Divided- 2120

by Brian Savage

  She turned to him, with a look she hadn’t given him before. It was as if she was appraising him differently now, in light of a part of him being laid bare before her. Jack glanced up quickly, drawing her eyes to the ceiling above them. The dome she had seen from across the street now stretched out far above them. The water ran off in tiny rivulets, which at times of great downpour, she had no doubt, would be crashing rivers of design painted on the glass by the wind.

  “I’ll show you your room,” he said, stepping past her, so close he caught a whiff of the scent of her shampoo. “The bathroom’s just there,” he said, as he led her down the short hall, flicking on the light, “and your room is here.” He turned to the left, reaching into the open doorway to turn on another overhead light.

  She walked into the small room. A bed pushed against a brick wall and one painted a pale blue took up one corner. A lightly stained nightstand with lamp and a small desk and chair made up the only other furniture in the small but cozy space.

  “There are extra towels under the sink in the bathroom.” He leaned in the doorway. “I’m just across the hall if you need anything.”

  She sat down on the bed, sinking into the plush comforter.

  “I haven’t had anything to eat all day,” she said, clutching her grumbling stomach. “You wouldn’t happen to have any food?”

  “Shit, I forgot we woke you up.” He turned and walked back down the hall into the main space of the apartment. He took off his jacket and hung it on a hook by the lift. He walked into his kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Aeralyn left her bag in her room and walked out into the living room. Jack busied himself with a pan, and carton of eggs from the fridge.

  “You okay with a sandwich?” he asked, over the counter.

  “Sure,” Aerlyn replied, reading off the titles of the books that lined the built-in shelves along the wall.

  “Egg or turkey?”

  “Egg.”

  She browsed through the books, pulling one off every so often, randomly selecting a text when the title jumped out at her.

  She could smell the eggs cooking, and could hear the low hum of an old-fashioned, electric toaster. Finding a book she was interested in, she plopped down on the couch and began to read.

  After a few minutes, Jack emerged from the kitchen with two plates. Placing one down on the end table near where Aeralyn’s elbow rested, he took the other to the other end of the couch. He began eating. “What are you reading?” he asked between mouthfuls.

  Aeralyn put the book down and picked up her plate. “1984 by George Orwell,” she said, taking a large bite. “One of my favorites.”

  He nodded. “Why is it your favorite?”

  “Because there is truth in it that people don’t believe in anymore.” She took another bite.

  Jack thought about her statement as he ate. Both famished, they finished their sandwiches in silence.

  “I think our society is exactly opposite of the one in the book,” he said, swallowing the last bit of his sandwich. “We have a society completely free. Free speech, free religion, free to do as you please—as long as you don’t hurt anyone.”

  “Is it really free?” she asked, half a smile on her face, as if to say she was asking a question she already knew the answer to.

  “Yes, yes, I believe it is.” He stood and took their plates to the kitchen, rinsing them in the sink before sliding them in a slot in the countertop. They slowly sunk into this slot, before sliding into a shelf beneath the counter, completely clean. He gingerly grabbed the edge of each plate, still hot from the sanitizing wash, and placed them back in the cabinets.

  She had turned her body on the couch so she could watch him. She curled her legs up, leaning her knees against the arm of the couch. “You have an implant. A computer that is directly connected to your brain, and from there, directly connected to the internet.”

  “So do you,” he said, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

  She shook her head in what appeared to be a silent but negative answer to his statement before continuing. “What differentiates your thought, from the information you receive via the implant?”

  “I would have to say the origination. One thing comes from the outside, and one is created in here.” He tapped the left side of his head as he made his way around the counter and back into the living room area of his apartment. He sat down at the opposite end of the couch and leaned into the corner, facing her.

  “Right. You think. A process of creation from within. The implant, however, acts like a sixth sense of sorts. It receives stimuli from the internet, from the information it gathers, and it feeds you information—like your eyes or ears. Turn on a video feed or audio feed and it can completely take the place of those senses.”

  He nodded.

