who's that?" "Fee! She has more experience at

medical matters, and also at Wendy-related matters, than anyone else."



She looked at me, impressed. "You know, for an academic whose specialty is

sociology, you do come up with some pretty good ideas." "Aw, shucks," I said,

modestly, "we call it intuition. And it's semiology, not sociology. Plus, I am

very impressed by Fiona. If she were fifty years younger, I'd ..." Wendy

laughed. "Do you know where she is now? She's a hundred and five, she must

have retired, surely." "Not a chance. They won't let her get down on her knees

to scrub floors any more, but she still helps nurse the patients. Come on,

David! Fancy a quick flight to Australia?"



Well. Of course I did. As long as it was a Pretty Flamingo Airlines flight.



Wendy bounced out of her chair, grabbed my hand, dragged me out of the front

door and we were heading vertically upwards in a couple of shakes of a lamb's

tail. After several more minutes, the acceleration eased up and we were in

free fall, following a low earth orbit and heading for Melbourne. While we

were in the fractional orbit, I took the opportunity to talk a bit more with

Wendy, it was the one situation where I could be sure she wouldn't suddenly

fly away from me.



"Wendy, will you marry me?" I asked. She looked down at me, she was holding me

in her arms as we travelled through space. "Don't be silly, David." "Why not?"

She held out a hand and started counting on her fingers. "Number one, you're

an alien" Well, I suppose you could look at it that way round. "Number two, I

don't have a birth certificate, or any of the documentation that the civil

authorities would demand. Number three, the churches think I don't have a

soul, so they won't do it either. Number four, you're a 47 year old batchelor,

and you're set in your ways. And number five, I'm much too young to get

married."



The first four I knew about, but number five? "Wendy, you're a few years older

than I am, no way are you too young." "Am too." "Wendy, fifty isn't exactly a

baby." "It is when you're one of the People." Oh. Of course. If you expect to

live for several billion years, I suppose fifty is rather young. "And anyway,"

she said, "I didn't marry Duncan, we never felt the need for a bit of paper.

If it was good enough for him, it's good enough for you." Humph. Maybe I could

ask Fee about this, she was good at this sort of thing. It was Fee that had

originally helped us with the ... no, I'm not telling you about that, it's

private. What two people do together in the bedroom is no-one else's business,

even when one of them is the Guardian of Humanity.