Free Second Paradigm by Peter J. Wacks Page A

murder? Why? How is it possible that I am here, now? He thought of Dr. Jameson and felt a growing irritation. How could the man profess he cared anything about Chris when the only advice he could give was to find a job? I know he was on the clock, but three days is a long time to wait for answers. With newfound resolve he buried that portion of the discordance in his thoughts by resolving to find a way to research his past before meeting with Jameson. He smiled as he felt a small portion of the weight of his troubles lift from his shoulders.
    Chris couldn’t fathom searching for a job in this dark world of neon lights and cardboard dreams. If his suspicions were founded in reality, then everything he knew as a scientist was outdated and no longer relevant. It seemed impossible that the technology level had advanced so far in just over forty years; he assumed there had been some major breakthroughs since his time.
    That line of thinking brought more questions. He had no specific memories from ‘his time’ at all—only a series of thoughts and impressions. He didn’t even know what sort of person he was before about six hours ago. He didn’t feel like he was capable of murder, but then he thought back to Rat.
    The surge of paranoia he felt when Rat told him about the D.A.B. was more than cautiousness at unfamiliar surroundings. He had something ingrained in that reaction. Paranoia seemed to be a part of him, which meant that the hostility and anger he had been feeling were part of his personality. But something about that didn’t resonate within him. His internal vision of himself didn’t match the shape that left in him. God damn it … Personality reconstruction is a painful experience. I want to know who the hell I am.…
    As the absolute reality of the situation struck him, Chris snickered and then his control snapped and it turned into a deep belly laugh as tears turned into streams. The release felt good but a small part of him remained, an inner self, retaining control, which wished this were all a delusion. That he was back in ‘his’ time, penned up in some asylum, out of touch with reality.
    He tried to make the image stick, but it slipped and faded into nothing. This is real, he told himself over and over as he lay in the bathtub absorbing the ambient heat in the room. This is real. This is real. This is real. And I am trapped here.
    He lay there for a long time, until he started to get cold. Then he stood up and showered, rekindling the warmth in his bones. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that, without memories, he would be just as out of place in ‘his’ time. It was all the same when you had nothing to base it on. I guess , he thought¸ if there’s anyone who can handle the world after sleeping for forty-one years, it would be someone who couldn’t remember what it was like before . Chris laughed again. Unless, of course, I really am crazy.
    He got out of the shower, opened the bathroom door to release the steam, and toweled off the mirror. “I’m seventy-four years old,” he said to the mirror, but it sounded absurd as he looked at himself. Shoulder length, dark brown hair, shiny with moisture, sat atop a scruffy face with a strong jaw line and hard, gray eyes. For some reason they reminded him of Dr. Jameson’s eyes—cold and void of emotion.
    Chris scratched his chin. I guess I woke up before they could give me my daily shave. He still had three days before he met the doctor at Little Paris. Might as well make myself presentable , he thought as he dressed himself in his only set of clothing, still damp from the rain.
    He could tell from the darkening of the gray light outside that night had fallen and he looked at the clock—a regular digital buzzer alarm clock with red numbers. Six oh-five. He considered waiting until morning to run his errands—the city seemed dangerous enough during the day, but he felt unconcerned. He had an inexplicable feeling of … waiting in his