by Chris Ramos
As the images kept flooding onto the screen, Jon was unable to keep up. The scenes transitioned from his work, to his home, to his son Cole. No home, just work. His parents were there, both of them staring down at Jon. Then, he only remembered his father. He had no mother. They were shown, and forgotten. Jon began to panic, and tried to sit up on the table and was forced back down. He arched his back, thrashing his head from side to side.
“Those are my memories! Why is this happening?” He reached over and grabbed the hand away from his head. He grimaced as his head was weighed down in the back, and electrical jolts shot through his spine.
“Those are mine!”
“This subject was the daydreamer,” Dr. Zander said. He was high above the chamber housing Jon in an observation dome. Appearing as no more than a small dot in the high ceiling, he watched down on the proceedings. His low-lit room was surrounded by touchscreens, projections and a multitude of dials and switches.
Dr. Zander leaned down to talk in a desk-mounted microphone. This transmitted over the earpieces of the floor technicians.
“Limit his left hemisphere,” Dr. Zander said.
“We cannot. We are in too deep,” came the reply.
“Then shut it down. We have already entered dangerous territory,” Dr. Zander ordered.
“Negative. We will be keeping the subject at full capacity.”
Dr. Zander was taken aback at this reply. The floor techs did not have the authority to disobey his request. There was no call for this gross insubordination, nor the need for further suffering from the subject.
“You will not disobey this order. I assure you, I outrank you, and I will shut it down from here and remove you from your post.” Zander reached over to limit the amount of information flowing through the transfer subject.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Zander, your booth has been disabled.” A new voice responded to his order.
“Impossible. What is your name, technician?”
“Dr. Powell. I will take it from here.” One of the cloth-stretched technicians turned to look up at the aerial booth. Indeed, it was the Doctor; he was down below next to Jon, watching the memories play out and fade forever from his mind.
In response, every screen blinked away in the booth and the door locked. Dr. Zander sat helplessly as the subject, Jon, was drained.
Jon was moving frantically now, desperately trying to remember his parents, the first time he brought Cole home, his acceptance into college. Nothing was coming back to him, and as he saw his life playing in fast forward, he became more anxious with each passing frame. As he felt his anger mounting, suddenly it dissipated, like a light switch turned off. His mouth sagged down, facial muscles completely lax. His eyes drooped and he sat back, tongue swelling against his lips, opening his mouth enough to release a small pocket of drool. Jon looked up at the screens and calmly watched the rest of his life in rapid speed, not aware this was the last time the memories would be his own.
Every ten days, Nimbus was subjected to the Absorption. Depending on the amount of data, it could last two minutes or it could last two hours. He knew from the debriefing that this would take the better part of the afternoon. He had never absorbed an entire consciousness before, but he was desperate.
Regardless, Nimbus entered the Absorption room in good spirits. He knew today would be a landmark event, a pivotal moment in the history of LifeSpan and a stepping stone to the future of individual betterment. Nimbus watched the scientists checking one last time for any fault in the machine, readying his chair.
Dr. Zander was in a heated exchange with Dr. Powell. Nimbus cared little for their squabbling, and was not surprised to see them disagreeing once again.
Nimbus settled in with his team working all around him, connecting anodes, testing screens and strapping his arms and neck.
“Begin, already!” Nimbus was impatient. “Commence sequence!”
And so it did. The room burst to life, intense colors and images splashed to every corner.
Nimbus lurched as his mind flooded with new information. It was an intense sensation he had never felt before. Every past Absorption paled in comparison.
Nimbus was empowered. Intense cognition overloaded his mind as he absorbed Jon’s memories.
He was running through the park. He was reading reports at Jon’s work. He was falling. He was climbing. He was a child Jon, an adult Jon. Married. He was in his home, opening the door to a trio of wildly different individuals. Completely opposite on every spectrum of comparison. A squat man, a hawkish woman and an old man.
Nimbus was shaking hands with the men, gently guiding them to the kitchen with an open palm on their back. “My name is Jon, in case you didn’t know.”
“How polite, but we already know. I’m sorry we overlooked the greetings. My name is Professor Lander,” the old man said.
Nimbus was shocked to see that Alexander was alive.
“That man! Find that man!” he screamed. “Alexander! He is with Sci Tym!”
“So, let’s review your rambling. Your wife chooses the artwork, and you are ignorant of the possible ramification of the works displayed in your home and accept them without an intellectual comment.”
“Gretchen, please. He is our host. We are not here to judge. There are many important issues we need to discuss.”
Nimbus was thrashing about, flailing his arms in the purest rage. “That man!”
The Doctors tried to hold him down as the alarms sounded. The walls were colored in deep shades of red and purple, pulsing in reaction to Nimbus’s emotional swing.
“Sedate him! If the connection is broken now, there will be irreparable damage!” Many of the Doctors looked blankly around the room, unsure of how to handle Nimbus. He was, after all, no ordinary patient, and this was no ordinary transfer.
