Quick Study

“Well, by that point, I was starving, filthy, and exhausted. But I’d done what I set out to do; I’d made the greatest discovery of my career.”

“I see.” I take a sip from my glass of fine port and lean back into the comfortable embrace of my soft leather wing chair. “Absolutely fascinating, my friend. Sounds like you had quite a thrilling time of it.”

“You can say that again.” My colleague, Dr. Arnold Mason, shudders, a far-away look in his eyes. He’s the very picture of an archaeologist: tall, leanly muscular, sun-bleached hair, sporting a tan and that perfect touch of weathering. And he has the demeanor to match it, with all the necessary intelligence, talent… and ambition, that most important quality. “Between the wildlife, the weather, and jungle, I must have cheated death a dozen times a day. Seriously, if I ever decide to launch an expedition into the Brazilian hinterlands during the rainy season, I want someone to check me into a psychiatric ward.”

I nod in sympathy, thinking of the awful discomforts and dangers my fellow archaeologist has faced. I take a reassuring glance around my well-appointed study, with its shelves of books, tasteful decorations, and warm, crackling fire. No roughing it in the field for me; even if I wasn’t getting on in years, I’ve never much cared for such antics. And now I don’t have to, thanks to modern technology and my own measure of ambition. “Quite. But, as you say, you pulled it off. And made an astonishing discovery, one that should finally put your name into consideration for tenure.”

“Right you are.” Mason takes a generous swallow of his own drink. “About time, too.” He leans forward to set the empty glass down, seeming just a little unsteady as he does so.

“Another?” I gesture at the bottle of port.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he replies.

“Terry? If you don’t mind?” I gesture my assistant, Terry Roth, forward. The young man, who’s been hovering in the background expectantly, hastens to comply. As he pours, I return my attention to my guest. “So, you think you have enough to finally prove the link between Peruvian and proto-Brazilian cultures? To show that the influence of the Inca extended across the Andean Range?”

“I do,” Mason says with a wobbly nod, picking up his glass again with exaggerated care. “Irrefutable. The pictographs I saw are all the evidence I’ll need.” He smiles, looking at me blearily. “And, of course, it’s all in the safest place it can be.” He taps his head.

I meet his smile with a grin of my own. Twenty years ago, any archaeologist worth his salt would have done his best to bring actual artifacts back with him, to be sure he had real proof. Even photographs would have been too suspect, too easily faked.

But that was before Recollection.

“Well,” I say with a sharp exhalation. “You’ve done it, Arnold. You’re going to get everything you deserve.” I hold up my glass. “To your success.”

Mason lifts his drink, but he’s clearly having trouble tapping it to mine. Understandable, considering the powerful sedative Terry’s been slipping into his drinks all evening.

“My success,” he slurs.

Then the glass falls from his fingers, and he starts to pitch forward out of his chair.

“Terry!” I bark, but the young man is already moving. He grabs Mason’s toppling form, eases him back into his seat.

“Good catch,” I say. “Now lock the door, and fetch the case.”

I watch, eagerly, as Terry follows my instructions, shooting the bolt to make sure we won’t be disturbed, then opening a tall armoire and removing a sleek black metal case. He brings it over to the small conversation circle where we’ve been sitting, sets it on the low table before me, and opens it. Inside is an unassuming device, resembling nothing more than a portable hard drive, along with several pairs of bulky goggles, indistinguishable from VR headsets, though far more advanced in function.

Recollection is a well-known product, available to most institutions for a variety of uses. Simply put, it allows people to share their memories, their experiences, for any number of reasons, from entertainment to legal proceedings. In my world, the academic sphere, its most common application is a modern form of peer review. Used by a committee of learned professors, Recollection allows for the swift confirmation of the facts of an individual’s findings.

Of course, it has other, less scrupulous applications.

I swiftly remove two sets of the visors, proceed to slip one over the head of the unconscious Dr. Mason. Specially designed sensors in the device will tap into the memory interpretation centers of his brain, then display those memories, in vivid detail, for anyone wearing a linked visor. In this instance, that will be just me.

As I place another visor on my own head, I give Terry a look. “Remember, don’t let anyone into this room. And stay alert; when I’m ready, follow my instructions immediately. Understand?”

“Yes, Dr. Mandel,” he says. But there’s a frown on his face, and a look in his eyes I don’t like.

“What?” I snap. Terry has been quite reliable for a while now; I’ve been doing this for years, and he’s been with me for most of that time. He’s enormously competent, familiar and skilled with the intricacies of Recollection. Of course, there’s more to claiming a colleague’s accomplishments than that, as I well know, but Terry’s proven a quick study. I really don’t look forward to the day when I have to cut him loose, either under heavy blackmail or well-compensated for his silence. And I truly hope I don’t have to ruin what should be a successful career, simply because of an attack of conscience…

Terry shrugs and won’t meet my gaze. “I don’t know, Professor. This just seems, well, kind of unfair. I mean, Mason risked his life, and he needs this find so much.”

