Doppelganger Dreams

Excerpt from Chapter 19 of Defying Fate

Henry Brown

Sep 09, 2024

Enjoy!

"How'd you like that?" Manfredi asked.

I sat up, removed the helmet and opened my eyes. Dr. Manfredi removed the electrodes clipped to my skin.

"That was your voice, Doc," I said, staring at the scientist. "But…different."

He grinned. "Younger. Let's see…how old was I in April of 1967?"

"Huh? Wait…what was that?"

"One of my dearest memories," he said. "I downloaded it to one of the MSI drives, and just shared it with you—in real time. Through this helmet, and cutaneous media."

He held up the helmet and ran his hand over it, lovingly. "Without this, you'd have to jack in to experience what you just did. And there's all sorts of complications with installing MSI ports into living tissue."

"Wait a minute," I said. "What I just saw…and heard, and smelled…wasn't a dream. It was an actual memory—of yours! You were able to isolate the memory, digitize it, then tune the data so that my brain could interpret it…and my mind relive it."

"Yes—exactly!"

"This is incredible," I said.

He nodded vigorously. "Our brains store untold terabytes of data. Our long-term memory can only access a fraction of a percent of it, normally. And then, when long-term memory is able to play it back, the data is both fragmented and compressed. Long-term memory can't play it back with linear continuity like what you just saw. It also distorts the data."

"Distorts the data?"

He closed his eyes and nodded. "Over the years, the Flower Girl became more and more attractive, in my mind. The longer the data was in storage, the more her little imperfections were glossed over in playback. Other stuff too—like being tickled by the blades of grass; bugs crawling on me; dirt; how cold the raindrops were. That data was stored and preserved there, the whole time, but long-term memory failed to access it as the resolution decreased. Also…believe me: this is one of my favorite memories, but as much as I've wanted to before now, my long-term memory can't play it back like we can with the Multiple Sensory Interface. I had completely forgotten about the kids with the kites, until I located and played it back electronically. In the past, when I recalled that day in the park, the memory was reduced to just a few images and sounds—how she looked at me and smiled for the first time; our hands touching; our kiss; her voice suggesting it was a perfect time to make love; a montage of us making it; then opening my eyes to see the sun coming out, but her gone. That's it."

"But for me," I said, "it all unfolded step-by-step, moment-by-moment. Not just the highlights."

"That's what I mean when I say 'real time'," Dr. Manfredi explained. "For lack of a better layman's term."

"And you say we've all got complete, linear memories like these stored in our brains?" I asked. "From our entire lifetime, you think?"

He nodded. "I binge-watched for weeks on end, skimming through the useless and mundane data…which is about 95% of it, honestly…before finding that day in the park. What I didn't show you is the three-day party before this. I did nothing but drink, smoke Mary Jane, and listen to rock music until I was wasted. That day I was finally just coming down from my high. It was my first dose of fresh air for days. Of course, I'd bet money the Flower Girl had just dropped acid before I found her. LSD would make you hyperfocused on cloud formations and raindrops on your skin—stuff like that."

"And have sex with complete strangers," I added. "Or did you two know each other? I'm assuming you didn't for some reason; but logically, that scene would make more sense if you were already intimate."

Manfredi shook his head, smiling again. "Never saw her before, or after. Free love, baby. Make love; not war." He laughed at his own remark. "What's the year of your coordinates in California?"

"First half of 1963," I said.

He clapped his hands in glee. "Oh, am I jealous of you! The Summer of Love is right around the corner at your coordinates—and you get to experience it first-hand, in real time, as a young man! Good morning, Starshine!" He frowned. "But make sure to use protection, Ike. Free love isn't really free for everyone. There are hidden costs."

I nodded. "Yeah. AIDS was hanging over everybody's head at my native coordinates."

"The Summer of Love was the laboratory where AIDS was cooked up," he said, nodding. "I never got it; but I was lucky. Who knows how many guys the Flower Girl slept with before me?"

"That kinda' takes the romance out of the whole episode, doesn't it?" I suggested.

