DN - Brain Untangle

“You don’t understand!” says Karen, shrugging away from me. “I’ve got her memories. And her mother’s memories, and her mother’s memories. All of them. All the way back to the beginning. More of them every day.”

“And that’s…that’s bad?”

“Yes, it’s fucking bad!” shouts Karen. “Memory isn’t what we remember, it’s who we are. The way we think, what we want, our opinions. Everything. I’m sixteen. She was twelve hundred. I don’t—I can’t compete with that!” She begins to pace, hugging herself tight. “Her memories are changing me, making me think thoughts that aren’t mine. It’s getting harder and harder to remember what’s me and what’s her. Keeping track of myself is like squirting an eyedropper full of dye into a swimming pool. I see a dog and I remember a German Shepard I once had, but it’s not me, it’s my fucking great-grandmother who had a dog.”

Karen sinks back down onto the couch. Her wings fold protectively around her shoulders. “Valkyrja wants to come back from the dead, and she’ll kill me to do it.”

“She…” I have to fight not to stammer. “Valkyrja wouldn’t…” Karen sets her jaw, eyes daring me to finish that sentence. “Okay. Okay, that sucks. What can I do to help?”

Karen’s wings relax. “You’re stronger than the other Dreadnoughts. You can do things they couldn’t. You told me—” she flinches “—told her, I mean, that you could see…what did you call it, the lattice? And tug on it?”

“Yeah, the lattice. It’s sort of the backside of reality.”

Karen nods. “I want you to see if you can reach into my head and pull this…thing out.”

I sit down across from her. “Karen, I can try, but—”

She nods sharply. “Good. Try.”

***

There are two things I never get tired of looking at. The stars from low orbit and human brains. Once you’re above the atmosphere, the stars are a brilliant spray of millions and millions of points of light. It’s hard to believe how many of them there are until you get up there and see them. You can sort of get a feel for this if you head into the deep woods on a cold, still night, but that’s nothing compared to the view you get from orbit.

Brains, viewed through the lattice, give me that same kick of awe. The squishy stuff inside your skull is a densely complicated biological computer. Millions of cells, billions of connections. Nerve endings fire in waves, each thought traced in swirling wet fractals. Every one of us has a miracle wrapped up inside our heads. Sometimes I don’t even sleep at night, I just lie down, close my eyes, and look at my own brain for hours until it’s time to get back up.

Karen’s brain is beautiful. A compact, folded-up galaxy swirling with energy and light, a bundle of heat and potential. But there’s something else here too. It’s almost like there’s a second pattern, laid over and alongside the first. It definitely feels like a different entity. Denser. Colder. As I watch, two of the strings from the second pattern get tangled with a string from the first. There’s a flash of light and heat, and then I can’t tell where one pattern is and another begins.

“I can see it,” I say. “It’s uh, it’s tangled up in there.”

“Get it out, get it out!”

“Hold on, this might be painful…”

I’ve been practicing with the lattice for months. The first time I directly grabbed the strings of reality and pulled them in a new direction, I hurt myself badly. Since then, I’ve started small, worked on delicacy and control. Now I can be very subtle when I have time to put effort into it. But this…this is something way beyond anything I’ve ever tried. Slowly, I extend my senses until I can feel one of the strings of her pattern. It seems to slide through my fingers, vibrate in my chest. When I have a good grip, I reach for a string from the other pattern, the interloper. Gently, I begin to pull them apart, let them relax, pull again, let them relax. One by one, the patterns begin to pull away from each other, threads parting with bursts of light.

Karen hisses, clenches.

“Are you okay?”

“Keep going,” she says.

“I want you to tell me if it gets too painful.”

She grunts out a yes, which turns into a whimper.

Little by little I separate the two patterns until I come to a big tangle of these strings, wrapped in and around Karen’s mind. I search and I search, but there’s no easy way to undo these knots.

“Can you tell if it is working?” I ask.

“I…I don’t know. I think so. There are…I can’t…yes. Keep going.”

“All right. I think this next part is really going to suck; are you sure you want me to—”

“Yes!” she practically screams. “Just do it!”

With another deep breath to steady myself, I try to work the bundle loose, separate it out into its individual strands. The patterns start to peel away from each other with pops of heat. Karen hisses and clenches and then begins to scream.

I slam out of her head as fast as I can. “Okay, that’s enough, no more tonight.”

“No, wait…” Karen reaches out for me and almost falls on her face before I catch her. “We have…we have to keep going.” Her left wing spasms.

“And we will, but not right now. You need to rest.”

“Please,” she mutters into my chest.

“I think I got some of it,” I say as I set her back on the couch. “Why don’t you see if you’re missing any of Valkyrja’s memories?”

Karen closes her bloodshot eyes and wraps her wings around herself. After a moment, a quiet smile softens her face. “Yes, I can’t remember what Sveldholt’s main hall looked like anymore. I know that I did have that memory, but it’s gone now.” She opens her eyes, and it’s like she’s a different person, happy and free. “Thank you. I feel…more like myself.”

- Sovereign, Chapter 8