I scoff, make a dismissive wave. “Not more than I need it; than we need it. Must I remind you how difficult it is to make a publishing quota in this day and age? How both of our careers require new information, fresh, bold discoveries? Mason is young still; he’ll make a name for himself in time.” Just not yet.

Terry sighs, nods. “Of course, Dr. Mandel. You’re right.”

“Naturally. Now activate the machine, and try to be quiet.”

Without another word, Terry reaches for the device on the table, and flips the switch.

I lower the visor over my eyes, putting my assistant out of my mind.

Instantly, I’m somewhere else.

It’s dark, nighttime. The air is hot and humid, stifling and close. All around me are the sounds of jungle wildlife, a cacophony of croaking, cawing, buzzing, and chirping. Honestly, it sounds as if someone dumped a bucket of rocks and broken glass into a woodchipper. I glance around, at the gloom pressing in on all sides, the profusion of leaves and fronds and vines, the gnarled, twisted trunks of trees and dense tangle of underbrush. I shiver in horror. Even knowing that I’m not really present in this place, that none of this is real, I can’t help but be repulsed.

I hate fieldwork. It’s why I do what I do now, why I spend most of my days advising undergraduates and consulting with colleagues, encouraging and arranging expeditions that others will undertake… and of which I will eventually reap the rewards. Personally, I don’t think I’m treating them unfairly. I’m doing a lot of the hard work, and I think that my… ingenuity… certainly deserves some compensation.

A figure moves beside me in the fetid, raucous night: Mason, clad in dirty, tattered clothes, stained with sweat. I can smell the stink of him, sweat and grime from the filth and plant life he’s literally wading through. Utterly disgusting. My perspective as an observer means I won’t actually have to see through his eyes, or feel what he’s feeling, which I accept as a mercy.

Mason looks all around, as if making certain he’s alone, then he switches on a flashlight, cupping it to prevent the glow from going far. Doubtless worried about it attracting some sort of awful jungle creature. By the feeble light, he examines a fragment of an old map, studying the contours of the land it depicts. He pulls a compass out, compares it to the map. Finally, he gives a grunt of satisfaction.

Stowing map and compass, he starts moving, cautiously threading his way through the foliage. I follow, feeling more like a disembodied entity than a person. The replay provided by Recollection can be as visceral or dissociated as the viewer wants; in my case, I have no desire to be any more immersed in the experience than absolutely necessary. I glide along in Mason’s wake, with only the barest sensation of the objects I pass through.

It’s just as well, as I watch my fellow archaeologist step around poisonous shrubs that could leave him with itching, burning rashes and brush aside glistening spiderwebs, their disturbed denizens scuttling away from his fingers. A flight of bats flutters through the air, just above his head, screeching their high-pitched cries; he barely reacts, even though I cringe away, grimacing in disgust. Honestly, I don’t know how anyone could do this on a regular basis and hold onto their sanity. Mason is clearly made of sterner stuff than I, further evidence that he’ll do just fine, even without a prominent discovery or two. Or more.

Before long, the ruins of ancient buildings begin to emerge around us, piles of rubble and the stems of collapsed walls seeming to sprout from the undergrowth. Creepers and roots festoon the heaps of stone, further obscuring the already faded carvings that cover the chunks of debris, leaving only a vague hint of what their makers intended them to display.

Mason passes through these vestiges of a once great civilization, pausing here and there to examine a bit of broken stonework, a stub of shattered pillar. He murmurs softly to himself, making frequent reference to a battered journal. He moves in a pattern, a few hundred meters this way, then a few hundred meters that way, stopping again and again to check his notes against the etched symbols.

To be honest, I’m getting bored, and I wish that there was some sort of a search and skip function on a Recollection.

Suddenly, Mason tenses. He sinks into a crouch at the base of a building so thoroughly ruined and collapsed that it’s impossible to determine its original function. He holds up his notebook; his gaze darts back and forth between the soiled pages and the heap of rubble that blocks what was once the entrance to the structure.

Then he tucks the journal away, pulls a spade from its straps next to his pack, and starts digging.

Now I get really bored, watching Mason chop through tough roots, shovel out damp earth, and pry stones aside. He’s at it for what seems like hours. I’d be worried about how much time this is taking, if I didn’t know that there’s no actual passage of time while using Recollection; days could pass in memory, while not a second will have gone by in the real world. I love this technology.

Still wish I could speed things up, though.

Finally, Mason clears enough detritus away to expose a low passage, a tunnel really. It’s damp and shockingly cold, exhaling a fetid miasma of rot. Mason switches on his flashlight and, with one last glance around, slips into the tunnel.

