"You came here in person to tell me that? You could have just sent a memo."
"This is the memo."
I frown, stretching my arm out. Sure enough, my hand passes right through him.
His teeth flash in a rictus grin. "Like I told you. I'm always watching."
The hologram flickers for a moment before fading out. I gaze around the room, trying to pinpoint the projection point, but it's pointless. There are probably hundreds of cameras and receptors installed to keep an eye on me. Not to mention the hardware that's a part of me, bonding me to Cyber Corp as sure as if I were created to serve. I wish I were. Then maybe I wouldn't feel like the worst person on earth.
I take my clothes off and step into the shower. For just a moment I want to lose myself in the hiss of scalding water and suffocating steam. The memories haunt me anyway. Dabria's stern eyes, peering from the shadows of the hood covering her head. The battered streets and buildings we crept past on the way to the targeted facility. The ambush by Cyber Corp ghost troopers. The bullets and explosions that tore my body apart as if it was rice paper.
Water streams down the surface of my new body. Lean and lined with more taut muscle than curves, just like I was before. Even the geometric tattoos on my elbows and spine were reproduced. But looking closely I can see the fine lines like silvery razor scars where the synthetic flesh is grafted to the original. My body is sixty-seven percent artificial, manufactured to replace the charred remains of what they pulled from the rubble. Cyber Corp doesn’t take prisoners. They recycle enemies, transform them into cybernetic slave soldiers called Scythers. And the explosive planted in the base of my skull assures my utmost obedience.
But it does nothing for the flashbacks.
Seeing Dabria again triggers something in me that I thought I buried long ago. Worse than the phantom pain and memories of being charred, shredded, and left for dead. The helplessness hits like an unexpected punch in the gut. I slump into the corner of the shower, curling into a fetal position. Feelings of worthlessness and self-doubt overwhelm me, and like every time I let the memories resurface, I start to cry.
Chapter 3: 5P3CT3R
I feel like a dead man walking.
Flo is on duty when I stagger into the Reentry office. She takes up a lot of space in the tiny cubicle. Glancing at me over her horn-rimmed spectacles, she shakes her head, plump lips twisted in contempt or disgust. Maybe a bit of both.
"Well, well. Sleeping Beauty you ain't, Mr. Smith. Sixteen months, thirteen days wasting away in Elysia. You trying to go for the record?"
I try to control my shivering limbs, clutching the sill on the office window to keep from collapsing. "I thought I told you last time to up my nutrients. What happened?"
Smacking on chewing gum, she taps her retro keyboard in a bored manner. "That wasn't last time. It was the time before that. Last time you spoke with Fran."
I clench my teeth to keep them from chattering. "Beside the point. Look at me—I'm practically starving. I should slap a lawsuit on this place."
"Hey—get in line, pal. Your nutrient regiment went down because the rent went up."
"It did? When? I didn't get any notification."
"Your privacy settings must be muting your notifications, Mr. Top Secret. Your fault. Might wanna fix that."
"Yeah, okay. How much did they screw me over this time?"
"Fifteen percent."
"Fifteen?" I scrub a hand through my bristly hair. It feels dry and brittle as if it might splinter if I rub too hard. "Are you serious? How is that even possible?"
She shrugs offhandedly. "I just work here, pal. Something about rising property taxes. You know how it goes. Everything goes uphill, and it's all through the roof these days. What can you do, right?"
"Okay, fine. Look, I need a system reboot. Can you do that, at least?"
She raises an eyebrow. "You wouldn't have been a naughty boy, have you, Mr. Smith?"
"No…just had some glitches I want to reset. You guys should update more often."
"We update on a regular schedule, Mr. Smith. Any glitches you might have noticed are probably because of your mods. Or maybe you want to erase any traceback signals. You know—from engaging in illegal activities." She smacks her gum, giving me a stern stare.
"Illegal? Me? No way."
