A Future We'd Like To See 1.48 - Food for Thought
By Twoflower (Copyright 1994)
 
     I always got a rush when I sucked out someone's brain.
 
     It's a thrill, bleeding the information out of someone's
mind.  The flood of new ideas to your own mind, like calculus or
nuclear science.  Every meal was a new taste, since the sucker
filtered out information I already knew.  Lately most people only
provided the nourishment of a snack, but occasionally I find a
true genius; a feast.
 
     Each mind had a different taste.  The rare ones, the
intelligent people, offered succulent mathematics, delectable
physics, or the raw meaty texture of history.  Common man
provided more trivial information, things like traffic patterns,
video games, and office ceremony.  Holy men gave the wafers and
wine of great books, philosophers the sugary sweet concepts and
ideas of great thinkers.  Children gave me the sweetest candy of
all, rumors and feelings on other people, childlike imagination
making powdery figments.
 
     I guess eventually one of two things will happen; I will
die, or I will have eaten everything.  Food is scarce these days,
since I already know enough to have the IQ of the galaxy's top
ten thinkers combined.  It's impossible to eat it ALL, but you
can get to the point where your mental stomach is full, or you
know all the important info.
 
     As for being killed, although thought eating isn't
technically a crime, I have eaten the thoughts of many important
people who would love to see me dead.  Although I insist that you
can never 'know too much', I do have incriminating information on
a lot of people.  It doesn't matter though, because the thrill of
behind hunted only amplifies your hunger.
 
     Many who have read this far probably think I am disturbed,
carving open the heads of others with knives and eating grey
brain material.  Disgusting!  No, I simply refer to it as eating
because the technical terminology is so... plain.  If you must
know, I have about one hundred fold memory and a direct interface
to it via a suction cup neural jack on my right palm.  To consume
a mind, I simply plant the sucker on the victim's forehead, and
download any interesting information to my own brain.  If I want
basic information (hard fact, figure, knowledge) the victim is
left unaffected, albeit dazed.  I can turn the device up to full
strength and suck all the experience and emotion out if I'd like,
but that leaves the victim lobotomized, unable to return to life
and collect more tasty thoughts.
 
     I am sane, as sane as a man can be in these times.  I am the
smartest man alive, knowing almost everything there is to know. 
It's remarkably boring.
 
     I haven't had a decent meal in a month.  Normally I'd be
tracking down university professors or corporate CEOs... how I
would love to sink my teeth into William Doors' mind... but I am
in pursuit of larger quarry at the moment.
 
     I had learned of this person through a bit of investigating. 
The details are sketchy, but apparently a girl has escaped the
MacroWorld colony with a carbon copy of the MacroWare data
banks... and then some.  This girl is rumored to know it all.  I
could feast for days on suck information.
 
     The image of me, hand pressed on the young girl's forehead,
draining her of all she knows, leaving behind an empty shell...
yum.  That's the image that has kept me going this last month
(that and side orders of french fries whenever I can afford
them).
 
     I've been spending my days in this shoddy hotel room,
tracking the smell of her meat.  I've been sweeping the C'atel
streets for eyewitnesses, like a whale filtering krill from an
ocean... grab an innocent bystander, drag them in an alley and
pick through the plate for what I need to know.
 
     I haven't found much.  A few haphazard sightings, but
nothing clear.  She hasn't settled down.  This is enjoyable,
actually... good food needs to be anticipated.  If I stumbled
onto her the first day and fed, it would be rather anticlimactic.
 
     I was reviewing my few leads in the hotel room, cleaning out
the sucker of any sweat or dirt.  Always brush before eating, and
I had a full day of investigating to do.
 
     Knock, knock.  I looked up.
 
     "That you, Tyrell?" a familiar voice came from behind the
door.  I walked over, peering out the tiny peephole.
 
     "There nobody named Tyrell here," I said, emulating the
accent of a Ytt I had recently eaten.  "Who is it?  I call police
you no go away!"
 
     "What, you don't recognize me?"
 
     "I calling now!" I said, not actually dialing.  (If any of
the local police sighted me, word would get out to the dozen odd
assassins and agents following me.  As mentioned, I had the minds
of many who wanted me dead.)
 
     "Maybe you'll recognize this," the man said, pressing his
hand against the peephole.  Through the lens, it was hard to make
out, but there was the distinctive green rubber and the TYRELL
MODEL SIX stamping.
 
     I paused.  My location was known; although I loathe social
calls and smalltalk, I had better pander.  I opened the door.
 
     He was there.  I SHOULD have recognized him from before, as
he was one of the four clients I had before dropping out of the
biotech business to pursue dinner.  He had on the same
LOLLAPALOOZA '92 t-shirt (albeit a bit worn), some 501 blue
jeans, and Reebok Pumps.
 
     "Tyrell dude!  I heard you were in town, and figured I'd
stop by," N.M. said, opening his arms for a hug.
 
