Machine Man - Max Barry [59]
“So if my VMPFC were suppressed, I’d feel less guilt, but otherwise be the same.”
“A lot less guilt.”
“Right. A lot less guilt.”
“And/or regret. They both lit up the VMPFC.”
I pondered this. “Is there a difference between guilt and regret?”
Jason stared blankly. “I don’t … think … so.”
“I guess one is …” I shook my head. “Lost it.”
“Emotions aren’t really my … area of expertise.”
“Let’s assume they’re the same.”
“Okay.” He looked at the screen. “I’m not sure how you’d suppress the VMPFC, though. I mean … without actually … cutting it out.”
An awkward silence descended. I had crushed my right leg in front of Jason. He had tried to stop me. Then I crushed my hand in front of him. He possibly had unresolved feelings. “I guess that would be kind of drastic.”
“Kind of irreversible.”
“Although I wouldn’t regret it.” This was a joke. Jason stared at me. “Because of the lack of a functioning ventromedial prefrontal cortex.”
“Oh. Yes.”
I tried again. “It’s what people aspire to, isn’t it? A life lived without regret? That’s a saying.”
“But doesn’t that mean you should be bold? Take risks? Not surgically excise the capacity for regret from your brain.”
“Hmm,” I said. “I suppose so, yes.”
“One thing that surprises me about this place,” said Jason. “No one ever says shouldn’t. As in, you shouldn’t do that. They’ll tell you something’s impossible, or too expensive. But never wrong. And I know we’re builders, not philosophers. I read the mission statement. But sometimes I wish we had some ethical documentation. I kind of want someone very wise to tell me there are some things I shouldn’t do even though they can be done. Is that stupid? It’s probably because my family, you know, they’re Chinese, and growing up they were very strict. Very moral. I fought them. But now I’m free, I’m floating, like I’ve lost my feet. Do you know what I mean?”
“Not really.”
“No?”
“I don’t worry about religion.”
“It’s not necessarily—”
“Anyway,” I said, because Jason was getting seriously off track, “what about a helmet. Fixed needles, each capable of delivering a measured dose of tetrodotoxin to various areas of the brain. Press a button: bam, take out the VMPFC.” I gestured to the screen. “Or whatever area needs suppressing for a few hours.”
“Uh …”
“And not just tetrodotoxin. Adenosine, for alertness. Any chemical, primed for delivery to the right spot at the right time. That’s interesting.”
“I don’t know if … I mean, there’s a lot that could go wrong.”
It was a fair point. I needed my brain. It was one of the few parts I couldn’t replace. I shouldn’t rush in. On the other hand, injecting localized neurodoses of tetrodotoxin for guilt suppression was a really good idea. “Let’s just do one.”
“One?”
“Injection. For testing.”
“I’m not sure I should do that.”
“Sure you should. I’m telling you to.”
“Uh.”
“Just position my hand in the right place and give me a little drill,” I said, because my machine fingers were steadier anyway.
I HAD never been very interested in hacking my head before. You would think so, but no. I had tried things: coffee, energy drinks, alcohol, caffeine pills. But I had never been enthused. As I watched a screen showing myself sliding a needle through my skull, I thought I understood why. Swallowing something gave control to the pill. Drug addicts were called users, and now I realized how appropriate that was. Pills made you a passenger. To control your own experience, you needed to build it. You couldn’t ever truly own anything you couldn’t modify. I had always thought that.
I retracted the needle. Jason taped a small cotton patch over the entry wound. It was on the top of my head; when I straighted in the Contours, it should be invisible. He stepped back. “Do you feel anything?”
I opened my mouth to say no, then realized maybe yes. Because when I thought about Carl, that situation seemed pretty okay. Not great for Carl. It was a bad result for him, due to me. But those were just facts. They carried no emotional connotation. I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “Good.”
I WENT to see Lola. Dawn was