"Sure, sure. Guess it was just coincidence that the only synoids that kept malfunctioning and giving out extra bonuses just happened to service your sector. Not that I'm complaining, because I got this cushy job on account of those malfunctions. But I'm not so grateful that I won't give you over to any investigators that come calling, understand?"
"You tell me that every time, Flo."
"No. Sometimes it's Fran." She taps the keyboard, then pauses. "Oh."
My heart pounds, creating a matching pulse in my temples. "What?"
"Looks like you're in the red, Mr. Smith. A month behind when the price hike is factored in."
"Yeah, because you robbed me when I was sleeping."
"Rate changes are what you agreed to when you signed your contract, Mr. Grey."
"I'm aware of that, Flo. And I'm good for the payment. Okay? I have it."
"I'm talking about real money, not that Elysian crypto. It's useless outside your dream world."
"I know that, Flo."
"Great. You can settle now, then."
"Well, I don't have it now. I have to get it." I give her my most sincere smile.
Her response is a face-altering frown. "Mr. Smith. You know our policies."
"Yes, I do."
"Paying on time is essential for our residents."
"Yes, I know."
"If your DSP rent falls behind, you can be evicted without warning."
"I know that, Flo. It's just—"
"That's non-negotiable. Mr. Smith. I have good news, though."
I sigh. "Yeah, I'm sure you do."
"The management at Deep Sleep are empathetic to their client's concerns and understand that sometimes circumstances prevent them from fulfilling their financial obligations on time."
"And I appreciate their empathy."
"Therefore, in recognition of your good track record and taking into account the length of your residence, you've been awarded a two-week window to get your affairs in order and your account back into good standing."
"Two weeks. How generous."
She smiles, flashing large white teeth. "In other words: get your shit together, Mr. Smith. We got a waiting list of idiots wanting to abandon the real world, and every one of them would love to nab your little pod. Capiche?"
I nod, clearing my throat as a coughing fit threatens to overtake me. "Yeah. I got it, Flo. You will do the reboot, won't you?"
"For a loyal customer like yourself? No problem, Mr. Smith. We'll even include a nutrient boost pack and a muscle rebuilder treatment, so you don't go back into the world looking like the walking dead. We'll front the cost to your tab."
"Thanks again for your kindness, Flo."
"You want my advice, Mr. Smith?"
"Not really."
"Stop this."
"Stop what?"
"This." She gestures at me. "It ain't healthy, kid. Trust me, I know. We vacate corpses outta here all the time. Corpses. Dead things that used to be human."
"I know what a corpse is."
"You should. You practically look like one. Look at you—you can barely stand. And for what? To live some fake life in a fake world? What's wrong with real life? What's wrong with the real world?"
"Are you serious?"
"Of course I'm serious. You think I like coming in here six days out the week, working twelve-hour shifts? Or living in some crappy apartment I can barely pay for? I got kids, grandkids I barely get a chance to see. I got health issues that cost more than I make."
"Sounds like you're making my argument for me."
"Then you're not listening, kid. Because the difference between you and me is that my life is real. You got some fantasy world where you pret
end to be someone worthwhile. But in reality, you're a month behind on rent and the verge of physical deterioration. Not me. Those few moments I get to pet my dog, watch my grandkids grow, listen to some good music, eat some home-cooked food—that's reality. Not some program I pay to manipulate my brainwaves."
I nod to the logo above her head. "Reality is what we make it."
"Go to hell, Mr. Smith. I don't know why I bother."
I smile. "Love you too, Flo."
Muscle restructure is a five-hour torture session strapped to a bed in a dimly lit room that smells like stale medicine. I'm operated on by a sinister-looking medical robot that looks like a living medieval torture device, complete with stabbing needles, pinchers, and no regard for my pleas for mercy.
When it finishes, I can barely walk. Every movement summons a jolt of fiery agony. Afterward, it's off to the recovery ward where the nutrient boost pack inserts intravenously. A few other listless people receive the same treatment, and if I look anything like them, I'm in worse shape than I thought. We don't talk. Social interaction outside of Elysia is uncomfortable. Short phrases punctuated by awkward pauses. Conversation doesn't work the same as it does in Elysia. My intravenous neighbors and I regard each other with listless, hollow-eyed stares, unable to find anything of interest to talk about.
