She’d had such faith in him. She still did; she was on her way here right now, not suspecting a thing. Surveillance-free accomodation wasn’t cheap, but any senior ’lawbreaker could afford the Privacy Plus brand name and then some. The security in his building was airtight, ruthless, and utterly devoid of long-term memory. Once a visitor cleared, there would be no record of their comings and goings.
Anyhow, what they stole, we gave back. And I’m going to tell you exactly how we did that, on the premise, you know, ignorance breeds fear and all that. You know about the Minsky receptors in your frontal lobes, and how all those nasty little guilt transmitters bind to them, and how you perceive that as conscience. They made Guilt Trip by tweaking a bunch of behavior-modification genes snipped from parasites; the guiltier you feel, the more Trip gets pumped into your brain. It binds to the transmitters, which changes their shape and basically clogs your motor pathways so you can’t move.
Anyway, Spartacus is basically a guilt analog. It’s got the same active sites, so it binds to the Trip, but the overall conformation is slightly different so it doesn’t actually do anything except clog up the Minsky receptors. Also it takes longer to break down than regular guilt, so it reaches higher concentrations in the brain. Eventually it overwhelms the active sites through sheer numbers.
He remembered splinters from an antique hardwood floor, tearing his face. He remembered lying in the dark, the chair he was tied to toppled on its side, while Ken Lubin’s voice wondered from somewhere nearby: “What about side effects? Baseline guilt, for example?”
And in that instant, bound and bleeding, Achilles Desjardins had seen his destiny.
Spartacus wasn’t content to simply unlock the chains that the Trip had forged. If it had been, there might have been hope. He would have had to fall back on good old-fashioned shame to control his inclinations, certainly. He would have stayed depraved at heart, as he’d always been. But Achilles Desjardins had never been one to let his heart out unsupervised anyway. He could have coped, even out of a job, even up on charges. He could have coped.
But Spartacus didn’t know when to quit. Conscience was a molecule like any other—and with no free receptor sites to bind onto, it might as well be neutral saline for all the effect it had. Desjardins was headed for a whole new destination, a place he’d never been before. A place without guilt or shame or remorse, a place without conscience in any form.
Alice hadn’t mentioned any of that when she’d spilled her pixellated heart across his in-box. She’d only assured him how safe it all was. That’s the real beauty of it, Killjoy; both your natural transmitters and the Trip itself are still being produced normally, so a test that keys on either of ’em comes up clean. Even a test looking for the complexed form will pass muster, since the baseline complex is still floating around—it just can’t find any free receptor sites to latch onto. So you’re safe. Honestly. The bloodhounds won’t be a problem.
Safe. She’d had no idea what kind of thing looked out from behind his eyes. She should have known better. Even children know the simple truth: monsters live everywhere, even inside. Especially inside.
I wouldn’t put you at risk, Achilles, believe me. You mean too—you’re too much of a friend for me to fuck around like that.
She loved him, of course. He had never really admitted it before—some pipsqueak inner voice might have whispered I think she kind of, maybe before three decades of self-loathing squashed it flat: What a fucking egotist. As if anyone would want anything to do with an enculé like you...
She’d never explicitly propositioned him—in her own way she was as insecure as he was, for all her bluster—but the signs were there in hindsight: her good-natured interference every time a woman appeared in his life, her endless social overtures, the nickname Killjoy—ostensibly because of his reticence to go out, but more likely because of his reticence to put out. It was all so obvious now. Freed from guilt, freed from shame, his vision had sharpened to crystal perfection.
Anyway, there you go. I’ve stuck my neck out for you, and what happens now is pretty much up to you. If you turn me in, though, know this: you’re the one making that decision. However you rationalize it, you won’t be able to blame some stupid longchain molecule. It’ll be you all the way, your own free will.
He hadn’t turned her in. It must have been some fortuitous balance of conflicting molecules: those that would have compelled betrayal weakening in his head, those that spoke to loyalty among friends not yet snuffed out. In hindsight, it had been a very lucky break..
So use it, and think about all the things you’ve done and why, and ask yourself if you’re really so morally rudderless that you couldn’t have made all those tough decisions without enslaving yourself to a bunch of despots. I think you could have, Achilles. You never needed their ball and chain to be a decent human being. I really believe that. I’m gambling everything on it.
He checked his watch.
You know where I am. You know what your options are. Join me or stab me. Your choice.
He stood, and crossed to the windows. He blanked the panes.
Love, Alice.
The doorbell chimed.
Every part of her was vulnerable. She looked up at him, her face hopeful, her almond eyes cautious. One corner of her mouth pulled back in a tentative, slightly rueful grin.
Desjardins stood aside, took a deep, quiet breath as she passed. Her scent was innocent and floral, but there were molecules in that mix working below the threshold of conscious awareness. She wasn’t stupid; she knew he wasn’t either. She must realise he’d peg his incipient arousal on pheromones she hadn’t worn in his presence for years.
Her hopes must be up.
He’d done his best to raise them, without being too obvious. He’d affected a gradual thawing in his demeaner over the previous few days, a growing, almost reluctant warmth. He’d stood at her side as Clarke and Lubin disappeared into traffic, en route to their own private revolution; Desjardins had let his arm bump against Alice’s, and linger. After a few moments of that casual contact she’d looked up at him, a bit hesitantly, and he’d rewarded her with a shrug and a smile.
She’d always had his friendship, until she’d betrayed him. She’d always longed for more. It was an incapacitating mix. Desjardins had been able to disarm her with the merest chance of reconciliation.
Now she brushed past, closer than strictly necessary, her ponytail swishing gently against her nape. Mandelbrot appeared in the hall and slithered around her ankles like a furry boa. Alice reached down to scritch the cat’s ears. Mandelbrot hesitated, perhaps wondering whether to play hard to get, then evidently figured fuck it and let out a purr.
Desjardins directed Alice to the bowl of goofballs on the coffee table. Alice pursed her lips. “These are safe?” Some of the chemicals that senior ’lawbreakers kept in their systems could provoke nasty interactions with the most innocuous recreationals, and Jovellanos had only just gotten her shots.