Netopia
Y.G. Levimor
Netopia
Written by Y.G. Levimor
Translator: Joaf Kleingeld
Editor: Julie Phelps
Cover design: Dana Cyviak
On the cover: “The Guardian” from original art series “Myorcas” created by James Watson
The publishers tried their best to find the copyright holders of the texts referenced in the book. We apologize for any possible omission or error, which will be corrected in future editions once we are made aware of them.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods.
Any manner of commercial use of material contained in this book is strictly forbidden without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
All Rights of the English translation Reserved © 2015 Yasmin Levi & Gal Mor
[email protected]
www.netopia.us
Production: Notssa
To Dan Mor, without whose support we would never have made it this far.
Contents
1 - Sunset Rising
2 - Ferrari Kid
3 - To Life and to Death
4 - Baby Gaga
5 - Into the Fire
6 - All in the Head
7 - The Next Big Nothing
8 - Eternal Sunshine of the Hollow Mind
9 - Operation Netopia
10 - Restart
Remarks
1
Sunset Rising
"Robin-Fucking-Nice! Why do you keep asking my name? Can't you get a reading? R-O-B-I-N N-I-C-E!"
"Voice print unidentified. Please repeat your name, Sir, and please speak loudly and clearly."
"Now what? What more do you want?! Please connect me to a human agent."
"What do you mean by 'human'?" Did he detect a trace of insult in her voice? "I'm sorry, but after five attempts, your access to the system has been suspended."
"Listen to me carefully." He lowered his voice, holding back in case he pushed her fragile digital ego over the edge. He ran his fingers through graying hair and rested his palm on his forehead.
"Emily, my dear, I was invited to a conference. They asked me to respond to the invitation. I even have this confirmation code that they sent me." Robin racked his brain for the invitation number, and said, "876. It has to mean something to you!"
"I'm sorry, Sir, your access is denied."
"Who is this 'Sir'!?" His voice culminated in a shriek directed at the image suspended over his living room floor. "Are we playing some kind of game, or do you get a kick out of humiliating me by making me repeat myself over and over? I'm going to get you for this! I can't be wasting time on this crap. You see all these awards? The whole world knows who I am… I designed your appearance, your thought processes and personality, and now you're shitting on me? God, this is ridiculous! Check your records, you piece-of-shit technology!"
The situation got to be too much for Robin Nice to put up with. He had humiliated himself in front of Emily, his personal agent, trying to make her retrieve fragments of her memory data through the Cloud, recall that her master does exist and confirm his attendance at the DigiB conference - an annual event that no neuro-bliss professional would dare miss.
Those were days when people got all primped and dressed up mostly to stay at home: going out without going out; rubbing elbows with your social milieu without actually touching anyone in the augmented reality of a Mindsphere. People used these occasions to remind themselves that they were social creatures to a certain extent. Tiny components wired into the brain controlled the flow of information between the global collective brain of Minds Network and the brains of network users, creating three dimensional worlds that existed nowhere but inside the heads of participants.
Nice was expecting yet another award at the ceremony, acknowledging his ‘outstanding contribution to the study of happiness’. You wouldn't necessarily call him happy, or think that he'd need another award. Countless prizes, honors and statuettes already served to show that his standing as the genre's darling was secure. And yet, all these trophies did not prevent his personal agent from slipping into amnesia, a malfunction that was supposed to be impossible according to design statements.
"I'm sorry, Sir, there's no need for harsh language. My failure to identify you is caused by a temporary connectivity issue with Cloud memory stores."
Emily was floating opposite Robin in the room. She was a bob-cut blond, wore a French maid outfit, and her tiny smile was almost contemptuous, exactly the way he configured her. Nice was meticulous about his clichés.
He cut off his thought channel to Emily and her image disintegrated. He was hoping his Minds event arrangements would soon run as smoothly as they always did. Until now, the mere thought of attending an event would have prompted Emily's appearance, notifying him that all his traveling and registration arrangements had been fully taken care of and paid for, and that he could expect reminders to be issued in due course. He really liked things to take care of themselves, without involving a man of his status in the details and the squalor of bureaucracy that he detested so much.
When Minds was first launched, Robin had been one of several hundred million others lined up at the network's service centers, waiting to be fitted with a micro implant which would give him the ability to share any thought with other users on the advanced network. It was the only way for him to live in a world personally adjusted to his tastes and needs.
It was so easy and convenient, to be able to mentally connect to any service, organization or person, and - with a simple thought - to generate any fantasy or event, private or shared with someone else, specific down to the last detail in a dreamlike world that could be experienced and shared at any given moment. It was fast and efficient. Getting the implants involved a simple, non-invasive procedure available at every Minds service center. Around the time they appeared, all screens and other intermediary devices that were previously used to connect to the net disappeared. All physical gestures became unnecessary, and thoughts directed at persons, actions or objects were flawlessly relayed from one mind to the next without any interference. At least until now.
