No True Scotsman
I didn't want to.
I want that on the record: I wasn't even curious. I tried to pass the packet of dark red powder on to Chemical, but there were cancellations and delays and bureaucracy, and eventually, I was simply running out of time and options to figure out why the streets were boiling over.
And it was harmless. That was the one thing the scattered reports agreed on: You took Ride, and you continued on with your life. Everyone had a different explanation for how it made an addict out of you, but they all agreed there were no outward effects.
So, when the Rattatats publicly executed anyone in their territory who even breathed the word - November 5th, you remember, right? - I felt my hand was forced.
I took a couple of milligrams just before bed.
I wake up, feeling absolutely normal. A bit tense, maybe, but that's nothing unusual. I frown at my ceiling, wondering whether I slept through the effects...
I get up.
I should get up.
...Wait, what? What just happened? I swear my body was moving before I wanted to get up. What's going on here?
I head over to the bathroom to do my morning routine.
I should continue with my morning routine, and see what happens.
...there it is again. I can feel bile rising in my throat, sheer instinctual revulsion at the idea of something else controlling my body.
My heartbeat rises, and my skin feels clammy.
I panic. I'm panicking. I break - broke - out into a cold sweat. What the hell!? What the fuck does Ride even do? There's no fucking way, no fucking way some powder can hand control of my body to someone -
- wait.
I do nothing. My heartbeat slows down.
I try to do nothing. I calm down, as I realise that I'm succeeding, that I'm still in control, just in reverse.
I say 'Recognition code 98, I am a sasquatch.'.
Let's try the old sasquatch recognition code that I'd dreamed up, back when I read fantasy about mind control.
...And yes, there it is. My mouth said the words before I even wanted to say them, but I did want to say them, and those words could only have come from me. How... disturbing. How weird.
How fascinating.
So, yes, it doesn't appear to be debilitating. I can see why Riders would appear to live completely normal lives.
I head towards my dresser.
I should get dressed and go to work.
I think about Ride, all day. I can't help it; every decision I make, every thing I do, reminds me that I'm somehow working backwards.
I write complex sentences for a report, and then I think of them. I order a chicken fajita, and then I want one. I call Pooch over to play, and then I realise I want to.
And I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop; I still have no idea why Ride would trigger violence.
By the end of the day, I've learnt to pick up on the simple nonverbal urges that happen before my words, if I'm concentrating. If I didn't know better, I'd almost think these urges are what lead to my actions, with my thoughts actually coming later... but that's obviously absurd.
A knock at my door distracts me, and then someone barges in without waiting for a response. My Academy classmate and fellow Sergeant one district over, Lucy.
"Sergeant Friseal." I say, curtly (and then I want to say, hoping that I can finish this quickly; I don't know how well Ride will handle human interaction. That's a plausible other shoe, actually, now that I think about it)
Huh. The nonverbal urge felt more like "I don't want to be distracted" than anything about not wanting to blow my cover. Interesting.
"Sergeant O'Brien!" She pauses a bit, but recovers, looking determined. "May I take a minute of your time?"
"You already did." I smile. (and then I think that I should probably be kinder to an old friend, especially one who seems to have come down especially to see me)
...and I'm freaking out inside, just a bit, and just how normal this must look, from the outside. The urge this time was just about... continuing a pleasant interaction? and, jeez, possibly some latent attraction to Lucy? and yet, this all comes out completely normal, as far as she can tell.
As far as I can tell?
She takes it as assent, anyway. "I heard something... disturbing, Lance. One of your officers - a Constable Jones? I heard he was actively threatening a civilian."
I frown, and say "That can't be right. There must be some mistake. A cop would never-" (and then I think, that that can't be right, that cops serve the public trust, that a cop would never actually threaten a civilian)
"That's what I said, too." Lucy's frowning as well, now. "But my witness assures me of what he saw, and he could identify the Constable from a series of photos."
