ever been?”
“Once,” I said. “I went to Perth on business and had a free day. Took the train over to it and spent the day watching the waves and drinking beer.”
Ocampo smiled. “We’re watching the waves, at least,” he said.
“Sorry about the lack of beer.”
“Lieutenant, when you’re not here, the simulation I see is of a small, square cell. It has three books in it, the titles of which rotate after I read them. I don’t get to choose the titles. There’s a single small screen on which is ported just enough entertainment material that I do not go entirely mad. Once a day they make a track appear so that I can give myself the appearance of physical exercise. My only visitor—aside from the occasional Colonial Union interrogator—is a chatbot which is not quite well programmed enough to give the appearance of being a person, and only serves to remind me that I am, well and truly, alone in my brain. Trust me. This beach is enough.”
I had nothing to say to that, so we continued watching the simulated waves of simulated Cottesloe Beach tumble onto the simulated shore, while the simulated birds reeled in the sky.
“I assume this is a reward,” Ocampo said. “For our last session.”
“As it turns out, you were entirely correct that a trap was being laid for the CDF ship at Khartoum,” I said. “My ship got to skip distance in a dangerously short time—we nearly overloaded the engines—and skipped directly into the attack. That was lucky timing.”
“The CDF didn’t send one of the ships it has on standby.”
“With all due respect, Secretary Ocampo, you’re a confirmed traitor, and you have a history of leading ships to their doom. They would not send their own ship, but they didn’t mind if we played Russian roulette with ours.”
“I’m glad you trust me, Lieutenant.”
“I trust that you have nothing left to lose, Secretary.”
“That’s not quite the same thing, is it.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not. Sorry about that.”
Ocampo smiled again, and ran a toe into the sand of the beach. This simulation was about as perfect as I could make it, and from a programming point of view was in fact a bit of a marvel. The simulation was only detailed to the degree of Ocampo’s attention. Any part of the beach he wasn’t looking at was a low-resolution map. Any part of the sand that wasn’t directly under his toes was an undifferentiated texture mat. The beach existed as a bubble of perception around a man who himself existed as a brain in a jar.
“Did you make this beach for me?” Ocampo said. “As a reward?”
“It’s not a reward,” I said. “I just thought you might like it.”
“I do.”
“And I confess I didn’t make it for you,” I said. “Rafe Daquin had a birthday recently. I modeled it for him.”
“You still haven’t given him a body?” Ocampo asked.
“His new body is ready,” I said. “And he can move into it any time he likes. Right now, he’s decided to stay with the Chandler and pilot it from the inside. He’s really very good at it now. He’s done some amazing things.”
“I wonder how he would feel if he knew you’d given a gift you made for him to the man who caused his brain to be taken out of his body in the first place.”
“Actually he was the one who suggested I do it. He told me to tell you he remembers how lonely it was, and is, to be a brain in a jar. He hoped this might give you some peace.”
“That was very kind of him.”
“It was,” I agreed. I conveniently left out the part where Daquin told me that if I wanted I could program in a great white shark that tore Ocampo’s simulated body to pieces. It would not be convenient to the current situation. Rafe might have forgiven, in his fashion, but he had not forgotten.
“Lieutenant,” Ocampo said. “As much as I appreciate a trip to the beach, I’m not under the impression that you’re here because you and I are friends.”
“I need a little more information
“Once,” I said. “I went to Perth on business and had a free day. Took the train over to it and spent the day watching the waves and drinking beer.”
Ocampo smiled. “We’re watching the waves, at least,” he said.
“Sorry about the lack of beer.”
“Lieutenant, when you’re not here, the simulation I see is of a small, square cell. It has three books in it, the titles of which rotate after I read them. I don’t get to choose the titles. There’s a single small screen on which is ported just enough entertainment material that I do not go entirely mad. Once a day they make a track appear so that I can give myself the appearance of physical exercise. My only visitor—aside from the occasional Colonial Union interrogator—is a chatbot which is not quite well programmed enough to give the appearance of being a person, and only serves to remind me that I am, well and truly, alone in my brain. Trust me. This beach is enough.”
I had nothing to say to that, so we continued watching the simulated waves of simulated Cottesloe Beach tumble onto the simulated shore, while the simulated birds reeled in the sky.
“I assume this is a reward,” Ocampo said. “For our last session.”
“As it turns out, you were entirely correct that a trap was being laid for the CDF ship at Khartoum,” I said. “My ship got to skip distance in a dangerously short time—we nearly overloaded the engines—and skipped directly into the attack. That was lucky timing.”
“The CDF didn’t send one of the ships it has on standby.”
“With all due respect, Secretary Ocampo, you’re a confirmed traitor, and you have a history of leading ships to their doom. They would not send their own ship, but they didn’t mind if we played Russian roulette with ours.”
“I’m glad you trust me, Lieutenant.”
“I trust that you have nothing left to lose, Secretary.”
“That’s not quite the same thing, is it.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not. Sorry about that.”
Ocampo smiled again, and ran a toe into the sand of the beach. This simulation was about as perfect as I could make it, and from a programming point of view was in fact a bit of a marvel. The simulation was only detailed to the degree of Ocampo’s attention. Any part of the beach he wasn’t looking at was a low-resolution map. Any part of the sand that wasn’t directly under his toes was an undifferentiated texture mat. The beach existed as a bubble of perception around a man who himself existed as a brain in a jar.
“Did you make this beach for me?” Ocampo said. “As a reward?”
“It’s not a reward,” I said. “I just thought you might like it.”
“I do.”
“And I confess I didn’t make it for you,” I said. “Rafe Daquin had a birthday recently. I modeled it for him.”
“You still haven’t given him a body?” Ocampo asked.
“His new body is ready,” I said. “And he can move into it any time he likes. Right now, he’s decided to stay with the Chandler and pilot it from the inside. He’s really very good at it now. He’s done some amazing things.”
“I wonder how he would feel if he knew you’d given a gift you made for him to the man who caused his brain to be taken out of his body in the first place.”
“Actually he was the one who suggested I do it. He told me to tell you he remembers how lonely it was, and is, to be a brain in a jar. He hoped this might give you some peace.”
“That was very kind of him.”
“It was,” I agreed. I conveniently left out the part where Daquin told me that if I wanted I could program in a great white shark that tore Ocampo’s simulated body to pieces. It would not be convenient to the current situation. Rafe might have forgiven, in his fashion, but he had not forgotten.
“Lieutenant,” Ocampo said. “As much as I appreciate a trip to the beach, I’m not under the impression that you’re here because you and I are friends.”
“I need a little more information
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