The frustrated Robin was lying in bed, staring into general space. A nostalgic notion had him browsing through the projection of an old family album, leafing through remembered images. The ability to conjure images with a glance was of no help or comfort to him at the moment. He strained his brain trying to relax, and reminded himself how far he had come to be Robin Nice, the most successful DigiB author of his time.
Working to his advantage was a new generation of people who had become increasingly adapted to a more digital form of thought, which made the pursuit of happiness a more formulated and desperate business. In a conversation he had had years ago with a fellow author, who, unlike Robin, had remained in relative obscurity, Robin showed himself to be a more critical and subversive person than his books otherwise suggested.
"Many have given up on spousal relationships in favor of other arrangements which might be more convenient, and less committing," he told the web trend-setter Emanuel Stone. "Who has the time to look after someone else in this day and age? Being a parent is like being penalized: a lapse of judgment, an obstruction on the road to personal fulfillment. Young people insist on creating new lives that will suck the joy out of their own. I figured out ear
ly on that raising a child will in no way benefit me. In fact, I only stand to lose by having one. I’ve no need for a creature who’ll be dependent on me, and continue to depend on me long after it grows up. And as if that's not enough, there's even the possibility that it would depart from this world before I do. I haven't found one good reason to take chances on a kid."
"I find it curious that you don't seem to have any regrets," Emanuel conjectured.
"We're still kids ourselves. We always will be. If I became a parent, I’d have to say goodbye to any happiness I might achieve through self-improvement."
"And what will you leave behind when you're gone?"
"Who cares? I won't be around anymore," Robin concluded.
Robin had since kept such thoughts to himself, but he could see his predictions becoming a reality. He saw many pass up on companionship or offspring, satisfying themselves with customizable realistic pets. People didn't have the time or the energy to act like they cared about someone else's wellbeing. Actually, Robin did not jump in with the first wave of neopet adopters, though he was eager to; he was concerned it would point to a contradiction between the lofty advice he dispensed in earlier novels and his apparent desire for digital companionship. It was only after the creatures became more widespread that he let himself be treated to his own furry animal. He was secretly jealous of other people who could speak their minds without worrying about the fallout. But he had a higher purpose set for himself: he would turn his books into bestsellers by spicing up humankind's ancient search for meaning with contemporary language and everyday analogies - whatever it took, as long as it sold, sold, and sold some more.
He remembered every single word Emanuel had said to him in that conversation.
"Of all people, you, a bona fide misanthrope, have become the prophet of light and love for the masses. You manage to reach so many people, and still you're lonelier than you have ever been. You embrace the universe, and then go to sleep on your lonesome inside your four walls. You dope your audience on kitsch and nonsense about humility, and all the while you actually idolize yourself."
Overwhelmed by the scathing words, Robin could only stare at his friend, and, for once – he was speechless.
When he finished replaying the conversation, he remembered the angry thought exchange he shared with Emily earlier, the cause of his current headache. He poured himself another drink to force the edge off. The taste was lousy, to say the least, but it was the only alcohol analog he let himself have. If he didn't drink, he couldn't write. "I can't even get drunk like a real writer," he’d lashed out at himself more than once.
It's probably a temporary malfunction, he told himself, and swallowed a mouthful.
An apology for the inconvenience will soon come, and he would respond with a graceful, tolerant gesture: "It's alright, I understand perfectly. To err is only digital." He would also apologize to Emily for his limited, uncontrollable outburst. After all, only a haywire brain bug could justify losing control with a digital agent, in a world where everything was under tight control.
The drink wasn't enough. Robin felt the need to indulge in a massage. The thought barely registered and his tending owls fluttered about. These neopets were small and clever creatures, multi-purposed and expedient, who sat on trees inside his house and, with infinite patience, waited on his commands.
Robin lay flat on his stomach, and the pets transformed into woolly lumps that rolled on his back, giving him the full treatment while purring pleasurably. At sixty years old, losing his temper wasn't as simple as it used to be, even if he once wrote that sixty was the new babyhood. Getting upset now posed a health risk.
The owls massaged his back with their tiny bodies, moving from side to side. A memory of warmth. It was two years since he had lost his wife, Liv, the only person he ever loved other than himself. He needed some of her right now. He was choking on tears, his face buried in the pillow. A Minds replay option allowed him to vividly experience any moment they spent together, and he was able to relax. Through younger eyes, he relived their time as a couple when they first met. It was during a literary convention. He was an aspiring author, and she was poor and loved to escape into better realities, mostly by reading.
"Liv, you'll see. One day I'll be much more successful than I am now," he said.