     I stood still.  "What do you want, N.M.?"
 
     "Nosty to you," N.M. replied, taking back the hug.  "Oh, not
much.  Figured I'd hang loose and chill with my buddyboy doctor
type for awhile.  Want a Pixie Stick?"
 
     "If your hardware is damaged, I'll fix it, but then I need
you out of here," I said, pulling out my surgery kit.
 
     "What, the sucker?  Naw!  It's working GREAT.  I've gathered
so much stuff on the twentieth century.  All stored perfectly. 
I'm almost done, too.  Just need the Bloom County cartoons,
bodice-rippers and the bits about the Information Superhighway."
 
     "If it's not broken, leave.  I have more important things to
do than deal with the Nostalgia Man," I said, urging him out the
door.
 
     N.M. dropped his normally cheery expression.  "Hey, *I* have
better things to do than deal with some half-crazed intelligence
addict.  As much as I like social calls and as much as you hate
them, this is business."
 
     "What business?"
 
     "You're looking for someone," he said, wandering around the
hotel room, picking at things.  I always hated that.  He'd walk
around a room, pointing out the twentieth century influences in
this object or that.  It gets on your nerves.  "In the market for
the big fish this time, aren't you, Tyrell?  Hey, check out the
ashtray.  Early seventies Jack in the Box style."
 
     "You know of her?" I asked.
 
     "Depends.  How much do you know?"
 
     "I know that the subject is female, and escaped from
MacroWorld recently.  I also know that she holds a vast amount of
information.  Just that and nothing more."
 
     "What?  No, silly, I mean about the Golden Age.  I told you
my files were incomplete.  Let's do a swap, everything you know
about the good 'ol days that I don't, in return for more
information on this girl."
 
     "I could just take it from you," I considered.  Although
stale, history files were history files, and Nostalgia Man was a
smorgasbord of those.
 
     "Try," he said, pushing his head towards me.
 
     I paused.  Obviously a trap.  However, one must complete the
social ritual of falling for the practical joke.  If you don't
complete the rituals, they get dragged out, prolonging the pain
of social contact.  So I pressed my sucker against his forehead,
and fed.
 
     Or tried to.  Nothing came through.  I withdrew the sucker,
Nostalgia Man laughing.
 
     "Modifications," he said, tapping his forehead.  "Nobody's
taking MY memories.  I rightfully earned them.  Now, about that
deal.  I scan you for what I want, I *tell* you what you need."
 
     I growled.  I hated talking and N.M. knew it.  Direct mental
links were more efficient and calming... talking soured the fact.
 
     "Deal?" he asked, sticking out the non-suckered hand to
shake.
 
     "Deal," I agreed, reluctantly.  "Make it fast, and do not
try any neural scramblers."
 
     "I don't have any," N.M. said, twisting his sucker into the
ON position.  "Unlike you, I get my fond memories with owner's
permission.  Now let's see what we can see..."
 
     N.M. pressed his palm against my forehead, downloading
select bits of my mind.  He didn't go for everything, even if he
COULD store it... that's not how N.M. worked.
 
     Five minutes later, he was done.  He retracted, giggling.
 
     "There.  Now tell me of the girl," I demanded.
 
     "Hee hee... man, Opus is such a card..." N.M. laughed, a
euphoric look on his face.  I suppose old trivia is an acquired
taste.  "Alright.  Thanks, man.  Anyway, you want to know about
her?"
 
     "Yes," I said.  "To eat her would bring me THAT much closer
to filling up... knowing it all.  I see her in my dreams,
unclothed and prone, and myself draining her dry, a final act of
mental sharing and submission..."
 
     "Ummm... yeah.  Tyrell, you need a girlfriend bad, you're
starting to lose it."
 
     I ignored him.  Insane people like him never understood my 
obsessions.  How could I explain my own driving instinct to a man
whose sole mission in life is to know all the words to every
gangsta rap, do-wop, and punk song made?
 
     "Normally I'd not tell you," N.M. said.  "After all, I'd
rather not see her come to any harm.  She's quite nice and
sociable really, knows quite a bit about the age of
enlightenment.  But a deal's a deal.  I should have known you'd
be in one of these twisted Fatal Attraction mindsets."
 
     "Spare me your holier-than-thou words and tell me of her."
 
     "Alright.  Her name's Help.  She's an AI/Android type
person, red hair, carries a green umbrella at all times.  She's
living at the moment on the south side of C'atel.  That's all I'm
telling you, best of luck."
 
     This matched my mental picture of her, my impressions from
the minds of so many cattle... it fit.  My obsession was
confirmed.
 
     "I will leave no stone unturned until I find her!" I
announced to the world at large.  "Thank you, Nostalgia Man."
 
     "Nosty," he corrected.  "And don't thank me."
 
                              *
 
     N.M. left directly after that, for parts unknown.  I didn't
care; the location of one insane maniac is unimportant.  Now I
had a definite area to search.
 
