Free Asimov's Science Fiction: April/May 2014 by Penny Publications Page A

Everything important is going on underneath, deep down,
deep
down. We can't grasp it. But we think you can
do
it."
    Connors lifted her head to nod but didn't complete the gesture, evidently concluding, as Jimmy had, that Oblonski hadn't quite made sense. And for all this talk of physics, Jimmy wondered if Connors thought of it, as he did, mystically. But she kept to herself, so they never discussed it.
    Taped outside the training rooms, a computer printout in fat letters, centered on a sideways sheet of paper, read ONLY CONNECT. The quote was attributed to E.M. Forster.
    "Who's E.M. Forster?" Connors asked, so disdainfully it sounded as though she thought the name was made up.
    "British writer," said Oblonski's sergeant major, tugging one unkempt gray eyebrow. "Early twentieth century. Homosexual." They all contemplated the sign as if it went on for paragraphs or required multiple rereadings.
    "I doubt this is what he had in mind," Jimmy said.
    "Who knows?" the sergeant said. "He wrote some strange things. Writers think wild thoughts. Don't they?"
    History, averred Oblonski, provided clarity. He meant to instill in them a commitment to a world made safe through more virtuous methods, methods that required an understanding of another person rather than animosity toward another person. The Inquisition used torture to ruin the body as a way to free the soul, but people would say anything to please their captors and end the pain. The Russians had tried operations that stripped emotion, pain, and will from humans, resulting in self-destructive beings incapable of human reason and self-control. The Chinese process of confession and reeducation created docile citizens no longer able to separate what they said from what they truly believed. In typical American interrogation and psyops techniques, interrogators peeled back a subject's defenses the way you stripped old wallpaper, the destination reached only once every protective surface encountered lay in heaped shreds at your feet. Only the data was important, never the person providing it.
    Oblonski assured his unit that their endeavors would be regarded by future generations as humane, nothing like what had come before. They would achieve their aims through understanding—and by helping their subjects find the right path.
    Perhaps, Oblonski allowed, the procedure violated the subject's privacy rights. Before such an argument could be made, however, it had to be proven that such a violation had even occurred—and so far, the procedure had drilled in empty wells.
    Oblonski proclaimed that the perfect, "clean" scenario afforded no view of the subject, only the knowledge that another human was on the other side of a wall, but even he had to admit that the procedure didn't seem to work that way. "Remote viewing" might have kept the Soviets busy for decades but had never produced credible intelligence.
    Comfortably seated in otherwise blank rooms, they practiced constructing conduits between themselves and a subject, usually an enlisted man who was told he was needed for a sleep study; this could be one-to-one or several-to-one, with either multiple sensitives targeting one person or one sensitive aiming to pick up something from a roomful of people. Sometimes two sensitives would try on each other, awake and aware, maximizing the possibilities just so they could see what a successful contact was like. Convinced that relaxation was crucial, Oblonski encouraged them to offer no resistance, to be open to one another, easing the way for the minds to interact. The room stank with the sweat of their rigor. Oblonski complained about it, told them to avoid tensing the muscles. Jimmy's jaws ached after every attempt.
    The level of success between each other was about what they had with the volunteers: glimmers, suspicions, a tickle, an impression. Twice during their training, Jimmy thought he had something more.
    They labored like people given the task of dismantling and reassembling a