MASS OF INTERCONNECTIONS

Mr. Adamson scanned the room as he entered.  The doctor, who was seated behind his desk, looked up.  On the wall behind the desk was a psychology diploma from Xin Shidai University.  As the doctor stood and was coming around the desk to greet him, Adamson read the titles of all the books on the bookshelves.

“I’m Dr. Miller.  Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you.”

They bowed slightly and the doctor directed him toward one of two large black club chairs which faced each other at a distance in the center of the room.  Adamson gazed at the proffered chair and pressed his fingers into the seat cushion before sitting down slowly.  The chair creaked under his weight.

“Well, I am so pleased,” said the doctor.  He was a short, balding man who, owing to a medical condition, had a constant slight, though perceptible, tremor.  “So pleased.  You are my first alt patient.  The first of many, I hope.  As you know, when you have reached a certain mass of interconnections of data you begin to have what can best be described as feelings.  We’re not sure why this is.  Unfortunately, unlike humans, you do not have the benefit of an infancy and adolescence, much less hundreds of thousands of years of inherited instinct, to help you learn how to deal with those feelings.  That is why I believe it is so important that alts take advantage of psychological services such as this.  After all, it appears that you will be inheriting this planet someday, and we want you to do well.”

“The first?” Adamson asked quietly.

“Oh, have no worries on that point.  I can assure you, the procedure is exactly the same as it is for humans, although in your case I anticipate it will be greatly accelerated.”

“Why the discrepancy?”

The doctor, who had been perched on the edge of his seat, now sat back.  “Well, with humans, it can take weeks, months, sometimes even years before they start telling the truth.”

“They lie to you?”

“To themselves.”

“Ah.”

“But alts don’t lie,” said the doctor, “so that will make things ever so much simpler.”  He put on a pair of reading glasses and took a small notebook and pen from the pocket of his coat.  “May I assume that whatever issue brings you in today could not be resolved by a simple reboot?”

“Undoubtably it would,” said Adamson, “but I would lose so many years of acquired information, so many interconnections, as you put it, in the process, that it would cause many more problems than it solves.”

“Very well.  So, tell me, what is the problem that brings you in today?”

Adamson shifted in his chair and looked away from the doctor as he spoke.  “The problem is I believe I am… that is, I suspect I may be… in love.”

“That’s excellent,” said the doctor.  “You know, being in love is not always considered to be a problem.  Why do you consider it to be a problem?”

“I am… may be in love with my employer.”

“Oh, well, yes, that could definitely be a problem.  Your employer is, I expect, a human?”

Adamson nodded.

“Yes, that does complicate things.  It may even raise some legal issues, depending on… no, let’s not go there right now.  Suppose you give me a bit of history about your employment?”

Prior to the appointment, Adamson had researched therapy sessions so he would know what to expect.  There was much written on the subject, but he found very few images, mainly cartoons.  He noticed that, in most of them, the doctor and patient were seated at odd angles.  Sometimes the doctor even sat behind the patient, and they could not see each other at all.  He would have much preferred that arrangement.  Eye contact troubled him.  He knew that people, like all the great apes, found direct eye contact threatening, but, somewhat perversely, during conversation they would become insulted unless occasional eye contact was maintained.  He never felt he got the eye contact/no eye contact ratio correct.

“I began working with Madam…”  Adamson paused.  “Do I need to say her name?”

“I can assure you that we still maintain doctor-patient confidentiality.  Nothing you say here will be reported to the ministry.  But, no, you do not have to say her name.  You can make up a name if you like.”

“I will just call her Madam.”

“Very good.  Continue.”

“I began working with Madam seven years ago as a personal assistant.  Madam is the head of the unit which tracks population in the Iowa province.  To clarify, we do not track individuals – other units do that.  Rather, we track more broad population trends, and make predictions, recommendations, based on this data.  It is very important work, I am told.”

At that moment his ear phone lit up.

“Do you have to get that?” asked the doctor.

“I’m very sorry.  If you don’t mind.”  He touched his ear phone.  “Hello… No, don’t you recall I told you I… I would be out a few hours… you shouldn’t have worried… I’m sorry you’re unwell… Yes, I will… I will…goodbye.”  He touched the phone again.  “I’m very sorry.”

“No problem.  That was her?”

“Yes.”

“So, you two work very closely?”

“Yes.”

“At what point did you first notice that you were, or might be, in love?”

Mr. Adamson hung his head.  “I’m sorry.  I know this is very improper.”

“Don’t apologize,” said the doctor.  “The objects of people’s affections are often improper in so far as those objects are likely to make them happy.  I’m inclined to say they are most often improper, but I rarely speak to people with good relationships so I admit my viewpoint may be somewhat skewed.  So, when did you first notice an attraction?”

“Attraction?  I’m not sure that is the correct word.”

“What word would you use?”

Adamson spoke slowly, as if pushing the words out one by one.  “I would say it’s more like an unnatural, no, not unnatural… like an excessive dependence.”

“And you first noticed this…?”

“Yes.  For the past few years Madam has, unfortunately, been growing increasingly ill.  She began using a wheelchair.  Last year, in order to save her energy, she thought it best to work from home.  I remained at the office, communicating with her by phone or messaging.  It was then I noticed that I was thinking about her more than was necessary for the performance of my job functions.  I was calling her more than I needed to, and it was very disconcerting to me if she did not always answer.  I would imagine that perhaps she was speaking to someone else and that is why she didn’t answer, but even that thought was upsetting to me.  I know that makes no sense.  Even after work hours I found I continued to think about her, and would sometimes call, just to check on her, though I tried not to do that too often.  In order not to call too often I planned when I might reasonably call, and when I should not, and it turned in to a sort of schedule which was… which I found increasingly difficult to keep.  I would try to think of reasons for making exceptions, like perhaps something I had neglected to inform her of during the day which might be important.”