"Maybe we need to do more training. But I promise you, your witness is mistaken. I'll organise some courses." (and then I think, that that is indeed significant evidence, but this is still preposterous, cops-my cops-would absolutely never and there must have been some misunderstanding, and I'll make some token effort but seriously)
Wait, what? That felt like... trying to avoid something painful, like glimpsing something and looking away hurriedly. What the hell was that?
Lucy doesn't like it, but the finality in my voice must have been clear. She takes her leave.
What the hell was that?
I figured it out.
Oh god I figured it out.
I'm curled up, on my bed, shivering, printed pages scattered about me. The sun's last rays left me here so long ago, and it's cold besides. The blanket lies under me, and it would be the work of a second to roll myself up in it -
- but that would require doing something, and that would require hearing my own mind betray me again.
This is how the mind works, I know that now. The vast majority of it we never notice, and that goes for speaking and thinking as much as it goes for breathing. The consciousness, that which we think of as us...
It's...
...well...
It's nothing more than a politician. Occasionally not ineffectual, but constantly taking credit. It observes the mind at work, and spins stories to convince itself that it's in charge.
I spin stories to convince myself that I'm in charge.
And all Ride has to do is slow down the politician. Just enough, so that it notices. The rest of my mind works just fine... getting on with its business without my involvement.
Ride doesn't hand control of your body to someone. It shows you that you were never in control in the first place.
I'm frozen, on my bed. I can't even - I can't do -
I can't -
I -
When I wake up, the first thing I notice is that the Ride has worn off. The illusion of control is back, and I revel in it. A bad dream, I tell myself, and I care not which I or which myself.
It's only about midday, when I see Constable Jones, that the dream shatters.
I hail him.
"Constable," I say, and I pause. I know that I want to check his story, now; I know that I wasn't giving Lucy's complaint its due weight yesterday. But I can't stop myself from wondering which part of me thinks that, which part of me noticed that, and what the rest of me really wants.
"Sergeant O'Brien. Sir." The constable adopts his professional tone, the only one I've ever seen him wear with me. "Forgive me for saying so, sir, but you look pale. Are you okay?"
I... am I feeling okay? I think I'm feeling okay, but am I just saying that so I can question Jones? If I was flinching from even thinking I made a mistake with Jones, what am I doing right now?
"Jones, I order you..." I feel dizzy, and my head is swimming.
God, I want some Ride.
Things were so much clearer with Ride.
"I order you to submit to an inquiry from Sergeant Friseal..."
"Sergeant? I would suggest, Sarge, that I have done nothing wrong, and do not deserve to be treated this way. May I at least know the charges against me?"
I pull myself together. Or an "I" and a "myself", anyway. The illusion of control, huh? Who even is the I, right now?
"No, Constable. You answer to her until the inquiry is finished."
His expression turns pleading. "I must insist, Sergeant, on being treated fairly. Surely my status as one of your constables holds some weight?"
I'm not sure who does it.
There is the me that finally notices - that gleam of self-satisfaction in his eyes, that hint of manipulation, that sense of wrongness that in retrospect had pervaded every conversation I've ever had with Constable Adric Jones, but that I had brushed off, never wanting to see...
There is the me that reacts intensely to the Constable unknowingly reminding me of my bad treatment of my friend, yesterday...
There is the me that's just had enough of this, that just wants to go back to a world that makes sense, that finds a convenient scapegoat in the Constable before me...
There is even the me that simply can't put up with insubordination. (He's new.)
In any case, it is right at this moment that I realise I don't care who does it.
I punch Constable Jones in the face.
Management notes that this story appears to have been in large part inspired by two of Greg Egan's short stories, Learning to Be Me and Mister Volition, and that the science in this story is absolutely real, though interpretations are controversial and Lance may have taken some liberties besides.
Management would also like to thank lrig_rorrim for commentary and suggestions leading to significant improvements. She's awesome, yall, go read her stuff!
