Cold Reboot (Shadow Decade Book 1)

by Michael Coorlim

"We can of course process a return for you, ma'am, but Federal law prohibits returning firearms through the mail. You'll have to bring it to one of our distribution centers."

  "You can sell guns by mail, but you can't take returns? That doesn't make any sense!"

  "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Could you repeat it?"

  I sat on my futon. "Fine, whatever. Where's your nearest distribution center?"

  "The closest distribution center to your present location would be located at 794 Southrock Drive, in Rockford, IL 61102."

  "Rockford? That's 90 miles west of me. Don't you have any stores in the city?"

  "Fairweather Industries is an online-only retailer, ma'am. Would you like to speak to an operator?"

  I paused. "Aren't you an operator?"

  "If you are interested in speaking to a live operator, one will be available in—"

  I ended the call by thumbing the card a bit harder than was strictly required and threw it onto the mattress next to me. I'd bought a gun. Clicked on it and purchased it while letting my subconscious have at the clothing.

  Or rather, she had. The woman in the mirror. The person I'd been for the last decade. Maybe, during these lapses, when I... forgot to be myself, I reverted to being her, this woman with short red hair, with cold sharp eyes, with the physique of a professional athlete. This echo from before my coma.

  I would have never bought the weapon. I hated guns. Detested them. Hated what they represented. Hated the bullshit reasons people made up to justify owning them, hated the propaganda that convinced them it was necessary. I could not imagine a scenario that involved not being repelled by the weapons.

  But there it was. Bought as a reflex action by someone I had no real connection to.

  Who the fuck was I?

  ***

  When my appointment reminder went off I dressed up in my sharp suit, stepped into my pumps, and left the apartment. I hadn't figured out what to do about the gun, so I just left it locked in its box at the bottom of my underwear drawer. Something I could ask Scott about when I went in to talk to him next week.

  More teens were hanging out down by the vending machine.

  The quick glance I gave them as I made sure my door was locked was enough to catalog and categorize them, some strange instinctual habit, another trace of this other person that I had been. There were a half-dozen of them, male and female, ranging in age from their late teens to their mid-twenties, and while none of them were being obvious about it, I knew with a dark certainty that they were waiting for me. Among them was the girl with the chin tattoo.

  Most wore individually patterned high-end printed clothing, with a similar enough style to constitute uniformity. They were a cohesive unit. A gang. My brain made a connection between the patterns on their clothes and the graffiti I'd seen outside and around the building, and in a flash of insight knew that they'd claimed 500 Block as their territory.

  My heart hammered away in my chest as I turned away from them and started walking towards the opposite stairs as if that had been my plan all along. A mocking laugh, rising high from the bed of their scattered conversation let me know that they hadn't been fooled. They knew I'd been spooked.

  I hoped it was a victory they'd be satisfied with.

  It wasn't. I could hear the soles of their shoes on the walkway's concrete as they ambled after me.

  I wasn't running. Neither would they, but the pack of long-limbed teens had a faster natural gait. If I walked faster, they'd match me. If I ran, they'd run me down.

  Reaching the opposite corner I heard footsteps on the stairs down below. Instead of descending I turned, taking the courtyard rectangle's longer walkway, as if I intended to take the stairs near the western lobby. If I could just reach it...

  Glancing down as I turned, I caught a glimpse of the handful coming up from below and saw that, in addition to the patterns on their clothes, many of them sported facial tattoos. Symmetrical lines and spirals, like what the girl had on her chin, but more ornate. More gang markings? Something about them unnerved me.

  What crystallized my worry was the trio of young men coming from the stairs ahead of me, patterned clothing, wide grins on their tattooed faces. I was being herded towards this other group, caught in the middle for some purpose I didn't care to try and fathom. They'd seen the packages I'd had delivered. Maybe they thought I was rich. Maybe they thought I was weak.

  I glanced back behind me and saw that the half dozen had stepped up their pace and joined with those who'd come up the stairs. No need to worry about spooking me now.

  The largest of the young men in front of me, jacket-less in the cold January wind to show off the beefy breadth of his shoulders and thickness of his arms, widened the smile on his tattooed face, gold right bicuspid catching the late-morning light.

  I stopped, letting my hand close on the rail between me and the courtyard.

  "Hey, lady." Gold-tooth's voice was mockingly sweet.

  It was like something out of a movie, both the context and the way I felt, like I was watching actors playing out a predetermined scene, of which I was but one. There was a script the actor playing me couldn't deviate from... I hoped she was good at her job.

  She pivoted at the waist, legs scissoring through the air as a counterbalance as she went over the rail. Everything had a strange clarity to it, an artificial focus that drew my attention to the astonished open mouth gapes of the gang members watching her sideways arc, watching her hang in the air for a moment before completing her flip with a short drop to the courtyard below.