     Once in south side, I began the process of mentally mugging
various tourists, searching for the location of a red-haired girl
with an umbrella.  It was easier now that I had a physical ID and
general location... all sources pointed to a housing booth in
Vending Machine Alley.
 
     I know all about the housing booths.  They were a new
experiment in teleportation and real estate... linking a meta-
door to a apartment somewhere low rent, say, the bottom of the
ocean or deep space.  Prime location for low cost, Unreal Estate. 
Dangerously unstable, however; with my knowledge of the universe,
I could see the flaws in the equation.  Such faults were rare,
however, and from what I knew of statistics, these errors would
not keep me away from her.
 
     Hunger pangs usually kick in hours before I know I am about
to feast.  Anticipation and adrenaline mix, putting my senses on
edge, sharpening them.  It was the pre-high to the actual high. 
I had to try typing in the house number to her meta-apartment
three times, shaking hands typing in wrong numbers.
 
     When I finally did get her number correct, the automatic
intercom clicked on.
 
     "Hello?" spoke a young girl's voice.  The voice that had
read aloud all there is to know in the universe, the voice of
truth... but I digress.
 
     "Repairman," I replied, putting on the gruff accent of a
blue collar worker.  "UE Enterprises.  We've found a fault in
your door and need to do some emergency repairs."
 
     It was a good alibi... I certainly knew enough about the
technology to change the bluff into a winning hand.  I expected
some drill on why the door was broken when it seemed fine, but
instead there was a pause.  Hushed whispers.  And then the voice
of acceptance, resignment to her fate : "Okay, come on in."
 
     I twisted the sucker to ON, and prepared to dive through the
door.  It would be beautiful... lying there on her cot, feeding
for hours and hours.  In the end, I would be the smartest man
alive, and she'd be a babbling wreck.  An unfortunate side
effect, but a noble sacrifice.
 
     I took three steps back, and a running jump.
 
                              *
 
     My molecules shifted, convinced that they'd really rather be
thousands of miles away in a low rent apartment, and I was there. 
On the floor.
 
     This wasn't planned.  What was planned was to take Help
unaware and start the food supply before she could object, not to
trip over a simple ankle-high rope and fall flat on my face...
 
     An iron-hard rod pressed against the small of my back.  "Got
ya," she said, from somewhere above.
 
     I twisted around, to see the girl keeping me prone with an
umbrella on the spine.  She didn't look confused or submissive or
anything, just smug.
 
     "This him?" Help asked to a man out of my vision range.
 
     "Yeah, that's him," N.M. replied.  He got up and walked over
to where I could see him.  "Greetings, Tyrell.  Miss me?"
 
     I could have hurled one of a million known insults at him,
but what good would it do?
 
     "I had some second thoughts," Nostalgia Man said.  "See,
Help here's one of my good friends.  I figured, I've gone and
announced her presence to someone that'll likely kill her. 
However, NOWHERE in our deal did it say I couldn't warn her ahead
of time, right?  Nod your head.  Good."
 
     "So what do we do now?" Help asked, keeping me down.  For a
small girl armed only with water protection gear, she had a way
of keeping you down by raw strength in just the right place...
 
     "Well, we could kill him or toss him to the seven or eight
guys that shadowed him here, but that isn't any fun.  Enough is
Enough and Free your Mind and Silence the Violence," N.M.
recited.  "'course, if we let him go, he'll probably just go
after you again.  Any ideas?"
 
     This was unacceptable.  I was only an arms reach away from
my destiny, being held down by a little girl?!  This isn't how
things worked!  I had to break free, wrench N.M.'s head off, and
feed, it was just how things HAD to be...
 
     "I don't like the idea of him stalking me," Help said. 
"I've got a new life to lead, after all, and the less enemies the
better.  Any way we could get him off my back but NOT kill him?"
 
     "How about Gilligan's Island?" N.M. suggested.  "Here, knock
him out and I'll show you."
 
     The umbrella was pulled off my spinal column.  I rolled
over, preparing to spring... and the last thing I saw was the 
umbrella pulled into the arc of a swing, red hair tossled
around... my god, she was beautiful.
 
     Then the collapsible plastic around the rod smacked into the
side of my head and everything went black.
 
                              *
 
     I awake from a drug-induced sleep.  Internal clocks told me
four days had passed.
 
     Where was I?  It didn't look like the eternally raining city
of C'atel... more of a deserted planet, very pleasant to the eye,
very empty.
 
     What was the last thing I remembered?  The muse of knowledge
hitting me... but before that, something about an island.
 
     Search through the digested food.  Recognition, show about a
group of people stranded on an island they can never escape--
 
     Never escape?
 
     Never leave, never be able to find her again?
 
     No.  Impossible.  There is no such thing as never.  I would
find a way to get off of this rock, to retrace my steps back to
my fate.  It would just take time.
 
     Time during which I could hunger.  Dessert is served last; I
could wait.  I could wait as long as neccesary... for her.