It was the birthday of the last new country in the world, and Achilles Desjardins was alone in his bedroom with his confessor.
"What kind of monster?" asked TheraPalä 6.2, its voice studiously androgynous.
He'd learned the word that very morning. He pronounced it carefully: "A misogynist."
"I see," TheraPalä murmered in his ear.
"I have these—I get these feelings. About hurting them. Hurting girls."
"And how do they make you feel?" The voice had edged subtly into the masculine.
"Good. Awful. I mean—I like them. The feelings, I mean."
"Could you be more specific?" There was no shock or disgust in the voice. Of course, there couldn't be—the program didn't have feelings, it wasn't even a Turing app. It was basically just a fancy menu. Still, stupidly, Achilles felt strangely relieved.
"It's—sexy," he admitted. "Just, just thinking about them that way."
"What way, exactly?"
"You know, helpless. Vulnerable. I, I like the looks on their faces when they're…you know…"
"Go on," said TheraPalä.
"Hurting," Achilles finished miserably.
"Ah," said the app. "How old are you, Achilles?"
"Thirteen."
"Do you have any friends who are girls?"
"Sure."
"And how do you feel about them?"
"I told you!" Achilles hissed, barely keeping his voice down. "I get—"
"No," TheraPalä broke in gently. "I'm asking how you feel about them personally, when you're not sexually aroused. Do you hate them?"
Well, no. Andrea was really smart, and he could always go to her for help with his debugs. And Martine—one time, Achilles had just about killed Martine's older brother when he was picking on her. Martine didn't have a mean bone in her body, but that asshole brother of hers was so…
"I–I like them," he said, his forehead crinkling at the paradox. "I like them a lot. They're great. Except the ones I want to, you know, and even then it's only when I…"
TheraPalä waited patiently.
"Everything's fine," Achilles said at last. "Except when I want to…"
"I see," the app said after a moment. "Achilles, I have some good news for you. You're not a misogynist after all."
"No?"
"A misogynist is someone who hates women, who fears them or thinks them inferior in some way. Is that you?"
"No, but—but what am I, then?"
"That's easy," TheraPalä told him. "You're a sexual sadist. It's a completely different thing."
"Really?"
"Sex is a very old instinct, Achilles, and it didn't evolve in a vacuum. It coevolved with all sorts of other basic drives—fighting for mates, territoriality, competition for resources. Even healthy sex has a strong element of violence to it. Sex and aggression share many of the same neurological paths."
"Are you—are you saying everyone's like me?" It seemed too much to hope for.
"Not exactly. Most people have a sort of switch that suppresses violent impulses during sex. Some people's switches work better than others. The switches in clinical sadists don't work very well at all."
"And that's what I am," Achilles murmered.
"Very likely," TheraPalä said, "although it's impossible to be sure without a proper clinical checkup. I seem unable to access your network right now, but I could provide a list of nearby affiliated medbooths if you tell me where we are."
Behind him, the Achilles's bedroom door creaked softly on its hinges. He turned, and froze instantly at his core.
The door to his bedroom had swung open. His father stood framed in the darkness beyond.
"Achilles," TheraPalä said in the whirling, receding distance, "for you own health—not to mention your peace of mind—you really should visit one of our affiliates. A contractually-guaranteed diagnosis is the first step to treatment, and treatment is the first step to a healthy life."
He couldn't have heard, Achilles told himself. TheraPalä spoke directly to his earbud, and Dad couldn't have stopped the telltale from flashing if he'd been listening in. Dad didn't hack.
He couldn't have heard TheraPalä. He could've heard Achilles, though.
"If you're worried about the cost, our rates—" Achilles deleted the app almost without thinking, sick to his stomach.
His father hadn't moved.
His father didn't move much, these days. The short fuse, the hair-trigger had rusted into some frozen state between grief and indifference over the years. His once-fiery and defiant Catholicism had turned against itself with the fall of the Church, a virulent rage of betrayal that had burned him out and left him hollow. By the time Achilles' mom had died there'd barely even been sorrow. (A glitch in the therapy he'd said dully, coming back from the hospital. The wrong promoters activated, the body somehow innoculated against its own genes, devouring itself. There was nothing he could do. They'd signed a waiver.)
Now he stood there in the darkened hallway, swaying slightly, his fists not even clenched. It had been years since he'd raised a hand against his children.
So what am I afraid of? Achilles wondered, his stomach knotted.
He knows. He knows. I'm afraid he knows…
The corners of his father's mouth tightened by some infinitesimal degree. It wasn't a smile. It wasn't a snarl. In later years, the adult Achilles Desjardins would look back and recognise it as a kind of acknowledgment, but at the time he had no idea what it meant. He only knew that his father simply turned and walked down the hall to the master bedroom, and closed the door behind him, and never mentioned that night ever again.
In later years, he also realised that TheraPalä must have been stringing him along. Its goal, after all, had been to attract customers, and you didn't do that by rubbing their faces in unpleasant truths. The program had simply been trying to make him feel better as a marketting strategy.
And yet, that didn't mean it had lied, necessarily. Why bother, if the truth would do the job? And it all made so much sense. Not a sin, but a malfunction. A thermostat, set askew through no fault of his own. All life was machinery, mechanical contraptions built of proteins and nucleic acids and electricity; what machine ever got creative control over its own specs? It was a liberating epiphany, there at the dawn of the sovereign Quebec: Not Guilty, by reason of faulty wiring.
Odd, though.
You'd have expected it to bring the self-loathing down a notch or two in the years that followed.
Bedside Manor
Gene Erickson and Julia Friedman live in a small single-deck hab about two hundred meters southeast of Atlantis. Julia has always done most of the housekeeping: Gene gets notoriously twitchy in enclosed spaces. For him, home is the open ridge: the hab is a necessary evil, for sex and feeding and those occasional times when the his own darkdreams prove insufficiently diverting. Even then, he treats it the way a pearl diver of two hundred years past would treat a diving belclass="underline" a place to gulp the occasional breath of air before returning to the deep.
Now, of course, it's more of an ICU.
Lenie Clarke emerges from the airlock and lays her fins on an incongruous welcome mat laid to one side. The main compartment is dim even to rifter eyes, a grey-on-grey wash of twilight punctuated by the bright chromatic readouts on the comm board. The air smells of mould and metal; more faintly, of vomit and disinfectant. Life-support systems gurgle underfoot. Open hatches gape like black mouths: storage; head; sleeping cubby. An electronic metronome beeps somewhere nearby. A heart monitor, counting down.