synthesist, indentured servant to the genes and machines that turned you into a parasite."
She waved at the empty seat. I took it, assessing the system before me, sizing up the best approach for a fast yet diplomatic disconnect. The set of her shoulders told me she enjoyed lightscapes, and was embarrassed to admit it. Monahan was her favorite artist. She thought herself a natural girl because she'd stayed on chemical libidinals all these years, even though a synaptic edit would have been simpler. She revelled in her own inconsistency: a woman whose professional machinery edited thought itself, yet mistrustful of the dehumanising impact of telephones. Innately affectionate, and innately afraid of unreturned affection, and indomitably unwilling to let any of that stop her.
She liked what she saw when looked at me. She was a little afraid of that, too.
Chelsea gestured at my side of the table. The touchpads there glowed soft, dissonant sapphire in the bloody light, like a set of splayed fingerprints. "Good dope here. Extra hydroxyl on the ring, or something."
Assembly-line neuropharm doesn't do much for me; it's optimized for people with more meat in their heads. I fingered one of the pads for appearances, and barely felt the tingle.
"So. A Synthesist. Explaining the Incomprehensible to the Indifferent."
I smiled on cue. "More like bridging the gap between the people who make the breakthroughs and the people who take the credit for them."
She smiled back. "So how do you do it? All those optimized frontal lobes and refits—I mean, if they're incomprehensible, how do you comprehend them?"
"It helps to find pretty much everyone else incomprehensible too. Provides experience." There. That should force a bit of distance.
It didn't. She thought I was joking. I could see her lining up to push for more details, to ask questions about what I did, which would lead to questions about me , which would lead—
"Tell me what it's like," I said smoothly, "rewiring people's heads for a living."
Chelsea grimaced; the butterfly on her cheek fluttered nervously at the motion, wings brightening. "God, you make it sound like we turn them into zombies or something. They're just tweaks, mainly. Changing taste in music or cuisine, you know, optimizing mate compatibility. It's all completely reversible."
"There aren't drugs for that?"
"Nah. Too much developmental variation between brains; our targeting is really fine-scale. But it's not all microsurgery and fried synapses, you know. You'd be surprised how much rewiring can be done noninvasively. You can start all sorts of cascades just by playing certain sounds in the right order, or showing images with the right balance of geometry and emotion."
"I assume those are new techniques."
"Not really. Rhythm and music hang their hats on the same basic principle. We just turned art into science."
"Yeah, but when?" The recent past, certainly. Sometime within the past twenty years or so—
Her voice grew suddenly quiet. "Robert told me about your operation. Some kind of viral epilepsy, right? Back when you were just a tyke."
I'd never explicitly asked him to keep it a secret. What was the difference anyway? I'd made a full recovery.
Besides, Pag still thought that had happened to someone else .
"I don't know your specifics," Chelsea continued gently. "But from the sound of it, noninvasive techniques wouldn't have helped. I'm sure they only did what they had to."
I tried to suppress the thought, and couldn't: I like this woman.
I felt something then, a strange, unfamiliar sensation that somehow loosened my vertebrae. The chair felt subtly, indefinably more comfortable at my back.
"Anyway." My silence had thrown her off-stride. "Haven't done it much since the bottom dropped out of the market. But it did leave me with a fondness for face-to-face encounters, if you know what I mean."
"Yeah. Pag said you took your sex in the first-person."
She nodded. "I'm very old-school. You okay with
She waved at the empty seat. I took it, assessing the system before me, sizing up the best approach for a fast yet diplomatic disconnect. The set of her shoulders told me she enjoyed lightscapes, and was embarrassed to admit it. Monahan was her favorite artist. She thought herself a natural girl because she'd stayed on chemical libidinals all these years, even though a synaptic edit would have been simpler. She revelled in her own inconsistency: a woman whose professional machinery edited thought itself, yet mistrustful of the dehumanising impact of telephones. Innately affectionate, and innately afraid of unreturned affection, and indomitably unwilling to let any of that stop her.
She liked what she saw when looked at me. She was a little afraid of that, too.
Chelsea gestured at my side of the table. The touchpads there glowed soft, dissonant sapphire in the bloody light, like a set of splayed fingerprints. "Good dope here. Extra hydroxyl on the ring, or something."
Assembly-line neuropharm doesn't do much for me; it's optimized for people with more meat in their heads. I fingered one of the pads for appearances, and barely felt the tingle.
"So. A Synthesist. Explaining the Incomprehensible to the Indifferent."
I smiled on cue. "More like bridging the gap between the people who make the breakthroughs and the people who take the credit for them."
She smiled back. "So how do you do it? All those optimized frontal lobes and refits—I mean, if they're incomprehensible, how do you comprehend them?"
"It helps to find pretty much everyone else incomprehensible too. Provides experience." There. That should force a bit of distance.
It didn't. She thought I was joking. I could see her lining up to push for more details, to ask questions about what I did, which would lead to questions about me , which would lead—
"Tell me what it's like," I said smoothly, "rewiring people's heads for a living."
Chelsea grimaced; the butterfly on her cheek fluttered nervously at the motion, wings brightening. "God, you make it sound like we turn them into zombies or something. They're just tweaks, mainly. Changing taste in music or cuisine, you know, optimizing mate compatibility. It's all completely reversible."
"There aren't drugs for that?"
"Nah. Too much developmental variation between brains; our targeting is really fine-scale. But it's not all microsurgery and fried synapses, you know. You'd be surprised how much rewiring can be done noninvasively. You can start all sorts of cascades just by playing certain sounds in the right order, or showing images with the right balance of geometry and emotion."
"I assume those are new techniques."
"Not really. Rhythm and music hang their hats on the same basic principle. We just turned art into science."
"Yeah, but when?" The recent past, certainly. Sometime within the past twenty years or so—
Her voice grew suddenly quiet. "Robert told me about your operation. Some kind of viral epilepsy, right? Back when you were just a tyke."
I'd never explicitly asked him to keep it a secret. What was the difference anyway? I'd made a full recovery.
Besides, Pag still thought that had happened to someone else .
"I don't know your specifics," Chelsea continued gently. "But from the sound of it, noninvasive techniques wouldn't have helped. I'm sure they only did what they had to."
I tried to suppress the thought, and couldn't: I like this woman.
I felt something then, a strange, unfamiliar sensation that somehow loosened my vertebrae. The chair felt subtly, indefinably more comfortable at my back.
"Anyway." My silence had thrown her off-stride. "Haven't done it much since the bottom dropped out of the market. But it did leave me with a fondness for face-to-face encounters, if you know what I mean."
"Yeah. Pag said you took your sex in the first-person."
She nodded. "I'm very old-school. You okay with
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