Capitol - By Orson Scott Card Page 0,4

the five humans were awakened, the chimps that had been given another chimp's memories all went crazy. At once. As if on cue.

And only a week, later, the sleepers joined them.

Dialogue with Thomas N. Cortia, the last of the five to remain sane:

Good morning, Tom.

"Morning, George."

No use hiding this from you.

"Mrs. Feean went off the deep end."

You're the miracle man now, Tom. How do you do it?

"Maybe I'm just stubborn and maybe I'm too old to go crazy and maybe I'm already halfway crazy and we don't know it yet."

There's not much hope.

"Can't say I mind."

What's it feel like, Tom?

"Doesn't feel too normal. For one thing, it sounds strange even now to have you calling me Tom. All my memories right now have everybody calling me Bill. My brother, right? Don't feel like my brother. It feels like me."

Really?

"No."

Not really?

"I mean it don't feel like me. I mean those memories-- they just aren't right at all. Not at all. I know Bill pretty well right now, and I know he'd hate it if he knew how complete my knowledge of his past really is. I never knew he screwed my cousin Sally. At a family reunion, right in the bathroom. That memory's just been eating at me, George. Cause I wouldn't have done that. There's no time in my life I would've rutted on a woman like that. That's not my style."

What is your style, Tom?

"I don't know, dammit. All my memories is telling me that is my style, but it's wrong. Dead wrong. I don't know why."

What about yourself? Tom, not the Bill memories.

"All I know about me is the way Bill remembers me. George, it's impossible to see myself as a stinkin' little tagalong who's worth less than horse manure. I wasn't like that. But Bill knows me better than any other living human being knows me, right? It isn't me, though. Lord, it isn't me. And I wouldn't've said what Bill said."

When?

"Ever! George, you don't know what it's like. As far as I know, I'm Bill. But every damn memory I have is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I wouldn't act that way. I wouldn't do those things. I wouldn't've married that tight little bitch he picked up in New York. I wouldn't've raised my kids so pussyfoot easy, they all turned into bastards. My life's turned out all wrong, George, and I can't handle that. I've done everything wrong in my life, at least that's how I remember it, and you can tell me it isn't true and tell me I'm really Tom and not Bill but that doesn't change what I remember and what I remember doesn't change the fact that Bill just doesn't act the way I'd act and...

Calm down, now, Tom. Don't let it get to you.

"It was easier the first few days. Hell, George, I was like a man trying out a brand new body. My fingers didn't act right. My legs kept walking shorter than they oughta. I had plenty to occupy my mind. Especially the cancer. My brother's memories don't include himself having any cancer, you know."

They can cure it.

"They can't cure my head. George, I promise you I'll hang on as long as I can, but I'll go bonkers soon enough."

Don't do it on my account.

"No. No sir, wouldn't put myself out none for you."

Tom, when you go crazy, if you do, we'll just put you under somec again. And we'll try to bring you out of it when we know how to do it better.

"Forget it, George. If it means somebody else's head in mine, forget it. It's hell, George. When I die, they're sending me to hell, and it'll be just like this."

See you tomorrow, Tom.

"Fat chance, George. But you're a nice young bastard, even if you are screwing up people's heads. Have a good day."

You too, Tom.
* * *

They tried it again. They started with the assumption that it was too confusing to use a near relative as the source of memories. It was too difficult when the patient knew he had once been someone else. So they took five more; again, those with the least advanced cancer. They gave them the braintapes of people their age and their sex, but told the patients nothing of the experiment. Instead, the patients were told that they had had amnesia and a serious illness, but they were getting better.

It made no difference.

Dialogue with Marian Williamson, the last of the five to remain sane. She believed her name was Lydia