Nimbus continued to scream and gnash his teeth, barely able to control his own feral response while his personality collided with Jon’s.
“Back it out! Take the transfer back!” the inexperienced Dr. Powell suggested.
“We cannot! That could tear him apart! How can we distinguish the memories from one man’s to the other’s? They are merging!” Dr. Zander yelled back.
“This is a disaster!”
“We have no choice. He cannot continue like this!”
The assembled Doctors were shouting over the screaming Nimbus, each giving his own opinion.
“We can retrace the process and . . . ,” Dr. Zander found himself yelling in a suddenly quiet room, their ears left ringing.
All eyes went to Nimbus.
Indeed, Nimbus was no longer screaming, for he was slumped over in his seat, unconscious, as the transfer continued on.
HOMESTEAD
Cole shook his head, snapping his mind back to the present. He was about halfway home, leisurely walking along the paved walks. Cole got his bearings and set off due north. He actually enjoyed spending time outside, letting his thoughts take their course. Daydreaming seemed to run in his blood, so he was never short of crafting stories in his mind while he walked. Most of his co-workers owned fancy, expensive vehicles with voice recognition driving programs. They preferred to end their day with a high-speed drive around the perimeter of town, music blasting while they escaped into a virtual reality playground, with the vehicle driving itself; indeed¸ that was the only arrangement any car was allowed.
During the last quarter of the previous century, dignitaries were gathered at the Summit of Minds for the greater world peace negotiations. As they drove away in a single motorcade, a mysterious explosion destroyed almost every building and car within three miles. Known as the Royal Crash, almost every major president, chancellor, king, queen and other powers of state were killed. This allowed LifeSpan to step in and create the Restricted Transportation Act. Every vehicle was equipped with an automatic driving navigation chip via LifeSpan. This mandated a totally computerized network of tracking and regulated travel, so accidents like that tragic multiple crash would never happen again.
>
Cole turned onto his block and paused. A few houses down on the left was the house he shared with his mother. The one with the large pine tree out front, constantly dropping needles and keeping the automated lawn bots very busy.
The last ten years had been very hard on Mary.
She was withdrawn, constantly making excuses about her inability to leave the house or stay in contact with her friends. She said there were projects to work on, futures to plan for. Cole never saw her working on anything important, just sitting at the kitchen table, mumbling to herself. Her digiscreen sat by her side. She never used it to check the local news feeds or sports schedules, or anything that could be considered a hobby. She used to love tennis, her eyes lighting up whenever he would ask her a question about who would possibly make it to the championships.
He stopped at the mail screen at the end of their driveway, lifting open the lid to reveal a flat screen about the width of Cole’s briefcase.
Current Status: Five new digipost messages.
These could be forwarded on to any of the registered digiscreen handhelds, including his mother’s, but he knew she would tell him to ignore any from her sister. Scrolling though the messages, there was indeed one from Aunt Hester.
Glancing back at the house and carefully checking every window for his mother’s spying eyes, he opened the most recent post.
Dearest Mary,
Please respond when you receive this. I know the last 3,652 days have been hard for you. I also realize what today is, and beg of you to step out of the house, feel the air on your skin, smell the flowers, realize there is still a world growing and thriving. There is a place for you, but only if you let it come. Cole needs you now more than ever. He is a 19-year-old man. He would never admit it, but there are days I look in his eyes, and there is a hardening, a distance that gets further every day. When you . . .
The screen abruptly went dark as Cole deleted the post from the view screen. If that is what Aunt Hester thinks of me, he thought, that I am retreating, then she can keep writing to herself. It’s best Mother doesn’t have that on her shoulders too.
Cole turned his back on the house. He was half-tempted to continue walking but he knew his duty tied him to his mother, so he turned back towards the front door.
His attention was diverted to the silver car that just pulled up to his neighbor’s house directly across for their own. Mr. Adams was returning from a long day at work. Cole knew he was coming home to a perfectly run life. Mr. Adams was gathering up his coat and briefcase as the silver fleetliner was autodocking into the recharge station. The car slid into position as a panel released under the vehicle, lowering a recharge pipeline, and connected to the solar energy grid snaking through the city. The car would be awaiting Mr. Adams’s commute to work, fully charged.
The vehicle door slid along the outside of the driver’s side panel and Mr. Adams stepped out, jacket slung over his crooked arm. He swung his head over and smiled at Cole, lifting his chin in a friendly hello.
Cole started to yell a greeting back, but was cut short when Mr. Adams’s daughter ran out of the house and wrapped her dad in a hug. He scooped her up and walked to their stoop, where his wife was waiting in front of their red door. Cole thought red doors meant love. There was love in that house. Almost everyone on his block had red doors. Well, all of the houses that had love, of course.
Cole turned and walked up the front steps of his home. He did not have a red door. At one time it was painted a dark green, back when his father was still there. Mother never had a knack for painting, and Cole always had other things to do. So the door was a bland, weather-worn green, about as far from red as you could get.