Manfredi chewed his lip. "Playing any memory back in real time can do that, Ike. Take this one—even though I'd lost detail and clarity, it was a fantasy-come-to-life. A groovy dream where I got more than what I asked for or expected, and didn't have to work for it. But after playing it back, here we are talking about sexually transmitted diseases. I'm speculating that she was in the middle of an acid trip. Yes, it can take the magic right out of it."

I wondered about the cross-dimensional visions I'd been experiencing for years at night. Most weren't surreal or disjointed like normal dreams. They were linear like the Flower Girl playback, but came to me in seemingly random fragments.

The mail call vision recurred many times. But other fragments filled in around it. In many, I ran in a formation with other young men dressed exactly like me, lungs burning, gasping for breath and aching all over. I moved through thick foliage with a weapon and a lot of equipment strapped on. I wore a football helmet and wielded something like a huge Q-Tip, and faced off against another young man equipped as I was. We engaged in melee combat with the huge Q-Tips. Me and a bunch of other young men, in green dress uniforms, sat around a bar ogling Tier-Three and Tier Four women dancing in bikinis. Several of my colleagues bought French-kisses from the women for a few dollars a kiss. I thought about buying one, but worried about diseases and all the spit being swapped.

In some fragments I jumped out of a three-story tower and slid down a long, slanting cable. I was hoisted up on a 25 story tower and dropped, a parachute slowing my rate of descent so I could learn to fall without injuring myself. I jumped from aircraft over a large, flat field. Other uniformed men surrounded me, floating down under parachute canopies that speckled the sky. Angry men in black hats, on the ground below us, snarled instructions through bullhorns, as if we could determine which one was yelling at who.

I was in civilian clothes, walking somewhere at night. The dark sky above me resounded with the constant drone of propellor-driven aircraft. "This must have been what it sounded like during World War Two," I thought. "The only thing missing is an air raid siren."

I played videogames in a dimly-lit place, then sat at a bar. A Tier Two Asian girl sat beside me, touched my face, and asked me to buy her a drink. At a different dimly-lit place, I approached a table with two Tier One girls sipping at drinks. I fed them a line and they snubbed me. I moved on, passing a table with some guys like me (young, muscular, with short haircuts). Two of them mimed shooting machineguns at me, complete with sound effects, while their buddies laughed. "Another one shot down in flames!" a guy with acne scars chortled.

I jumped out of more aircraft—a lot more. Almost always at night. I marched along roads with other men, loaded down with heavy gear and weapons. We moved stealthily through deserts and jungles. In one scene, I was in a column formation marching up a steep, muddy hill in freezing rain, carrying nearly my own weight in equipment. My boots slipped repeatedly in the mud, but I kept going. I passed a small tactical vehicle spinning its tires, slinging frozen mud everywhere, but unable to make any uphill progress. Most of this was training, but sometimes there were bullets flying, the thump of mortars in the distance, and people nearby trying to kill us. The worst firefights were in urban areas.

I was older, but still in uniform. I went through more advanced training. I practiced knife fighting, martial arts, and learned about various explosives. I rode in helicopters and rappelled from them. I was in a camp full of shacks and tents in a rugged, mountainous country. Inside a tent were horrible, disturbing noises. I fought and almost killed some savage-looking men in strange garb with foreign rifles, and looked inside the tent. Some guy with a long black beard, wearing a turban, was raping a little boy. I screamed and pulled my pistol just before being gang-tackled by several other men.

A skinny black man with a black oak leaf on his uniform lapel lectured me about different customs in different cultures; then told me to forget about what I saw. He didn't like my expression, I guess. "You're one of my hired killers," he rasped. "Act like it!"

I told somebody of higher rank what I saw. He had a black bird with outstretched wings on his uniform lapel. He thanked me for informing him, and assured me the matter would be investigated and settled. I trusted that he would keep his word.

I was on point, leading a team through the mountains. We were lightly equipped—carrying not much more than our weapons, ammunition, and canteens of water. I entered a tunnel. A team member threw an incendiary grenade that hit the ground near my feet. I ran. It ignited. Fire swept over me. I dove to the ground and tried to bury myself in what little loose dirt was available.

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