"I'm sure you will be," she agreed with a smile, although she hardly knew him.
"Yeah? What makes you so sure?" he wondered, thrown off by her immediate approval.
"I have this habit of believing people… it's a medical condition," she said and turned, leaving him behind, aching for more. She had a unique quality he could not define.
He stood in front of her, blocking her way. "Can I keep talking to you and hear more about that condition? Who knows, I might cure it."
"I doubt it. You look like you might develop into a nasty condition yourself," she said.
Robin wasn't really offended, but pretended to be.
"Me? A nasty condition? I always considered myself a cure-all."
"You're so full of yourself. You use this line on all the girls, don't you?"
"Honestly, no. Most of them make me sick."
They both smiled and kept looking at each other. Her reddish hair was shiny, and reminded him of portraits by painters from long ago. Her fair skin seemed like it required constant care. She blushed when she smiled. But he mostly wanted to protect her frailty, to keep her from shattering.
The current Robin was in tears again, having relived the burning memory of their first encounter. Every several days he would rerun the scene in his head. He knew every second by heart. Her scent, the way she talked fast when his presence stressed her, the way she looked down when his arrogant statements upset her, the way she smiled when she was pleased with herself - usually when she proved him wrong. Once again, he was moved by the moment when she finally surrendered to him. Not physically, but in her heart.
They talked about his ambitions, of which one was to see her enjoy his success, perhaps proving to her that he was actually making it. An hour passed and they were holding hands. Later they kissed.
Since that day they were seldom apart, but many years later she succumbed to a disease.
Parting with her had been unbearable. He would not accept that that was it - that her soul was actually gone. As far as he was concerned, she woke every morning beside him, ate with him, told him off. The living memories running in his head helped maintain her presence. Facing the charged moments projected from the wall made him anxious at first, but it proved too strong to resist, the need to cling to all that was left of her, including the moment when she ceased to be. Her death also featured in the reruns, making his heart pound and his skin sweat. The initial anxiety was back. It was masochism at its best.
"Robin, I feel like I'm getting weaker," she said softly as they walked in the garden together.
"Nonsense. You're strong!" he said, almost scolding her.
"I need to sit down."
"No… don't sit, you have to keep moving, it's important for your blood flow."
"I can't," she pleaded.
"There is no can't," he answered, but when he turned to look she was already lying in a purple flower bed, listless. He stood above her, frozen, simply staring instead of calling for help. He dropped to his knees only to be level with her open eyes. He could not think of anything, apart from her lying in a patch of her favorite color, purple.
A passerby was the one to call for a flying ambulance and a paramedic, who could do nothing to help her. He didn't cry. His only thought had to do with his online editors who insisted that he get rid of a main character who was ‘too deep and complicated’ for readers.
What happened to me? he thought. How did I turn into this populist who writes easily digestible spiritual snacks for idiots?
After the memory played out, Robin's thoughts snapped from past mode and returned to the present. He was still staring into the pillow, pushing his face into it as hard as he could, while the owls ke
pt at their task. He turned and sat up, drilling a stare into the tiny creatures who hovered over the bed in soundless flight. Ordinarily he would give them a progress report. He felt that their piercing black eyes expected more from him. They were expecting him to make the transition to another genre, something less preachy and pretentious.
"I'm not going to stop writing DigiB," he said out loud. "I'm hooked on the feeling of being a guru to lost souls, especially the kind that feed on messages of light and love. I'm the one who sanctions their way of living, helping them set positive goals for their lives. On their part, they provide no solace for my heavy soul, but at least I can afford this lifestyle."
The owls did nothing but stare back. One fluttered over carrying Robin's Life Plus mask in its beak. Robin used it to deeply inhale rainforest-scented, oxygenated breaths, trying to clear his mind of all thoughts. The owls resumed caressing his nurtured skin with soft feathers. It felt nice, not unlike the breeze at the heights of bestselling summits.
***
Sometimes Robin would listen to the doomsayers, announcing the grim end of mankind. He mostly agreed with them, but lacked the courage it took to express any negative notions that might hurt sales. He heard them say how various accomplishments such as the moon landing, the fast wireless global information network and soft-tissue toilet paper were being wasted on billions of unworthy assholes. There are too many people in the world, he reflected, a thin smile stretching across his face - a smile many wrongly took to indicate a pleasant disposition. When speaking at Mindsphere events he made sure to transmit generous thoughts to any stra, lost soul in the audience, remembering to praise the asker, to furnish enthusiastic answers even to the dumbest of questions, and to yield the floor to anyone who might think this or maybe that. Even when his patience expired and he cursed them at heart, he would still put on a smile.
Netopia: A Thrilling Dystopian Novel (Science Fiction & Action) Page 1