I want that on the record: I wasn't even curious. I tried to pass the packet of dark red powder on to Chemical, but there were cancellations and delays and bureaucracy, and eventually, I was simply running out of time and options to figure out why the streets were boiling over.
And it was harmless. That was the one thing the scattered reports agreed on: You took Ride, and you continued on with your life. Everyone had a different explanation for how it made an addict out of you, but they all agreed there were no outward effects.
So, when the Rattatats publicly executed anyone in their territory who even breathed the word - November 5th, you remember, right? - I felt my hand was forced.
I took a couple of milligrams just before bed.
I wake up, feeling absolutely normal. A bit tense, maybe, but that's nothing unusual. I frown at my ceiling, wondering whether I slept through the effects...
I get up.
I should get up.
...Wait, what? What just happened? I swear my body was moving before I wanted to get up. What's going on here?
I head over to the bathroom to do my morning routine.
I should continue with my morning routine, and see what happens.
...there it is again. I can feel bile rising in my throat, sheer instinctual revulsion at the idea of something else controlling my body.
My heartbeat rises, and my skin feels clammy.
I panic. I'm panicking. I break - broke - out into a cold sweat. What the hell!? What the fuck does Ride even do? There's no fucking way, no fucking way some powder can hand control of my body to someone -
- wait.
I do nothing. My heartbeat slows down.
I try to do nothing. I calm down, as I realise that I'm succeeding, that I'm still in control, just in reverse.
I say 'Recognition code 98, I am a sasquatch.'.
Let's try the old sasquatch recognition code that I'd dreamed up, back when I read fantasy about mind control.
...And yes, there it is. My mouth said the words before I even wanted to say them, but I did want to say them, and those words could only have come from me. How... disturbing. How weird.
How fascinating.
So, yes, it doesn't appear to be debilitating. I can see why Riders would appear to live completely normal lives.
I head towards my dresser.
I should get dressed and go to work.
I think about Ride, all day. I can't help it; every decision I make, every thing I do, reminds me that I'm somehow working backwards.
I write complex sentences for a report, and then I think of them. I order a chicken fajita, and then I want one. I call Pooch over to play, and then I realise I want to.
And I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop; I still have no idea why Ride would trigger violence.
By the end of the day, I've learnt to pick up on the simple nonverbal urges that happen before my words, if I'm concentrating. If I didn't know better, I'd almost think these urges are what lead to my actions, with my thoughts actually coming later... but that's obviously absurd.
A knock at my door distracts me, and then someone barges in without waiting for a response. My Academy classmate and fellow Sergeant one district over, Lucy.
"Sergeant Friseal." I say, curtly (and then I want to say, hoping that I can finish this quickly; I don't know how well Ride will handle human interaction. That's a plausible other shoe, actually, now that I think about it)
Huh. The nonverbal urge felt more like "I don't want to be distracted" than anything about not wanting to blow my cover. Interesting.
"Sergeant O'Brien!" She pauses a bit, but recovers, looking determined. "May I take a minute of your time?"
"You already did." I smile. (and then I think that I should probably be kinder to an old friend, especially one who seems to have come down especially to see me)
...and I'm freaking out inside, just a bit, and just how normal this must look, from the outside. The urge this time was just about... continuing a pleasant interaction? and, jeez, possibly some latent attraction to Lucy? and yet, this all comes out completely normal, as far as she can tell.
As far as I can tell?
She takes it as assent, anyway. "I heard something... disturbing, Lance. One of your officers - a Constable Jones? I heard he was actively threatening a civilian."
I frown, and say "That can't be right. There must be some mistake. A cop would never-" (and then I think, that that can't be right, that cops serve the public trust, that a cop would never actually threaten a civilian)
"That's what I said, too." Lucy's frowning as well, now. "But my witness assures me of what he saw, and he could identify the Constable from a series of photos."
