The bus journey to work yields little, people of course too occupied with their embedded devices. A man or woman without would stand out. Like him. He was easy to spot. Jamie may have promised to avoid neurosis but even in the glass atrium of XXLI he felt exposed. It was the metal tube whizzing him to his unknown floor that provided security. The office was home, a place where suspicions could ease. Beanoe made his apologies for not being able to play the night before—'the missus' as usual. Beanoe was too old school for embedded devices, the only one other than Jamie in department xH. All his colleagues had them but they were required to be switched off in the great search for happiness, proof enough his decision to forgo connectivity was the correct one. Grace too, now that he'd come to think of it, was free of incisions into the skin. How blinkered he was when he first met her. He was finding he wanted to make excuses to go see her but was running out of ideas, or at least the curiosities and weirdness of life at unpronounceable to quiz. And Blaze? He may be otherworldly, but he was embedded-free. The underground should know things like that.
“Jamie?”
“Uh.”
“Snap out of it.”
He chooses tea from the Ashikubo valley in in Japan; a rare sencha dried with wood fires.
“That's a first.”
“Guess.”
“Where are you mate?”
“I'm here. I am Beanoe. Really.”
“Should be able to game it tonight.”
“Great.”
“Eight or nine?”
“Sure.”
No anomalies that day, or the next, just Beanoe wanting to escape marital conversation in the evenings. He wanted kids, she didn't. Life was at an impasse. Kids, thought Jamie, people still do that. He didn't know anyone with kids or what it was like to be one. It was so far off the radar, another planet. He had no idea how to relate to Beanoe so listened to him pine after his need to be an alpha male who didn't want to have regrets, or find himself in ten years divorced on a scrap heap, or worse, impotent. Jamie pondered. The code anomalies occurred after Po's accusation and her futile attempt to woo him back. It had to be more than coincidence. He knew The Source Foundation didn't have resources—at least people wise—unless they were hiding. The lab, the pod, and the ionizer sans bloodstains were meticulous but everything else was worthy of cobwebs. Billy knew how to siphon off power from the grid but couldn't resolve server issues. And for all their talk of heart and happiness, well, look how they had treated him. They had blitzed him with information and made sure he'd never had time to think the experience through. They were full of contradictions. It was plausible they had accessed XXLI data banks through 'fake' purchases. Chips were in every product. They could have reverse accessed. It was in the realm of possibility. What if their purpose was to bring XXLI down, and he was no more than a stooge using him to infiltrate unaware? His watch had never worked properly since Ray returned it, and Po could have been speaking in half-truths about the disappeared five. It was time to play them. The weekend was upon him. All he needed was a good reason to justify an appearance. He returned to Beanoe whose melancholy had settled on the thought of his wife not loving him. Jamie listens for a few seconds finding the thread on which to connect. He reminds Beanoe of his strong persuasive powers, and the boss is appreciative. Time for chips. The pantry calls, normality returning. Jamie chomps on the junk, his eardrums reverberating. It takes a second to hit, Beanoe's disappearing into code, a binary sequence alive for a few seconds, then a coding language unfamiliar to Jamie.
“Boss?”
Nothing. The holograph is dead. He flicks it on and off, tries voice activation, then drops to his knees and thumps the box with an appropriate force. He hopes it's a glitch, a piece of crap equipment and not what he thinks. He sits trying to remember the code he saw. The firewall didn't protect. Someone is watching them. Either it's incompetence or so brazen, whoever it is, wants them to know. Behavior designed to unsettle. Next would be warnings followed by threats. If purely a message, there was a third party Jamie had to consider, the most alarming to him, those who had power over him for half his life, the Feds. A bad decision on his part and jail time for the next twenty five-years would be his reward. It had been a decade since he'd tumbled out of their program and silently into private life. They had wanted his abilities too. Kids like him were rare, they said, and he served until his nineteenth birthday. He had hidden well, laid low, avoiding the wrath of authorities. As required, he had remained a nobody.
His life continues with gaps. He's back at the indie mart with bags of chips consumed by thoughts. No memory of the walk over. Since working for unpronounceable he had gone elsewhere for supplies, the company offering convenience to its employees in the form of a well-stocked store on the eleventh floor. Sight of the oxygen masks triggers memories of the old man. He had completely forgotten about him. On leaving the shop he wanders in darkness toward the ramshackle houses, or at least where they used to be. He's met by a blue wire fence. Behind it the brown house stands with black streaks curving up its walls from shattered windows. Jamie's hit with guilt and confusion. He should have known.
It takes a security guard to rouse him back to the present. He tells Jamie the story, about how some old guy freaked and tried to burn down the house taking the street with it. Inexplicable really. Jamie's hit in the gut, he knows it was 'his' old man. Behind it all, the contemplative words, the well-adjusted attitude to his life's downward spiral lay an old man's seething resentment. Recalling the encounter, Jamie could hardly blame him.
The guard has no such attachments. For him the up shot was a chance to build something new and a job—and no one was killed.
“Where did the people go?” Jamie asks.
“Somewhere, family, homes, wherever,” says the security guard. He shrugs, “What can you do?”
