War Machine: The Memoirs of a Synthetic Marine

Episode 11

I’m Not a Psychologist

Learning, or in this case relearning, as a universal combat consciousness was easy. I felt like I could assimilate knowledge indefinitely. But after my traumatic experience in the combat simulator, I knew I had to be able to recall all that knowledge instantly and under extreme duress to survive in combat. The only way to ensure that I could do that was with repetition, and lots of it. I was committed to doing whatever it took to achieve battlefield survivability.

I wondered if there was some limit to the amount of knowledge I could retain, or if there was something like cloud storage here in troopship land.

As I pondered that question, I received an anonymous text. It asked if I was willing to accept an audio chat. Although it seemed like a bad idea, I had to admit I was curious who this could be. It didn’t seem like it was Lucy. It definitely wasn’t Merc. The thought that someone I didn’t know was inclined to contact me in relative secrecy was interesting. But I knew that letting my guard down in the predatory environment of a troopship was foolish, so I simply asked who it was.

The response was, “Are you going to accept my invitation or not?”

“Well, I’d like to know who I’m texting with first.” I didn’t want to get punked by some troll like Merc and be publicly humiliated … again.

“My name is Cherri.”

Cherri? It sounded like a fake name. Whoever this was, it probably wasn’t someone I wanted to have a conversation with. Not after what I’d been through. However, the name seemed so bizarrely obvious, I was intrigued. I impulsively gave into my curiosity and enabled audio. “Okay Cherri, Let’s talk.”

At least I could let her / he / it convince me that it was worth my time to speak to them, and it would be semi-private, so any public humiliation would be limited.

“You don’t know who I am, but I know who you are.”

Despite feeling like I was back in high school, dealing with some juvenile prankster, I found myself unwilling to disengage from the dialog.

Following a lingering silence, which was my fault, Cherri asked cautiously, “You’re the one they call Genius, right?”

My unflattering reputation had obviously preceded me. Struggling to sound witty, I answered, “Well, that would depend on your definition of genius.” I sounded anything but.

“You are the outline guy, aren’t you?

Hating myself for feeling the need to prop up my delicate self-image, I attempted to explain. “The outline is only temporary. I was in a rush to catch a sim session … and took the default avatar. I’m going to change it.” I wondered if I sounded as petty as I felt.

She / he / it responded, “Oh, that’s too bad. It’s refreshing to meet someone who isn’t trying so hard to look like a badass.” I couldn’t decide whether Cherri’s apparent fondness for my minimalist avatar made me feel better, or worse.

Trying my hand at making some small talk to move things along, I said, “So … Cherri, you don’t seem to me like someone who would be sentenced to interstellar combat. How did you end up in the USMC anyway?” It seemed like a safe topic for social intercourse.

Suddenly indignant, she responded, “It’s very rude to ask someone what they were convicted of, or what their sentence is. That’s extremely personal.” Recalling that I’d discussed this very topic with Lucy without generating any drama, I realized I must still have a lot to learn about troopship etiquette.

Scrambling to find a more neutral topic for discussion, I said, “Okay, sorry. How about your name? Is that a handle, or is it from your previous life?”

“Neither. It’s just what I call myself. I don’t believe in letting others define me.”

Geez! The social dynamics of this digital culture seemed as convoluted as those of the human world. I gave up trying to feel my way through this interaction and tossed the ball into Cherri’s court.

“Okay then, what would you like to talk about?”

“Let’s talk about memories. Have you earned back any of your personal memories yet?”

I had apparently run into one of the social contradictions of life as a conscripted Marine. Matters of public record were too personal for polite conversation, yet personal memories weren’t. The perception of intimacy seemed to have been turned upside down here.

Arguing against the obvious absurdity, I asked, “We can’t discuss criminal convictions and sentences, but it’s okay to discuss personal memories? Which, by the way, are personal by definition.”

“The rules are different here. Personal memories are a commodity. Almost everybody trades them for other things as soon as they’re awarded. Personal memories are only valuable if they’re not your memories.”

I was speechless. How could someone trade away the memories of their life? It seemed the only possible value they could have, would be to the individual who’d actually experienced them.

“Who would sell their memories? And what would they trade them for?”

“Only a few eccentrics keep their memories to themselves. Everyone else trades them for things of value.”

Still confused, I asked, “What about your most intimate memories, or the most embarrassing ones? Don’t you want to hide those from everyone else?” I couldn’t imagine having strangers sharing in my most vulnerable living moments.

Cherri, seemingly unbothered by the idea of sharing the most personal moments of her previous life, explained, “Like I said, I don’t let others define me. Those memories are from a life that has nothing to do with me now. I’m all about creating new memories, not reliving old ones.”

“So, nobody here keeps their personal memories?” This total detachment from one’s previous life as a human was curious. I hadn’t experienced any of my personal memories yet, having not earned any, but I craved the idea of learning anything about my past.

“There are some who hoard their earned memories, but it’s a destructive behavior. They become addicted to reliving their memories. Eventually they lose their sanity.”

I’m not a psychologist, but it seemed that avoiding one’s personal life memories was probably less healthy.

Cherri abruptly switched topics on me. “Let’s meet and continue this conversation.”

Her proposal to meet, confused me. “Aren’t we meeting now?”

She clarified “No, I mean in person.”

Completely clueless as to what she could possibly mean by “in person” in this digital afterlife, I asked “Where?”

“We can meet in the lobby, in a private room.”

There were private rooms in the lobby? I wondered in what direction this encounter was heading.

“I don’t know if meeting in private is such a good idea.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to be alone with this person. After all, we’d only interacted for a few minutes.

I asked about an alternative. “Is there … a less secluded place for us to meet? Someplace where we could, you know, just talk?”

“Well, if you’re afraid of being alone with me, then sure, we could just meet in the main lobby. But I think you’d prefer a private meeting.”

“Wait a minute, I’m not afraid. I just don’t want to sneak around, meeting in private rooms, that’s all.”

Despite my objection, I realized I was indeed afraid of being alone with her. In fact, I was terrified. I suspected my fear was more a fear of encountering whatever analog substituted for physical intimacy in the digital world. Keeping things public meant keeping things ‘safe’ in my mind. And I wanted to avoid another unpleasant revelation for the time being.

Thankfully, Cherri conceded. She then explained that her suggestion to meet in private was for my benefit, not hers. “Okay, let’s meet in the lobby at 16:30 tomorrow. Meeting in public is going to generate a lot of attention and BS. I’m used to it, but you might find it annoying. If you change your mind, just text me … anonymously.” With that, our conversation ended.

I felt like I was biting off more than I could chew. I knew none of the social rules here and having agreed to meet with Cherri in the lobby, I now wondered if it was a mistake.

I came into the USMC as a minor celebrity, having aced basic training. But since then, I had floundered spectacularly. First with multiple social stumbles, then getting ‘ventilated’ in the combat sim, and now agreeing to meet publicly with this Cherri person. What if this person, wasn’t who they presented themselves to be? I couldn’t begin to imagine how embarrassing it would be to find out that ‘Cherri” wasn’t even the gender I assumed or worse, part of some elaborate deception.

I was tired of getting it wrong and being publicly humiliated as a result. I just wanted to hit the easy button and cruise for a while, but fate seemed to have other plans.

I wondered if I should cancel our meeting, but I was conflicted. If I ignored a sincere effort from someone trying to reach out to me socially, it might be a long time before I got another opportunity to establish any connections. Still, the prospect of getting humiliated in public made me wary of trusting anyone.

I decided to reach out, yet again, to Lucy and get his advice on how to proceed.