Beneath a picture of Emily Dickinson is the quote, “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.” Beneath Walt Whitman is the line, “Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes.” One poster, though, is set apart from all the others, tacked in the exact center of the far wall. It shows a man with a grotesquely large head and a right hand the size of a catcher’s mitt. This man, I realize, is Marshall’s hero, Joseph Merrick—the Elephant Man. The quote below his picture is from the poem Marshall gave me on the night before I became a Pioneer: “I would be measured by the soul; the mind’s the standard of the man.”
I think of the Super Bowl posters on the walls of my own room. I wonder if Marshall, like me, needs reminders of his former life. “Cool posters,” I say. “Did you bring them here? From your home, I mean?”
Marshall waves his steel hand in a dismissive way. “Yes, they’re old things. Getting wrinkled, I’m afraid. But it’s better than leaving the walls bare.” He turns his turret toward DeShawn, then back to me. “Please make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. Unfortunately, I don’t have much in the way of refreshments. All I can offer is the electricity from my recharging station.”
DeShawn holds up both his hands, splaying the fingers. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m full up.”
“How about you, Adam? Care to top off your batteries?”
“No, I’m full too.”
“Ah, too bad. It’s an excellent vintage of electric current with a truly intoxicating voltage.” Marshall laughs, and once again my circuits crackle with envy. “Tell me something, Mr. Armstrong. Back in the days when you were flesh and blood, did you ever get drunk?”
I turn my turret clockwise, then counter. “Never got the chance. I was in a wheelchair by the time I was twelve.”
“Same with me,” DeShawn says. “But my mom let me have a sip of beer once. Tasted nasty.”
A synthesized “tsk-tsk” comes out of Marshall’s speakers. “What a shame. You boys have led such sheltered lives. You’ve never had the unique pleasure of downing a bottle of Southern Comfort stolen from your mother’s liquor cabinet.”
I retrieve an image from my files, another memory from the night before my procedure. I remember Marshall lying on my bed, resting his deformed head on the mattress and talking about his childhood. “It wasn’t really a pleasure, was it?” I ask. “Getting drunk?”
“Well, there were a few moments of giddiness, at least at the beginning. But you’re right. In the end it wasn’t fun. I was drinking alone in the woods behind our house. That was one of my hiding places.”
“Hiding places? What were you hiding from?”
Marshall extends his left arm until his hand almost touches the Elephant Man poster. “In the small town where I grew up, most of the people were decent. They treated me with Christian charity and kindness. But there was a limit to their sympathy. In general, they preferred that I keep myself hidden.”
I look again at the poster, noting all the similarities between the photo of Joseph Merrick and my memory of Marshall’s human body. After several milliseconds of thought, I come to a conclusion: DeShawn and I were lucky. Being trapped in a wheelchair was paradise compared to what Marshall must’ve gone through.
The room falls silent. Marshall retracts his arm. We aim our cameras at each other, but neither of us speaks. I don’t know what to say.
Then DeShawn breaks the silence. “What you said before, Marsh? About the giddiness? I know something about that.”
Marshall turns his turret toward him. “Don’t tell me you got tipsy from that sip of beer your mother gave you.”
“Nah, this is something else. Something I discovered just yesterday.” DeShawn taps his fingers against his torso’s armor, pointing at the spot where his neuromorphic circuits are. “I was playing around with my files, trying to see how fast I could perform some complex calculations. And then by accident I activated a pathway I didn’t know was there. That’s what caused the giddiness.”
“Really?” Marshall trains his camera up and down, giving DeShawn a careful once-over. “This is intriguing. Exactly how giddy were you?”
“It only lasted a hundredth of a second, but it was pretty intense. The pathway must have some strong connections to the positive emotions—you know, happiness, delight, that kind of thing. I felt joyful, on top of the world. Like I’d just won the lottery or something.”
Now I aim my camera at DeShawn, studying him just as carefully as Marshall did. I remember the sensations I felt a few days ago when I went into sleep mode and dreamed of my mother. DeShawn’s discovery is better, though. He’s talking about a shortcut for altering his emotions. “How did you do it? Where was the pathway you activated?”
“It’s in the same folder where the sensory functions are. Here, I’ll show you.”
An instant later I receive a radio message from DeShawn detailing the exact location of the pathway in my electronics. To activate it, all I need to do is send a thought down those circuits. I’m eager to give it a try, but also a little wary. “Were there any aftereffects?” I ask. “Any permanent changes to your electronics?”
DeShawn lifts his steel shoulders in a shrug. “Sure, there were changes. But our circuitry is changing all the time. After every experience we make new connections.”
“But were the changes good or bad?”
“It didn’t hurt me. But if you’re worried about it, you don’t have to—”
Marshall interrupts him by clanging his hands together. The noise echoes against the walls. “I’m not worried, DeShawn. Send me the same message you just sent to Adam.”
DeShawn turns on his radio again and transmits the message. “Here you go.”
Marshall folds his arms across his torso. He’s clearly reading the message and inspecting the pathway. “Well, it looks simple enough. And God knows, I could use a little giddiness right now.” He raises his right hand and curls the steel fingers, pretending to hold a glass. Then he brings the hand toward his turret, like a man about to take a drink. “Cheers!”
Marshall’s torso shudders as he activates the pathway. I watch him for several milliseconds. Then I push my fears aside and do the same.
I feel a rush of elation. It’s Christmas, it’s my birthday, it’s Super Bowl Sunday. The New York Giants have just won Super Bowl XLVI and all my friends are cheering. Ryan Boyd picks me up by the waist and carries me around our living room. Brittany Taylor does a handstand and falls to the carpet, laughing. Her eyes are blue one moment, grayish-green the next.
The joy grows so fierce that it’s almost unbearable. And then, after exactly eleven milliseconds, it shuts off. The emotion doesn’t fade; it vanishes instantly. For a moment I’m distraught. I feel abandoned and empty. I want to activate the pathway again, right now.
But I don’t do it. There’s a reason the elation disappeared so abruptly. The extreme emotion must’ve tripped some kind of self-protection circuit. The bliss was too strong. Strong enough to drive you crazy.
I need another few milliseconds to compose myself. Then I turn my turret toward DeShawn. “Wow, you were right. That was intense.”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he aims his camera at Marshall. I turn that way too and see Pioneer 5 thrashing. Marshall swings one arm to the left and the other to the right, as if whipping an invisible enemy. I stride backward, getting out of the way. “Marshall! What’s wrong?”