  “So, what if your implant has been slowly altering the other senses? Changing things, little by little, until what was once unreality became reality.”

  Jack sat there, thinking about what she had just said. It didn’t sit right; it didn’t feel right. It was too science fiction to be reality…or was it?

  “I don’t think that could ever happen. My brain would be able to tell that something wasn’t right.”

  “Why do you think that?” she asked, looking more intently at him.

  “I don’t know,” he said, troubled. His brow furrowed subconsciously as he turned the idea over in his head.

  “Why is it easier to believe that the implant doesn’t affect you like that?”

  “It just makes the most sense.” He was becoming visibly agitated. “I think it’s time for bed, I’m worn out. Do you need to use the bathroom? I want to take a bath.”

  “I’m okay,” she said quietly, watching him walk down the short hall.

  “There is a closet in your room, should have some of my old shirts and sweatpants. They’re clean. Would be more comfortable to sleep in than what you’re wearing.” He walked into the bathroom, shutting the door harder than he meant to.

  She took a deep breath. He wasn’t completely gone, not like some of the others. He wasn’t all there still, though. She grabbed the book from the end table and shouldered her bag as she made her way into the guest room. She shut the door, and heard the water running in the bathroom. She opened the small closet and grabbed the first t-shirt she found. A cadet shirt, probably from his time at the academy. She looked around the room as she undressed. One window at the end of the room looked out onto what appeared to be an abandoned train yard. Below the window sat a small table or desk, with two chairs on either side. The bed sat in the corner nearest the door; a small nightstand, with a wall-mounted light just above, sat beside it.

  She turned and looked at herself in the door-mounted mirror, now wearing only her panties. She turned and pinched and prodded herself, running her hands along her abdomen and up over her breasts. She knew she was in good shape, great even, but she still wasn’t where she wanted to be. She pulled the t-shirt over her head; she could smell him on the heavy fabric—

  She slammed her mind shut to the thoughts that sought to override her sense of the situation. She began her meditative breathing, and found a space on the floor, assuming upward facing dog.

  Jack was focusing on his breathing on the other side of the wall, as well. He looked at himself in the mirror, turning to check every bump and bruise from the fight earlier that day. Across his chest, over the sides of his arms, and around his back was a large stripe of a bruise from where the robot had tried to hug him to death. He still had the cut above his eye, as well, and darkening under the same eye, most likely slight raccoon eyes from being thrown against the wall. God, I look like shit, he thought. He corrected himself, I look like I’ve been through shit.

  He peeled his pants off, taking with them the dark scabs which had glued them to his legs at his right hip, and at both his knees. He felt the weight of the fight descend on him with a suddenness as he straightened up. He leaned on the bathroom sink, tiredly trying to work his feet out of the pantlegs and hi
s socks. He rotated a small dial on the wall, changing a lit fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit to thirty-three. He could hear the bathtub drain and start to refill over his right shoulder. He turned and took a look at his implant. He watched, mesmerized by the slow-blinking green light. The idea that this small device was capable of basically mind control was laughable at best. He had seen the electromagnetic override systems, even taken a class as a police officer where one was demonstrated. It couldn’t completely control the person, and it was a blunt tool at best. The person would appear gangly and clumsy when controlled by the user. He touched the cool, brushed metal. The girl was gorgeous, but she had some strange ideas.

  The bath water stopped. He had managed to get one sock off, but struggled with the other, still most of the way on his foot.

  He bent down, painfully, pulling it the rest of the way off. I should really do some yoga or something; it would probably help with the flexibility, he thought. He walked over to the edge of the tub and sat down. Reaching over with his right hand, he held himself over the water before slowly submerging himself, lower half first. He focused on his breathing as the dive reflex hit, causing a sucking gasp of air, triggered by the frigid water. He hit the bottom.

