Fragments of Me. Eric G. Swedin

      BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY ERIC G. SWEDIN

      Anasazi Exile: A Science Fiction Novel

      Fragments of Me: A Science Fiction Novel

      OTHER BOOKS BY ERIC G. SWEDIN

      Computers: The Life Story of a Technology (with David L. Ferro) (2005)

      Healing Souls: Psychotherapy in the Latter-Day Saint Community (2003)

      The Killing of Greybird: A Novel (2004)

      Science Fiction and Computing; Essays on Interlinked Domains (with David L. Ferro) (2011)

      Science in the Contemporary World: An Encyclopedia (2005)

      Survive the Bomb: The Radioactive Citizen’s Guide to Nuclear Survival (2011)

      When Angels Wept: A What-If History of the Cuban Missile Crisis (2010)

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2012 by Eric G. Swedin

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      For Betty

      CHAPTER ONE

      The reward of suffering is experience.

      —Aeschylus

      Let your life be a testament to your beliefs.

      —me

      “She’s from Willow Hills.” Mrs. Foster, the ward head nurse, cannot hide her bitterness as she picks at her wedding ring. “Her grandfather was fat with money, so they used to put her up in style.”

      I absently nod as I browse through the long list of drugs fed to the young woman over the past decade. Perphenazine and thioridazine for schizophrenia, lithium for mania, and fluoxetine and electroconvulsive therapy for depression. No rhyme or reason to the diagnosis or to the drug therapies. The end result is a catatonic patient. Amazing how the frustration of a continuing train of psychiatrists and psychologists comes across in their repeated attacks with ever larger doses of powerful chemicals.

      “So why is she here now?” I ask.

      “Her grandfather died. The will is being disputed. There is no more money for the time being, and of course, the saints at Willow Hills sent her on her way,” Mrs. Foster says. “God, I hate those leeches.”

      I look up in surprise. Blasphemy from this sixty-year-old woman is most unusual. “Well, bring her to my office, please, Mrs. Foster.”

      “Yes, Dr. Barash.” She turns curtly and marches across the ward. Her given name is Nancy, but I can never address or even think of her other than as Mrs. Foster. She radiates stern authority.

      James Barash, M.D. from Johns Hopkins, residency in psychiatry at Mass General in Boston. These are my current name and my current professional credentials. The profession—healing the tormented mind—is one I have followed for millennia. My nature is uniquely suited to helping humans in need.

      My physical appearance is average, not tall, not short. What used to be curly brown hair is receding back from a high forehead now that my body is nearing its fifth decade. I exercise regularly, but not excessively, so I look fit, but not like an athlete. I still have no need for glasses.

      My small office is spartan: a desk, a locked file cabinet, and three chairs. A couch dominates one wall, its imitation leather cracked from years of patients. The State of Ohio does not spend a lot of money on its state hospitals. In fact, my own time is donated.

      Slumping into my chair, I finish reading the file of Joanna Prall. A damned depressing mess. I close the folder, sigh, and swivel the chair. Sunlight streams in from the window behind the desk, bathing the room in a pleasant glow despite the white streaks on the glass left by the pigeons that nest in the third-story eaves. Through the grime I can see the tall trees that surround the grounds of Jenkins State Hospital. Some of the trees are over six decades old, tall and proud with the dignity that comes with age. I remember when they were planted as fresh saplings. Gary, a patient of mine, had helped. Hopelessly insane, he possessed a magical touch with the soil.

      “Joanna, this is Dr. Barash.”

      Aroused from my reverie, I turn around. Mrs. Foster holds onto the arm of Joanna Prall. Eighteen years old, her blonde hair hangs in strands around her oval face. Her pretty eyes would have been stunning in a movie under soft lighting, but now those eyes are totally vacant. At least one of the diagnoses makes some sense—catatonic.

      “Let’s sit in the chair, love,” Mrs. Foster says, guiding the young woman to the chair in front of my desk. Joanna shuffles her feet, responding to the pressure from the nurse. I got the sense that she would never move unless compelled. She shows no affect or awareness of her environment.

      Mrs. Foster smiles at me in her sad way as she leaves the room, closing the door. I smile in response, then return my attention to Joanna. The patients may wear whatever they want, leading to a wild splash of colors and styles in the recreation room. Most people find the disorder unpleasant, but I find it exhilarating, a declaration of individual independence. Joanna wears a white loose-fitting hospital gown.

      Joanna does not care about her clothes. Without a doubt, Mrs. Foster or one of the orderlies had bathed and dressed her this morning. Did she even use the toilet without help? Reopening the file, my eyes scan down quickly, and find that she wears a diaper because of her inability to perform this basic function. This is a bad sign. At least she can walk if guided and the record indicates that either a nurse or orderly does this twice a day to keep her muscles toned.

      “Hello, Joanna. How are you today?”

      No reaction.

      Coming around the desk, I kneel next to her chair. She does not turn to look at me. I am struck by her beauty and youth. This young woman had so much raw potential.

      I touch her arm, skin to skin, and cast a fragmental of myself into her.

      * * * *

      Her mind is a void.

      How discouraging. That which made Joanna into a person is no longer there. I explore further, probing for any hint, and find no consciousness beyond simple animal awareness. Moving from being an observer, I take over a small part of her, testing her mind. My thoughts, whether in my host or within a fragmental, are expressed through the biological mechanism of the brain. I think a few thoughts and find that there is no brain dysfunction.

      Unable to help myself, I feel a burst of elation. An unoccupied body, ready for me to take if I need it. A rare find, and even rarer, the brain works. Its neurons fire as they should, fueling the mechanisms of thought with no apparent abnormalities.

      Inevitable guilt always replaces my elation at moments like this. A woman has died. Maybe her heart still beats, but her mind is extinct. One should not feel joy at such a discovery. True, I need a body as a host to survive, but I am not a parasite.

      Setting aside my confused emotions, I consider the cause of her mind’s disappearance. Drugs? Certainly the psychiatrists have confused her brain chemistry enough for the mind to lose its mooring and drift away. But what is a mind? Is it an ethereal entity, a spirit or a soul, superimposed over the biology of the brain? One might think that my ability to fragment gives me an answer to these timeless questions. Ironically, it is not so. I know that the mind is more than the sum of neurons, but whether normal human minds can exist outside of the brain, I do not know. I only know my own nature. I need a body to exist, even though I can flow from body to body.

      Since there is no mind to detect my interference and thus be terrified, I manipulate her memories. Her procedural memories seem intact. She still knows how to walk, how to sit, how to feed herself. Her general memory also seems intact. She knows where New York is and how a car works. Now for the most important and intimate form of memory, episodic.

      I visualize