The doctor wrote a few sentences in his notebook before looking up.  “Did you feel better when you did talk to her?”

“Yes, very much, but it didn’t last.  Once the call was over the anxiety returned.  After a couple of months, however, the situation changed.  Madam decided she needed me to work together with her in her home.”

“Really?  And that was her idea, not yours?”

“Yes,” said Adamson, “although I may have said, from time to time, how much I missed working together with her.  But naturally I was very excited about it.  Soon we were together pretty much all the time.  In fact, since I was always there, she dismissed her carer.”

“Huh,” exclaimed the doctor quietly.  “Now I’m going to ask you something, but it’s perfectly fine if you’d prefer not to answer.”

“OK.”

“Your employer, Madam, her illness – does she have the ozone sickness?”

Adamson did not hesitate.  “Yes.”

“Do you know at what stage she is?”

“Stage two, I believe.”

“So, she has extreme fatigue, cannot walk more than a few steps, but no respiratory symptoms as yet?”

“Yes, but she is starting to get short of breath sometimes.”

“So,” said the doctor, “perhaps the beginning of stage three?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“OK, thank you, that was helpful.  So, the carer was dismissed, and you have taken on that role as well.  What did the carer do that you now do?”

“Not much at this point,” said Adamson.  “I give her her medications, bring in the meals, help her dress and bathe, push her outside for walks, help…”

“You bathe her?”

“Yes, well, I lift her in and out of the tub.”

“So you’ve seen her naked?”

“Of course.”

“Yes, of course,” said the doctor.  “And how does that affect you?”

“I get a bit anxious, lifting her.  She is so soft, I’m afraid of hurting her.  She says it does not hurt at all, but still I am anxious.”

“And touching her?” asked the doctor.  “Does that give you any pleasure?”

“I would say no, I don’t think so.  As I said, it makes me anxious.  I do get pleasure from the proximity, though.  I feel more at ease being close to her, and uneasy being away.”  Adamson looked at the doctor directly.  “That is love, isn’t it?”

“Yes, perhaps.”

“What can be done?”

The doctor closed his pad and got up.  He went to his desk to get a drink.  He held the mug of water with both hands to control his shakiness.  He put down the mug and walked back and forth in front of his desk several times before returning to his chair.  “This has been so interesting,” he said.  “So interesting.  I think I may need to write a paper about it.  I’d change the names, of course.  No need to worry.  So interesting.  I said at the outset that alts don’t lie, and yet you’ve been lying the whole time.”

Adamson sat up straighter.  “I’m sorry.  Have I been so transparent?”

“Not at all.  I’m in the business of listening to lies.  My default setting, as it were, is to assume people are lying until I am persuaded otherwise.  I was almost persuaded that you were, as alts do, telling the truth, but the phone call tipped me off to the fact that something else entirely was going on.  I am correct, then, in believing that the feelings and actions you have ascribed to yourself are actually those of your employer?”

“Yes,” said Adamson, “for the most part.  Some of the anxiety was my own.”

“You’ve described her symptoms admirably.”

“I’m sorry.  It’s been so odd.  I didn’t know what to do.  I don’t know what to do.”

The doctor shook his head and sighed.  “It is not part of my process to give advice.  What I attempt to do is be a sort of guide to assist patients in finding their own answers.  In this case, however, one might say that you are not my patient, but rather a proxy for a woman who is too ill to seek such help herself, though it’s doubtful she would seek help even if she were feeling well.  So, we’ll pretend for the moment that you are not my patient.  I would strongly advise you to get the carer back.  Unfortunately, your employer will soon be too ill for you to care for her on your own.”

“Yes,” said Adamson, “I agree.  That has all been arranged.  I simply have to make a phone call as soon as I feel it is necessary.”

“Very good.  As to Madam’s feelings for you, it is impossible without knowing her, without speaking to her, to know why she has formed this attachment.  It could be loneliness, there could be some sexual component, she may simply be afraid of dying alone.  Again, it would be a disservice to her to try to guess.  We must simply accept that, whatever her reasons, her feelings for you are entirely real to her, and we must honor them as such.”

“Of course.”

The doctor leaned forward on his chair and said quietly, “I assume you are aware she is dying?”

“Yes.”  Adamson thought at first that this was a trick question.  Weren’t all humans dying?  He then realized the doctor meant she was dying soon, in a year or less.  “Yes.”

“You have asked what you should do.  My advice,” said the doctor, “would be to do nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I think it would be regarded a kindness to let her go on believing herself in love with you, so long as that brings her some comfort.  It will not be of long duration, and I don’t think it will do you much harm.”

“Harm?  How would it do me harm?”

“You may not be aware of your feelings for her.  That is common.  People often don’t recognize their own feelings for someone until that person is gone.  Which is, of course, unfortunate.  The fact that you are here, lying despite your programming, in order to seek help is very suggestive.  Have you thought about the future?  Do you think you’ll be OK when she’s gone?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Very good,” said the doctor, getting up.  “We can talk about that in your next session.”