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Topic 30: Tell us a secret
Jul. 15th, 2006 06:34 pmI am not a man in the habit of sharing secrets.
One could argue that given my current circumstances, this doesn't matter. After all, if one's life is infinite but one's liberty, to put it mildly, severely contrained, if the worst, unforgivable things have already been done, if there is no possibility to undo them - what is the point of keeping secrets?
It is the point of breathing, I suppose. Perhaps I don't need to do it any longer, but I do it anyway.
I am, however, a man who has been known to trade secrets. An altogether different thing. When I told Emily the truth about who I worked for and what I had done, it was a necessary precondition to save her life. When I told Jack I had been approached by Jean Briault about leaving the CIA and joining what later became the Alliance, I needed to do so in order to ask Jack to join me. It was a risk, of course; after all, there was the possibility of him telling the CIA and getting me arrested and possibly executed. But then, that is what revealing any secret is: a risk, a gamble, the chance to trade something for nothing if you miscalculate.
(As it turned out, Jack joined me and told the CIA the truth anyway, but I did not get arrested, nor did the cell I led do anything but florish for many a year, right until the point when Sydney learned the truth. Given that I know Jack's competence as an agent, I have to conclude he did not work very hard on my downfall. Which is why I never regretted sharing that particular secret.)
So, a trade of secrets. There is something which I have wondered for a quite a while, something which eats at me, and which I haven't talked to anyone about, not even my dead daughter before she stopped appearing to me, and in her case, any caution because I do not wish to appear insane was truly pointless.
It is this. When I encountered the imposter masquareding at me, the man whose true name turned out to be Ned Bolger, a seed of doubt took root in me. Oh, not as to whether or not he was the genuine article, and I was the copy. The man was fragmentary at best, even before his sanity shattered. No, I did not doubt he was an imitation. What I did start to wonder was whether or not I myself was. If there was one, there could be two. Bolger did not resemble me physically, but I knew, better than most, that it is possible to create physical clones as well as mental ones. "A CIA stooge," Bolger had called me; what if he had spoken truer than he knew? Though I doubt the CIA would be that creative. But what if someone - any of the Derevko sisters, for example - for some reason needed another Sloane to perform certain actions I have undertaken in the last years? Not a simple physical double, as Anna was of Sydney, for a short time, but a mental one, as Bolger had been?
Now you could argue the people around me would have noticed the difference. But Sydney lived with Allison Doren for nearly half a year before realizing she was not her friend Francie. Jack kissed and killed an utter stranger, believing her to be his wife. (How do I know he kissed her before killing her? Because I know Jack and Irina.) So if I am not Arvin Sloane, but a creation who replaced the real man at some point - many years ago, or just months ago - their testimony to the contrary would not necessarily be that reassuring.
Sometimes I find the idea of having a stranger inside me waiting to be woken up, as Bolger was, more disturbing than anything else in my life. Sometimes I find it infinitely seductive.
But then again, I could be lying. After all, I haven't told you yet what I expect from revealing this secret, and as I said in the beginning, I am not in the habit of sharing for free, unless the secret itself is a fabrication.
Or perhaps I want to make you curious. Did you ever wonder, future reader of a journal written as yet only in my mind in lack of other writing tools, whether you yourself were real? Whether you want to be? And what could possibly prove that you were?
Go on wondering. Go on seeking explanations. I'm sure I will find it interesting and instructive to watch. And watch it I will.
I have the time for it now, you see.
One could argue that given my current circumstances, this doesn't matter. After all, if one's life is infinite but one's liberty, to put it mildly, severely contrained, if the worst, unforgivable things have already been done, if there is no possibility to undo them - what is the point of keeping secrets?
It is the point of breathing, I suppose. Perhaps I don't need to do it any longer, but I do it anyway.
I am, however, a man who has been known to trade secrets. An altogether different thing. When I told Emily the truth about who I worked for and what I had done, it was a necessary precondition to save her life. When I told Jack I had been approached by Jean Briault about leaving the CIA and joining what later became the Alliance, I needed to do so in order to ask Jack to join me. It was a risk, of course; after all, there was the possibility of him telling the CIA and getting me arrested and possibly executed. But then, that is what revealing any secret is: a risk, a gamble, the chance to trade something for nothing if you miscalculate.
(As it turned out, Jack joined me and told the CIA the truth anyway, but I did not get arrested, nor did the cell I led do anything but florish for many a year, right until the point when Sydney learned the truth. Given that I know Jack's competence as an agent, I have to conclude he did not work very hard on my downfall. Which is why I never regretted sharing that particular secret.)
So, a trade of secrets. There is something which I have wondered for a quite a while, something which eats at me, and which I haven't talked to anyone about, not even my dead daughter before she stopped appearing to me, and in her case, any caution because I do not wish to appear insane was truly pointless.
It is this. When I encountered the imposter masquareding at me, the man whose true name turned out to be Ned Bolger, a seed of doubt took root in me. Oh, not as to whether or not he was the genuine article, and I was the copy. The man was fragmentary at best, even before his sanity shattered. No, I did not doubt he was an imitation. What I did start to wonder was whether or not I myself was. If there was one, there could be two. Bolger did not resemble me physically, but I knew, better than most, that it is possible to create physical clones as well as mental ones. "A CIA stooge," Bolger had called me; what if he had spoken truer than he knew? Though I doubt the CIA would be that creative. But what if someone - any of the Derevko sisters, for example - for some reason needed another Sloane to perform certain actions I have undertaken in the last years? Not a simple physical double, as Anna was of Sydney, for a short time, but a mental one, as Bolger had been?
Now you could argue the people around me would have noticed the difference. But Sydney lived with Allison Doren for nearly half a year before realizing she was not her friend Francie. Jack kissed and killed an utter stranger, believing her to be his wife. (How do I know he kissed her before killing her? Because I know Jack and Irina.) So if I am not Arvin Sloane, but a creation who replaced the real man at some point - many years ago, or just months ago - their testimony to the contrary would not necessarily be that reassuring.
Sometimes I find the idea of having a stranger inside me waiting to be woken up, as Bolger was, more disturbing than anything else in my life. Sometimes I find it infinitely seductive.
But then again, I could be lying. After all, I haven't told you yet what I expect from revealing this secret, and as I said in the beginning, I am not in the habit of sharing for free, unless the secret itself is a fabrication.
Or perhaps I want to make you curious. Did you ever wonder, future reader of a journal written as yet only in my mind in lack of other writing tools, whether you yourself were real? Whether you want to be? And what could possibly prove that you were?
Go on wondering. Go on seeking explanations. I'm sure I will find it interesting and instructive to watch. And watch it I will.
I have the time for it now, you see.