Cole stopped and compared his house to the neighbors’. His house was dark, cold and a far cry from how it was before his father’s expiration. Of course, he knew it was because of his mother. She had been visited by the LifeSpan workers on many occasions. After they left, she would improve. She floated around very happy and was a pleasure to be around, but that would wear off.
The door swished open at his advance, and Cole stepped in to the dark house and turned on the lights. Mother never turned on the lights anymore. She just locked herself in her office under the stairs. She said there was research she was conducting and should not be disturbed.
“Welcome home, Cole.” Mary was standing in the doorway. “I will have dinner ready for you soon. Would you like that? I’m sure that’s what you were wondering about, is some food, right?” She always rambled. Without waiting for an answer and still continuing to ask about dinner, she retreated to the kitchen, mumbling all the while.
Cole fell onto the couch, arms limp at his side. Cole already knew what his night would be. His mother was working on a meal she only half thought through. They would sit at the table and have a strained conversation. She would leave the table in a melodramatic show and tell him to figure out the rest of the day without her. Then Mother would leave. And be gone for hours on end.
“Cole, come in here please. I have the table ready for us,” Mary called.
“Here we go.” Cole rolled his eyes.
He walked into the room, and could have accurately described the exact settings and probably the food before entering. The table was set exactly the same way every meal. Cole’s plate was in front of his father’s chair, now as the head of household, whatever that meant, with his mother to the left, facing their window overlooking an unused yard. Mary turned off the lawnbots when she thought Cole wasn’t watching, and the yard had become a mismatched image of perfectly trimmed spaces, overgrown vines, and color-faded equipment.
Cole sat, grabbed his silverware and moved his lips in a silent mockery of Mary’s first predictable question.
“How are you doing at LifeSpan?” Mary asked.
“Great, Mom, just fine. Always doing great,” Cole snapped back.
“Well, you don’t have to be so grumpy. I am trying to talk with you, about the things that you like. I have things that I like, and you never ask me about them.”
“Really? Well, Mom, how was your day today? Did the walls move? Did the floor shift?” Cole immediately shot.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I know you sit here all day, staring at this place. There are real people outside, Mom, going about their day, making a difference.”
“I see what you are doing.” Mary pushed her plate forward. “You think the only people that are capable of making changes in this world are the ones you know. The mindless goons walking around out there, waiting on the next big LifeSpan announcement.”
“At least they have tasks!” Cole found himself shouting. “They wake up with purpose to complete LifeSpan’s work.”
“They have lost the ability to dream!” Mary screeched. Her eyes were wild, and she was talking under her breath as Cole was yelling back at her.
“I know you leave at night,” Cole revealed. “I’ve seen you running along the yard’s edge, hiding from walkers and traffic.”
Mary sat back down.
“Where do you go Mom? Who are you visiting? Why won’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Mary denied.
“It’s time to stop the lies. After ten years, it’s time for us to be a family again!”
“It’s too late for that, Cole.” Mary hung her head, hair falling over her face. “I should have acted sooner, when Jon was still here. You have been sleepwalking. We have all slumbered, as the storm rolled in.”
“Well, then, it’s time for a new awakening!” Cole screamed.
Mary snapped her head up, an old memory sparked from Cole’s phrase.
“Yes, yes . . . ,” Mary began mumbling. “You are right. I think this is the time. It has dragged out long enough . . . There really was no other . . . ,” she continued, and Cole stopped listening. He knew they were done for tonight. She would pace the house, talking to herself, and he really didn’t feel like following her this time.
Mary roun
ded the table, walked over to Cole, cradled his head in her hands and looked him eye to eye.
Well, this is different, Cole thought.
“You are so much like your father,” Mary said, and she leaned forward and kissed Cole’s forehead. “Always the daydreamer.”
She left the room, leaving a dumbfounded Cole, and started climbing the stairs.
HAMEL
I had to leave Cole out of this, Mary thought as she closed the door to her private bathroom. Mary stood there for a short while, pressed her ear to the door, waited a little longer and finally stepped back. This was the barrier to the outside world. She knew there was no turning back now. Cole wouldn’t understand; he was too caught up in the lies of LifeSpan. Today she would act.
Mary knew this deed could be done. She knew it was possible. Unfortunately, she has never heard of anyone in the last ten generations or more even attempt it, but she had a secret weapon: the truth.
Cole stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up to his mother’s room. The door was closed. He knew she would be in there a while; she always locked herself in her room for hours on end. Sometimes he heard her talking to herself, mumbling. Cole had enough. This time he was going to find out what she was hiding under the stairs. Cole pulled back her door; there was no hand plate. There was no swish. Only a small room, void of light. I know this isn’t a storage room. There has to be something important for all the secrecy. Cole pressed on.
He patted the floors, shuffled clothes to the side, and pushed back piles of mismatched dishes and containers, revealing a small desk.