  The edge of the water was exactly one inch from the top of the bath, perfectly calibrated to his body. This is true machine-learning, he thought. He calmed his breathing back to his standard four seconds in, four seconds out, before submerging his entire body in the cold water. He felt the tips of his fingers and toes begin to lose sensation. His body was racked with tremors, that would come on strong, to fade away to calmness. He focused on holding his breath, and holding his eyes shut, not tightly, but firm enough to allow no water to enter. He relaxed his body, seeking to lose himself in the cold nothingness. He heard nothing, he saw nothing, he felt nothing but the cold, soothing his aches and pains.

  A minute passed. His body began to ask for air. First quietly, as an afterthought, but increasing in urgency until he was physically holding himself under water. His diaphragm contracted, seeking to draw air through his tightly shut mouth. His eyes flashed open. What was he doing? Drowning himself? Was he going to kill himself? Was he going to die? He held himself through sheer force of will. His mind raced. Colors flashed through his vision. The light on his implant flashed faster than it had since he had been slowly suffocated by the robot. He finally let himself up, forcing himself to calmly rise from the water, when all that was inside him told him to launch himself into the life-giving air.

  He gasped for breath. I am alive, he thought. If this was all an illusion, it would not have been suffering to cease to breathe. If I am not real, if this is not real, it wouldn’t have hurt. I feel, I think. I am.

  He hoped she couldn’t hear him through the thin wall. His breath slowed to a practiced measure as he gripped both sides of the tub, and lifted himself out. He reached for the blue and white striped towel, hung on the hook beside where the shower curtain hung against the wall. He wiped and patted at his cold, numb skin, drying water that he knew was there but couldn’t feel. He looked at himself again in the mirror. He looked the same, albeit slightly less grimy, and slightly more red in the face.

  He slipped on some shorts that had been sitting on the back of the toilet. He opened the door and looked to the right, at the door to his guest room. He wondered if she was sleeping on the other side of the door. Sleeping in one of his shirts, too big for her, nothing underneath. He dried his hair on the towel and hung it over the door. Be professional, you ass, he told himself. She is either a suspect or a victim, or both. He turned and walked into his room, not bothering to shut the door. His bed was pressed up against the brick outer wall of the abandoned factory building. A window in that wall dripped with rain and showed the metal framework of a rusted fire escape. Across from his bed, on the opposite wall, was a small, wooden writing desk painted a deep green, the kind not made anymore. It was the sole possession he had left from his parents. Something not found anywhere else. He sat hard on the end of his bed and laid back, staring up at the exposed metal of the ceiling rafters. He owned the building, he guessed. Which made him much more well off than most people in a world where every single square inch was owned by someone, and many times rented to someone else. You couldn’t buy a doghouse on a lot of nuclear waste, he joked to himself inside his head.

  He thought back to the conversation he had with Aeralyn. What had caused his agitated reaction? He felt now, distanced from the spoken words, that he had not reacted rationally. He felt now that he had, in fact, heard truth in what she was saying. His eyes drifted closed. Sleep seemed to wish those thoughts away. Why do I feel so tired all of a sudden? he wondered, as he succumbed to that very feeling, and drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 11

  Jack startled awake. Something was off…something wasn’t right. Another feeling, that sense of anxiety, sense of urgency. He sat up in the dark room, the slight ambient light from the one window in the room not doing much to shed light on what was making him feel so…

  Trapped.

  He walked across the room to the door of his bedroom, sliding his weapon from where it hung, still in the shoulder rig. He slowly eased his door open, just slightly.

  Had he shut his door? He couldn’t remember. He shook off the thought as he peered through the crack, down the short hall and into the kitchen. His view of the living room was obscured by where the wall turned the corner and became his bookshelf, but he could see a flickering light dancing across his kitchen.

  It must be coming from the living room. He eased his door open farther. Looking across the hall, he noticed the open door, and empty bed. Where was Aeralyn?

  He made his way silently, step by step down the hall. The light seemed to dance like fire, but was the clear white light of an LED. It throbbed like a heartbeat, matching the one he could hear in his ears.

  Lub-dub.

  Lub-dub.

  Steady and slow.

  He made his way to the end of the hall. His breath was ragged, not from exertion but the fear that threatened to choke him. He slid his hand out along the wall, gripping the corner. Feeling the rough grain of the bookshelf against the tips of his fingers, he pulled himself the rest of the way, peering around the corner.