"Daddy—what's wrong with them?"
I painfully lift my head. A boy stands in the doorway, beautiful and alive in a way that makes me want to curl up and die. His big brown eyes are wide in a mixture of curiosity and repulsion.
His father glances into the room, face twisted in scorn and disgust. He's a tall man in a tailored suit, blond hair perfectly coifed, tanned skin polished and flawless. No doubt some bureaucrat going on a vacation to one of the millions of resorts and theme parks programmed into the system.
"Wrong door, Thomas. This is a recovery room for the Sleepers." He says the word like a curse. "This is what I was telling you about. Why you can't spend so much time on your holovisor. You'll end up looking like these…people."
The boy says something else, but his father ushers him away as if we're quarantined from some deadly contagion. I want to say something in protest, but the moment is lost. People like him don't understand. They can't see what the real problem is. It's not Elysia. It's not Deep Sleep.
It's everything else.
I hate it here. The air in the facility tastes bitter and smells like antiseptic cleaner. My stomach is a churning pot of bubbling bile, and my head throbs, sending wave after wave of dizziness until I feel I'm about to pass out. All I want to do is get back into Elysia. Get back to Hel. Right now, she's got everything set up in Final Falls and is waiting for me. Wondering where I am, why I'm late. Worried about my safety.
I have to get back to her. She's my anchor. Without her, I'm lost. She's always been there. The memories flood through my mind like they always do when I unplug. It’s hard to tell which are real sometimes. But I remember that day I met Hel like it was yesterday. The way the dust motes sparkled in the rays of sunlight that beamed through the blinds. My mom hated that. Dust was the enemy. Her army of cleaning robots worked diligently every day, but somehow it wasn't enough. Dust is inevitable. The tiny little bits of us we unconsciously leave behind. You can't stop dust the same as you can't stop death. You just learn to deal with it the best you can.
I was seven years old. The doctors still hadn’t identified the reason why synoids went berserk in my presence. At first, my parents had synoids in the house like everyone else, programmed to act as butlers and maids. And in my case, a nanny.
Only my nanny behaved erratically, given to fits of crying and flailing as if reduced to infancy. My parents were terrified, an emotion that changed to anger as they tried to blame the manufacturer for the distress. It took over a year of repeated incidents for the problem to finally be narrowed down. There were no issues with the synoids. The issue was me.
Some of my earliest memories are of the many curious scientists coming and going back then. A lot of trips to laboratories where specialists repeatedly scanned my brain and experts referred me to other experts, all trying to zero in on what the problem was. The primary advice in the meantime: stay away from synoids until the specialists could diagnose me accurately.
The problem was that synoids were everywhere, just like they are now. In school, in restaurants, on the streets, at my best friend’s house. Maximillian Industries was determined to make synoids as indispensable as cell phones and televisions once were. Avoiding contact with synoids required isolation. It was a concept I was familiar with.
My father was a space shuttle driver who hauled blood shards for Maximillian Industries, traveling to Mars and back. The money and benefits were good enough to get us a small residency in the Los Nuevos Haven, which was as good as it gets for most people. People usually called the place Syn City, a throwback twist to the time when it was once named Las Vegas. The twist being the exchange of sin for synthetic as it became the most technologically advanced Haven in the world, primarily because of the fusion advancements pioneered by the Maximillian technology empire.
The burgeoning fusion industry required crimsonium crystals, which are only found on Mars. The Blood Shard Rush led to the Red War, which led to the Mars Interstellar Treaty, which led to the nonstop transport of blood shards from Mars to Earth. My dad was one of the millions employed by thousands of shuttle companies cashing in on the crimsonium boom.