Jamie thanks him, bothered and unable to expunge the strange guilt he should have known, that taking a real interest in another human being remained a distant realization for him. He had spent years seeing people as facsimiles and was in danger of passing through life uninvolved. Or was he? The appearance of the code begged to differ. If only he could be a hundred percent sure it wasn't the Feds. He would have to make contact but the very thought paralyzed. If he took his lead from Beanoe he'd find the confidence that comes with standing up for himself and saying he hasn't done anything wrong. Let it seep into his spirit. Done nothing wrong. Walk out of his front door the next morning head up, not looking over his shoulder. Beanoe. Sometimes bullshit works. If the FBI had grievance they would approach. He'd go to the obvious first, Ray and Po. Booms ring out. Jamie slips on a mask. He'd picked up a new one at the mart.
*****
Winter crispness promises the new. Pale blue skies, a cold air pinching the bridge of his nose. There's confidence in his step. Time to move beyond the spin of Ray.
He tells Po he doesn't want to be the man who breaks promises. It's met with an apathetic dropping of her jaw. He doesn't care if she thinks it's a lie. All peas in the same pod now. He approaches their troublesome servers with his own black box of magic tricks. He reassures her it's a sophisticated firewall allowing him to peek at those snooping without detection—should, of course, anyone be snooping. He doesn't tell her it also allows him to pilfer data. Handyman Ray, whacko with the frizzy white hair brings him peanut butter cookies. Conversation is kept to a minimum. Hours he tells them, their equipment is old, patience is needed. And if they don't mind, he has to hack their system. Ray though, pokes. He always has to poke.
“Doesn't it carry a jail sentence?”
“Proprietary software, isn't it?”
Ray nods.
“And I have your approval,” states Jamie.
It's all fake smiles between them as they go about their business. Ray and Po give the illusion of work to do in their white lab coats. No pressure Jamie, fix if you can, leave when you want. He runs a diagnostic. After three different tests no errors are found. Unusual but it is weirdo central. He
laments he'll be there for hours after all, a self-fulfilling prophecy. Worse, time will get the better of him and he'll be forced to make small talk, at the least he's pulling data to analyze at home without their knowledge.
More tea and peanut butter cookies, more chances to converse. It's a dance between them. Ray sits with Jamie sipping from fine bone china waiting for him to ask pertinent questions. Ray's deliberate in a delicate reveal of skin burns on his forearm, and Jamie's polite enough to ask with his eyes.
“Nasty accident when I was a kid,” says Ray.
Jamie won't fall for this ploy and pretends to concentrate on the screen. On prior visits he wanted to know more about this man, but now he struggles, however the anger from his last visit last and the irritant thoughts before this current encounter dissipate in Ray's presence. Jamie couldn't tell if it was he or Ray who was the difference, a question to be answered, how do we ever tell who is affecting whom?
“The affectus transfigurantes,” says Jamie, “are you able to do it?”
“Generate,” replies Ray, “No.”
“Po?”
“No. No one you've met here can.” Ray can tell what Jamie's going to ask next and beats him to it with an answer. “I have seen and can see those who have the ability.” Ray follows it with one of his all knowing smiles. “Portable scanners. Finding you was random. Hard to believe, isn't it?”
“Hard to believe anything you say.”
“But you've come back, not once, but twice.” He pats Jamie, understanding he's said enough and stretches his limbs. “The scanners aren't accurate, so we had to bring you in.”
“So you wanted me to believe... in something you can't do?”
“Tough job when you think about it.”
They're on an even keel. Ray seems content to let his persuasion of Jamie to slide.
The man's a phenomenal liar, Jamie thinks. He's even more detached and objective about the group. Still, focus must be maintained. He has to find out why they're snooping on him.
“I'm curious Jamie. It's obvious there's no connection between us, and even you and Po. You see, it's quite hard to believe you as well. You're the one working for unpronounceable, the big bad corporation in the sky. And yet here you are, fiddling on our machines, and doing what exactly?”
It's funny, a tease, all very cat and mouse, an old movie.
“Then if that's the case,” Jamie responds, “I should be scared. Do I look scared?”
“You know how deceptive looks can be in our world.”
And with that both men adjourn.
An hour later. A moth flickers in the ceiling lights. Jamie finds himself looking forward to the next cup of tea—and interaction—when he notices the anomaly, a piece of code hidden and encrypted in an innocuous directory. It looks like it’s been there for years, collecting data and sending it onward. To where, he has yet to discover. It's not the reason why their system is failing, but is nonetheless alarming. The language is similar to what he saw at home but frustrates him by re-encrypting. His heart drops. If it's the same, or related, and nothing to do with The Source Foundation, then it must be the Feds.
“Someone's watching you.”
“Who?”
“I don't know. Don't know the language. It'll take a while to solve the encryption but for now I can do this.”
Jamie's lightning at the keyboard. The code disappears.
“Glad you dropped by.”
“It's temporary. I'll run a program to loop the disabling. No guarantee it'll work if they run auto roaches to undo my work, but if someone's watching, they'll know.”
“Lets flush them out.”
“You're not bothered? It could be the Feds.”
“There's nothing I can do about it. Better to know who it is.”