The walls are slimy, dripping ooze. In the damp chill, Mason’s breath condenses into a fog, a cloud that hangs in the still air. His probing light only reaches a few feet ahead of him, and he shuffles forward in an awkward crouch, smearing his clothes and skin with the stinking muck the lines the passage. Horrid creatures are exposed by the gleam of his light: fat beetles, centipedes several inches in length and thick as fingers, spiders the size of saucers with long, hairy legs. They scurry before him, slipping into crevices or burying themselves in the mud at the first opportunity.

I shudder in disgust, but I keep following.

Then the tunnel opens up, walls falling away as it emerges into a chamber. Mason stands erect with a groan of relief, holds his light high, revealing the space around us. He freezes, breathing a surprised gasp.

The building may have been a temple or a palace or a library, but it’s clear to see that this room was designed for the purpose of preserving knowledge. Very specific knowledge.

Along the walls, which reach far overhead, vivid carvings show in exquisite detail a chronicle of the construction of this complex, the origins of its crafters, and their difficult journey across the great spine of the Andes. Mason plays his light across the entire length and breadth of the chamber, making careful visual note of every minute facet of the etchings. He has no camera, and he doesn’t bother taking notes in his journal. He knows that everything he’s seeing will be available, drawn in perfect detail from his memory by Recollection.

It’s exactly what we both hoped it would be. It’s the proof that Mason spent years searching for.

The proof I’m going to take from him.

“Terry,” I say, the first words I’ve spoken since the Recollection began. “Are you recording? Have you got it all?”

“Yes, Professor,” Terry’s disembodied voice says, disconcertingly near given that I can’t see him.

“Excellent.” I swallow, working moisture into a suddenly dry mouth. No matter how many times I’ve done this, I still feel a thrill of nervous anticipation. I wonder briefly, if anything went wrong, whether I’d ever know, or if I’d just forget everything that had happened. Then I dismiss such useless thoughts, returning my attention to the matter at hand. “Copy everything to my memory… and erase the source.”

The image flickers and hitches, just for an instant. Suddenly, I’m seeing everything exactly from Mason’s perspective, as I take the memories into my own mind, removing them completely from his own. From this point on, he’ll have no recollection of ever being in the Brazilian Amazon, of finding these ruins, of seeing this magnificent chronicle.

It’s not the only step in the process of usurping his discovery, but it’s the most important. I’ll need to falsify certain records, pay off a few select officials. Terry will be a help, of course; as I said, despite his occasional scruples, he’s a quick study, and he’s picked it all up quite well. Within a day, maybe two, every scrap of evidence will point to this being my find, and no one will be able to contest it. Not even the man who actually made it.

It’ll be another triumph, another feather in my cap.

“Procedure complete,” Terry says.

“Right then. Bring us out of it.” I smile, imagining the plaudits and adulation of my peers. This one is going to be truly amazing.

The scene begins to fade as the program discontinues. As it does so, there’s a momentary hitch, a flicker in the image I’m seeing. I feel a brief concern, wondering what that might be; it seems very much like when a memory is copied and erased…

I blink my eyes, feeling for a moment as if I’ve just awakened from a deep sleep. I quickly glance around at my study. Dr. Arnold Mason sits across the low table from me, removing a Recollection visor, a thoughtful expression on his face. I look down at the visor in my own hands; that explains the brief disorientation. Using Recollection to review a colleague’s findings can leave you a bit confused. It’s often a lot to take in.

“Well, Dr. Mason? Dr. Mandel?” Sitting to my left, Dr. Terry Roth swirls the contents of his glass, staring at the contents with a small smile on his face. “What do you think?”

“Incredible,” Mason says. “Quite an adventure, and you found all the evidence you’ll need. Another triumph, Dr. Roth.” He raises his snifter in a salute. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Dr. Mason,” Terry says, glancing at me. “Of course, I owe a great deal to my mentor. Professor, I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Hear, hear,” Mason agrees. “You should be very proud of this young man. He’s turned out to be a fine archaeologist. He’ll go far, and he has you to thank for so much of it.”

I blink again, momentarily confused as to what they’re talking about. Then I remember: Terry’s expedition to the Amazon, his discovery of the link to the Peruvian Inca, which we’ve just finished reviewing via Recollection. “Yes, Terry, I agree. Excellent work. I couldn’t be more proud of you. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Professor.” Terry’s smile widens. “I do owe it all to you.”

“Nonsense. This is your achievement, Terry,” I say, brushing aside his modesty with a wave of one hand. I sink back in my chair with a sigh, feeling a glow of pleasure, despite a faint, lingering note of confusion. Ah, well, I am getting on; probably just some small, meaningless thing I’ve forgotten. “Don’t let anyone take that away from you.”