"Maybe we need to do more training. But I promise you, your witness is mistaken. I'll organise some courses." (and then I think, that that is indeed significant evidence, but this is still preposterous, cops-my cops-would absolutely never and there must have been some misunderstanding, and I'll make some token effort but seriously)
Wait, what? That felt like... trying to avoid something painful, like glimpsing something and looking away hurriedly. What the hell was that?
Lucy doesn't like it, but the finality in my voice must have been clear. She takes her leave.
What the hell was that?
I figured it out.
Oh god I figured it out.
I'm curled up, on my bed, shivering, printed pages scattered about me. The sun's last rays left me here so long ago, and it's cold besides. The blanket lies under me, and it would be the work of a second to roll myself up in it -
- but that would require doing something, and that would require hearing my own mind betray me again.
This is how the mind works, I know that now. The vast majority of it we never notice, and that goes for speaking and thinking as much as it goes for breathing. The consciousness, that which we think of as us...
It's...
...well...
It's nothing more than a politician. Occasionally not ineffectual, but constantly taking credit. It observes the mind at work, and spins stories to convince itself that it's in charge.
I spin stories to convince myself that I'm in charge.
And all Ride has to do is slow down the politician. Just enough, so that it notices. The rest of my mind works just fine... getting on with its business without my involvement.
Ride doesn't hand control of your body to someone. It shows you that you were never in control in the first place.
I'm frozen, on my bed. I can't even - I can't do -
I can't -
I -
When I wake up, the first thing I notice is that the Ride has worn off. The illusion of control is back, and I revel in it. A bad dream, I tell myself, and I care not which I or which myself.
It's only about midday, when I see Constable Jones, that the dream shatters.
I hail him.
"Constable," I say, and I pause. I know that I want to check his story, now; I know that I wasn't giving Lucy's complaint its due weight yesterday. But I can't stop myself from wondering which part of me thinks that, which part of me noticed that, and what the rest of me really wants.
"Sergeant O'Brien. Sir." The constable adopts his professional tone, the only one I've ever seen him wear with me. "Forgive me for saying so, sir, but you look pale. Are you okay?"
I... am I feeling okay? I think I'm feeling okay, but am I just saying that so I can question Jones? If I was flinching from even thinking I made a mistake with Jones, what am I doing right now?
"Jones, I order you..." I feel dizzy, and my head is swimming.
God, I want some Ride.
Things were so much clearer with Ride.
"I order you to submit to an inquiry from Sergeant Friseal..."
"Sergeant? I would suggest, Sarge, that I have done nothing wrong, and do not deserve to be treated this way. May I at least know the charges against me?"
I pull myself together. Or an "I" and a "myself", anyway. The illusion of control, huh? Who even is the I, right now?
"No, Constable. You answer to her until the inquiry is finished."
His expression turns pleading. "I must insist, Sergeant, on being treated fairly. Surely my status as one of your constables holds some weight?"
I'm not sure who does it.
There is the me that finally notices - that gleam of self-satisfaction in his eyes, that hint of manipulation, that sense of wrongness that in retrospect had pervaded every conversation I've ever had with Constable Adric Jones, but that I had brushed off, never wanting to see...
There is the me that reacts intensely to the Constable unknowingly reminding me of my bad treatment of my friend, yesterday...
There is the me that's just had enough of this, that just wants to go back to a world that makes sense, that finds a convenient scapegoat in the Constable before me...
There is even the me that simply can't put up with insubordination. (He's new.)
In any case, it is right at this moment that I realise I don't care who does it.
I punch Constable Jones in the face.
Management notes that this story appears to have been in large part inspired by two of Greg Egan's short stories, Learning to Be Me and Mister Volition, and that the science in this story is absolutely real, though interpretations are controversial and Lance may have taken some liberties besides.
Management would also like to thank lrig_rorrim for commentary and suggestions leading to significant improvements. She's awesome, yall, go read her stuff!