Jamie needs air, his head malfunctioning, his certainty of Ray and Po's guilt collapsing before him. Not that they're exonerated. No, he can't let them off. But there's another player here. He sickens to a new realization; one so obvious he wants to throw up.
“Is my information on there?”
“It's encrypted.”
“It can be decoded.”
“It'll be okay.”
“I like to know who's got my information.”
“Why? Someone after you?”
“Oh fuck off Ray.” Jamie takes a breath, needing a second. “My dreams are on there—sorry desires. How the fuck do you think I feel about that!”
Jamie's made his point but there's nothing Ray can do. Jamie's desires have been pinched to be used against him in the public sphere. A bargaining chip, humiliation waiting around the corner, a life sentence dictating how he can behave and what he can do. And he's had enough of it.
“There is another way,” says Ray, “think positive, they may not have it yet.”
“Ray. They have it.”
“If they don't...”
“I can delete it?”
“Well, not quite short of destroying everything we have. But there is a way.”
It's like going back in time. Hearing his psychobabble again. Jamie knows he's going to hear this no matter what. It's enough to make him hyperventilate. “Go on,” he says.
“Face the monster you created,” says Ray, “beat it and it auto erases your first ionizer experience.”
“You're still big on that.”
“What else are you going to do—other than work for Blaze?”
The out of context reference is a bulging red flag.
“You know him?”
“We've met,” says Ray, “He'll recycle your old life into your new.”
“Don't you do the same thing?”
Jamie's sharp today, the heightened sense of fear, his world unravelling, giving him the edge he lacks on other days.
“Excess is a lie,” says Ray.
Jamie's confused.
“Excess is a lie. A little thing I have. If you say it fast enough. X X LI. Excess is a lie.”
“Well,” says Jamie, “He pays in excess.”
“Good to know. If I need a job.”
The pod of thoughts, dreams, and fantasies. Jamie's back again. Going home was his initial preference but Ray and Po convinced him, or played on his paranoia of being watched by the Feds. Whatever they did, it worked. He would spend the night with a cabinet of new- age books. One of the Source Foundations critics mocked them as yet another form of bastardized Buddhism, taking all the easy-to-get happiness Westerners wanted by clearing a path through anything remotely challenging with a mile-wide bulldozer. As bastardized as it may have been, they certainly got the bed right. The strains and worries of the day melt away as he lies down, his body rushing to sleep. Morning comes too soon.
He can't believe he's doing this. Jamie's dressed in a white jump suit. Ray holds a visor and lectures similar instructions prior to Jamie's first encounter in the ionizer before releasing the headgear into Jamie's possession. He fusses; making sure it's strapped tight. Po races past them with a covered blue bucket, and Ray gives her the go ahead to pour the contents into the far corner of the ionizer. Jamie's ready. As he steps inside to face and destroy his monster, Ray tugs at his arm.
“Remember, it's more about who you are.”
The tug bothers Jamie. He's felt that buzz of energy before and there's no time to ponder as bright lights blind him. Inside the ionizer he's clueless to the role of Ray and Po outside. Maybe he should have asked. For someone who was neurotic he was capable of wild decisions, or just not asking the obvious. The visor adjusts, allowing him to see, and he's glad it does. Buzzing high voltage electrifies the air as the yellow slime forms a blob then rises several feet in the air reshaping itself into an ogre. Hair sprouts all over its body secreting translucent goo. Jamie waits to see if this image of himself has some form of consciousness. It's alive but its sight is lacking as it bangs into the walls slopping sticky goo here and there. Jamie's fascinated by this birth. Each movement and obstacle brings a new realization to the ogre. And with each slip and crash the o
gre's annoyance increases. Jamie senses his frustration of not getting something right, the thrashing in the blind. He also knows the collective annoyance is going to be directed at him sooner or later. It's Demon Keepers really. A couple of catfish bombs would give him a good idea of how difficult an opponent the ogre will be. He delays as long as possible wanting to give the ogre some sense of life, a code of honor in his gaming world. As the ogre struggles toward him, Jamie unleashes the bombs. To the ogre's horror they stick in his hair enraging his inner beast. The bombs take a couple of seconds to explode, and do no more than rock him back. The ogre looks at the two balls of fire on his body and wipes them out leaving two black patches. It appears a mundane attempt to do him harm, not a game Jamie should play. The ogre fixes his eyes on him, sight improving by the second. He stomps to his own beat, a war dance to intimidate and charges the little human in front of him. Jamie slides between the ogre's legs, and with massive machine guns attached to each arm, fires incessantly. Hundreds of bullets spew forth every few seconds. The sight is to behold. All the bullets have stuck to the ogre's hair like bling. The ogre shakes himself, the bullets, thousands of them, a hailstorm of tinkle on the floor. Jamie's screwed. He whips out two glowing swords, his most trusted weapons from the game. The ogre swipes and Jamie leaps high. As he descends he plows each sword into the ogre's neck. Letting go, Jamie slips and slides down the ogre's body until the sticky hair catches his ankles and swings him upside down, his limbs stretched out of their sockets, the pain beyond this level of existence. Jamie meets darkness once again.
The Code of Happiness Page 6