  Facing away from him, Aeralyn knelt, sitting back on her feet. Her head was cocked to the left, tilted at such an unbelievable angle that he was sure her neck was broken. From her implant came the white light, fading in, then fading back out at the rate of his heart beating in his chest.

  “Do you see?” came her voice, as if from far away. “Do you see, Jack?”

  “Aeralyn…” he stammered out.

  “Do you see, Jack?” Her voice was louder now. “Does the beat light the implant or does the implant make it beat?”

  Jack took a step forward into the room. He extended his hand toward Aeralyn. “I don’t understand…” he whispered, mouth dry.

  Slowly, with no perceptible movement, her body began to turn. As if on a display pedestal, rotated by some unknown mechanism, she turned to face him. Her head still cocked to the left, blue cadet shirt hanging off of her. The dread inside him built. What the hell was going on? He tried to swallow, but the last remaining vestiges of the liquid in his mouth caught in his throat.

  She was turned sideways now. He saw something dark and damp, wetting the front of her shirt. The light throbbed in and out faster as she turned. His heart was a drum beat of the imminent doom in his ears, the pace quickening, as she turned to face him.

  Where once her eyes had been, there were two gaping, bloody holes. “Do you see, Jack?!” she screamed, in either agony or ecstasy, yet her mouth never moved to make the words Jack knew he had heard.

  “SEE, JACK!” she screamed as he slammed his eyes shut and attempted to block the noise from his ears with his hands—

  Jack sat straight up in his bed, sheets sticking to his back. Someone was laughing in his kitchen. His heart was beating wildly in his chest. Light streamed through
the window into his room. The door to his room was open. He could make out two, maybe three distinct voices, and the smell of bacon frying on the stove top.

  He calmed himself, four seconds in, four seconds out. He untangled himself from the rest of his sheets, and slid forward until his bare feet touched the floor. He leaned forward, dropping his elbows to his knees, and rested his head in his hands. He rubbed the sides of his head hard, fighting the image of the eyeless Aeralyn. The question, “Do you see, Jack?” reverberated through his skull.

  “I think Jack is awake,” a female voice said from the living room.

  A moment later, Aeralyn appeared in his doorway. She wore the dark blue cadet shirt from the dream, but Jack was appreciative that it wasn’t covered in the dark liquid as in the nightmare. She leaned in his doorway and smiled. “Good morning, sleepy head.” She lifted a mug with both hands to her lips. She wore a red pair of his flannel bed pants, so long that they covered all but her pink-painted toenails. He liked that she was wearing his clothes. She looked like she belonged.

  “You okay?” she said, noticing the haggard look on his face, and the sheen of sweat across his muscled back.

  “Yeah, bad dreams.” He slid himself from the edge of the bed and stood up, throwing his sheet back onto the messy bed.

  “Well, breakfast is ready,” she said, sipping her coffee again. She looked him up and down.

  “Who’s here?” he asked, ruffling his hair.

  “Brant and your girlfriend,” she said, turning and heading back into the living room.

  “My girlfriend?” he called after her.

  “Cassie,” she called back.

  Great. “Cassie is NOT my girlfriend!” he raised his voice, hoping she heard him. She didn’t respond.

  He ran his fingers through his dirty-blonde hair. He walked to his open door and turned straight into the bathroom, without even looking into the living room. All he could think about was the throbbing glow of an LED. He turned the shower water on, 111 degrees. He had his quirks; repetitive numbers was one. Pulling off the pajama bottoms, he stepped under the hot water. Why was Cassie in his apartment? He could understand Brant being here. Especially since he apparently slept in, but why her? Probably some inane jealousy of Aeralyn. Was he that obvious about his attraction? He spent a few minutes soaping up before he washed off and stepped out. He wrapped a towel around his waist and disappeared into his room, shutting the door. When he emerged, he was fully dressed and ready to meet the room that the introvert in him considered full of people.