Upgrade(77)

—

My dreams that night were kaleidoscopic.

I witnessed my own mind rewiring and transforming itself.

I rode a knife-edge of pain and ecstasy.

I comprehended all the forces—genetic, environmental, my cascade of predestined choices—that had made me me in this moment. Saw myself as the inevitable solution to the equation of my existence. Finally understood that free will did not exist, because I could not choose my desires, only whether to pursue them.

I saw all the old versions of Logan through time.

Zygote to this moment.

I wondered who I had become.

What I had become.

I wept.

I screamed.

I laughed hysterically.

I clawed at my skin and ripped out my hair.

I wanted to die.

I wanted to live forever.



* * *



—

When I woke in the morning, I knew I was out of the storm. I climbed out of bed and padded into the main living area.

Looked around, letting it all wash over me.

I was still ultra-aware of every incoming sensory stimulus, but something had changed. Now I could intentionally divide my mind into more than just two threads of consciousness. And importantly, I could hold back the sensory onslaught if I wanted.

I ran a test, focusing on—

The way the central heating made the curtains appear to breathe like the lungs of an alien creature.

A fly buzzing manically inside a trash bin near the minibar.

The minifridge humming at 49 Hz because of a dirty compressor.

My intellect already turning its high-powered engine toward Kara.

My thirst—a neurological artifact that was actually the elicitation by angiotensin II acting on angiotensin II receptors in the subfornical organ, a brain region near the ventricles with high vascularization, in response to low blood volume.

My hunger—another sensory artifact that I was now blindingly aware was simply the serotonin (5-HT) and catecholamine neurotransmitters in my serotonergic neurons, intestinal myenteric plexus, enterochromaffin cells in the mucosa of the gastrointestinal tract, and blood platelets—telling me to eat.

The more thoughts and sensory input I allowed myself to receive and process, a curious thing happened.

Time seemed to elongate, to stretch. Similar to the fear reaction that activates the amygdala to lay down more memories, my multipronged consciousness was also laying down more memories by a factor of X, where X was the number of times I divided my consciousnesses. And this gave the illusion of time slowing down to a fraction that also corresponded to X.

In other words, by dividing my consciousness and focusing simultaneously on multiple stimuli, I could slow my perception of time. And the more I divided my consciousness, the slower time seemed to unfurl.

I wondered if I could linger in moments, let each second become a world unto itself. Back at Feld’s lab, I’d easily anticipated the physical movements of his guards, but that was nothing compared to this.

This had happened in the bathtub and been torture because I had no control. I couldn’t stop it. Now I could. It was as if I could actually slow time.

The sound coming through the curtained windows was different. Muffled. It was snowing.

I went to the French doors, stepped outside.

Letting my consciousness divide and divide and divide and divide until the snowflakes stood almost motionless. I watched one crawling through the air, just past the tip of my nose. And the cars were still, the people on the sidewalks eighty feet below barely moving, and a hyperjet just inching across the sky.

I blinked, reverting to a single consciousness.

The world at normal speed again.

And I knew: This is how Kara had dodged bullets.

And I also knew something else. Where before, I only had vague theories and educated guesses, in this moment, as the snow melted on my face, I had the clearest model in my mind of how my sister was going to release her upgrade.

I even knew where.



* * *



—

I slipped the needle into his vein so deftly he only stirred. After depressing the plunger, I placed a piece of tape over the needle, which was still embedded in his skin, then moved back to the chair.

The bedroom was dark, and the chair creaked under my weight as I settled into it.

I took a few deep breaths in the silence.

The seconds ticking past at half-speed, since I was concurrently in this space, but also thinking about my sister.

A black cat brushed against my legs, purring contentedly.

Edwin Rogers stirred, rolled over onto his side, and was still again.

There was only the sound of his soft snoring and the whisper of central air blowing heat through the vents and the purring.

My brain wanted to engage with twenty-nine distinct sources of sensory input, but I wouldn’t let it. The process of denial was still a conscious effort. Soon, I would adapt.

I was on the second floor of the director’s redbrick row house in Georgetown, four blocks from the Potomac.

It was 2:27 A.M.

Noisily, I cleared my throat. Edwin shifted under the covers. I cleared my throat again, louder this time. Edwin startled awake and sat up in bed, staring into the darkness.

“You didn’t dream that noise,” I said.

He lunged for his bedside table, pulling the drawer open.

“The gun isn’t there,” I said. “I’m holding it.”