The job took Dad away from home for months at a time, and when he was home, he was exhausted and irritable. Space travel turned him into a solitary being, prone to depression and neurasthenia, for which he took medications that only further exasperated his condition. I remember arguments, fierce words spoken in hushed undertones as my mom accused him of being addicted to space travel. She often said he loved the cosmos more than he loved his family.
Looking back, perhaps my tendency to lose myself in other worlds was beyond my control. Maybe my likelihood of succumbing to addiction was hereditary.
My mom was creative, often losing herself in painting and poetry writing. She’d host little parties with her avant-garde peers; people who liked to dress up, engage in philosophical debate, lament the current state of affairs, and occasionally partake of socially acceptable drugs. She loved me from a distance, always ready to provide whatever comfort she thought I needed when she managed to pull herself away from her projects and cocktail parties.
One of those rare moments found me staring outside the window, watching floating cars skim across the road, synoids walking genetically modified dogs, and especially other kids. They ran around in a park across the street with holovisors on, the screens transforming their surroundings into digitally altered wonderlands. It was a world I could have no part of. I could only gaze at it from the confines of my post-modern futurist prison.
"Dean."
Mom had a playful smile on her face when she approached, a gift-wrapped box in her arms. She was tall and slender, her dark, close-cut hair glossy as polished onyx. She never looked the picturesque doting mother, but more like a runway model in her asymmetric dresses, gloved hands and stylistic heels. But there was nothing but kindness in her smile when she placed the box in my hands.
"This is for you, sweetheart."
I stared at the silver gift wrapping concealing the mysterious secrets within. "What is it?"
"Something special. Because you’re special, Dean. I know it gets lonely cooped up in here. With your condition, you can’t make friends like everyone else can. So, I’m bringing your friends to you." She rubbed her hands together, smile widening. "Go ahead—open it."
I excitedly tore away the wrapping, gasping when I saw the picture on the box. "A Sensync Immersion set? Thanks, Mom!"
She helped me with the equipment, glad to have a hand in something that made me happy. The latest version of the holovisor for virtual immersion slipped over my eyes, but more important were the Sensync sensors latched onto my temples. Using neural interface techno
logy, they transmitted sensory input into my brain, fully immersing me into the virtual world with the sound, scent, and touch that the normal holovisors lacked.
"Do you like it, Dean?"
Her voice was just a ghostly echo. I was already lost, tumbling down the rabbit hole as an entirely new world coalesced around me into the gardens of Elysia, my launchpad into virtual immersion.
The sky was shades of rose and lavender, the trees shrouded in pink leaves shedding white blossoms that fluttered across the air like thousands of tiny moths. The glassy lake waters reflected the golden clouds and the skyline of streamlined buildings that blended with the nature around it as if a testament to coexistence. Neon halos circled the bottom of the trees, illuminating the park in electric-blue light.
"Hello."
I turn around. Standing a few feet away was a young girl my age with a heart-shaped face, large expressive eyes, and shimmering black hair adorned with flower blossoms that tumbled from the trees.
I couldn't stop myself from staring. "Hi."
She gave me a shy glance. "My name is Hel. What’s yours?"
"Dean."
She took a few steps closer. "Do you want to be my friend, Dean?"
I was so starstruck I could barely breathe, but I managed to squeak out the answer.
"Yes."
A smile brightened her face, made her eyes shine. She took my hand. "I'm so glad. Come on. There's so much to do."
"Like what?"
"Anything we want."
She led me into the digital garden, and I followed. For the rest of my life, I followed.
Chapter 4: 3N16MA
"Enigma."
My eyes open to brightness. Sunlight, harsh in the cool of the plush white synthetic leather interior of a flying vehicle. Other floaters drift by gleaming buildings outside the narrow window. A woman in a sleek, all-black assassin ensemble lounges across from me, one leg casually crossed over the other. A snug mechanized helmet and visor cover most of her face, leaving only her nose and lips exposed. Her skin is coppery, her lips dark red, nearly black.
Syn City- Reality Bytes Page 3