  She stuck the landing right next to a shocked looking middle-aged woman, bundled up and sweeping the walk in front of her door. All I could see were the almond eyes above her scarf and below her hat, but they looked as surprised to see me as I felt to be there.

  I looked away from her up at the astonished faces of the gang on the walkway above me and quirked a smile with confidence I didn't feel, then sauntered down the courtyard to the doors leading out to the street.

  They didn't follow.

  CHAPTER 6: COMMUTE

  "On or off, lady." The voice was gruff and impatient.

  I was standing in front of a train car's open doors, with no clue where I was or how I'd gotten there.

  I half-turned to the guy behind me. "I'm sorry I..."

  Behind his broad frowning face I could see the sign for the station, a white 47 on a gray background above a red band. The station itself was smack dab in the middle of the expressway. That put me at the 47th Red Line stop, only blocks from my apartment.

  Memories of how I'd gotten here came flooding back, setting the coffee date with Baxter, the confrontation on the walkway, blurred snapshots from my walk here. I staggered, hand on the train's doorway.

  The guy behind me brushed past. "Jesus, it's not even noon."

  I followed him onto the train, taking extra steps to an isolated seat further from him, near the window, and the doors closed behind me.

  "Thank you for riding the red line." The announcer's voice wasn't the one I was used to, and this only made me feel worse. "Sox 35th is next."

  A wave of nausea washed over me, and I closed my eyes, forehead resting against the cool plastic of the train's windows. It was too much. Everything was too much. The black-outs. The strange impulses. The gang. Doing some weird parkour shit down to the courtyard. It was all too much. I needed some mental silence, I needed time to think. I needed help. I needed Baxter.

  Eventually the trembling stopped and I opened my eyes again to find that we'd gone underground. Where was I going? Where was I meeting him? Starbucks near Jackson. Right. Where was I?

  I looked up at the front of the train for the station marquee, but this car didn't have one. Instead, the space above the windows was reserved for animated advertisements all around the car. Banks. Internet shows. Utility companies. Injury lawyers. Payday lenders. Cash for gold... depressing that that was still a thing.

  The guy next to me was looking at his ChicagoCard, which was
displaying some kind of map.

  Right.

  The card was a tiny computer. It connected to my Block's network, maybe it could connect to the CTA's. I pulled my own out, and there was a little CTA icon in the corner. I tapped it, and was rewarded with a tiny route map with an icon that placed my train between Cermak and Roosevelt. Two stops before I hit Jackson.

  The guy next to me was holding his card up in front of his face, peering through it intently.

  Curious, I did the same. The map faded out, replaced with two vector representation of eyes. Almost on instinct I focused mine on the icons, and there was a small flicker before the words AR MODE ENGAGED appeared on the bottom of the screen.

  The card went entirely translucent, but with a digital display overlaying what I saw through the card, like it was a video-game. Static at the lower center were the date and time, as well as a tiny version of the route-map. What really caught my attention, though, were the names floating above my fellow passengers, 3D digital letters added by the card.

  The guy next to me was named Raymond. When I focused on him, his digital name turned into a button. I clicked on it, and the transparency dimmed enough to display his contact directory page linking to all of his social media profiles. Raymond was into Reggae, Neo-Noir films, and a video game series called BassBuster. He was unemployed, single, and looking.

  I lowered my card and saw that Raymond was watching me.

  He gave me a Look and raised his own card back to his eyes. "Heya."

  I froze.

  "Welcome to Roosevelt," the PA's voice said. "Doors open on the left at Roosevelt."

  "This is my stop," I said, standing up.

  He stood up, still tracking me through the card, blatantly staring at my ass.

  Oh, god, did he have some weird x-ray vision app? I felt my skin prickle as I waited for the doors to open.

  I could feel him standing there, right behind me. Oh god.

  The doors opened and I hurried out onto the platform, clutching the collar of my jacket tightly closed, as if that alone could protect me from the super-powered technology of future-pervs.

  ***

  Thankfully, he didn't follow.

  I took a few steps away towards the underground stop's pillar, leaning against it for support. Jackson was a bit too far to walk in these pumps, if I didn't want to show up to my meeting with Baxter and Greg all sweaty, but I didn't just get back on the train in another car. I let it depart, so I could catch the next one... that way if Raymond was getting off at Jackson too, we wouldn't run into each other.

  Creepy fucker.

  My card vibrated in my hand. Raymond had sent me a contact request. I denied it with all of the revulsion I could summon up.

  I could find his whole profile just by looking at him through my card. It was just... broadcast to anyone with one, and everyone had one. Anyone looking at you could find out everything there was to know about you online. How? Did the cards network together? Was it some kind of facial recognition software? More importantly, how did you stop people from scoping you out?

  My card told me that I had six minutes before the next train, so I tested this out by sweeping past people on the platform. Kinda funny... until now I'd mostly gone around with my head down, absorbed by my own problems, but now that I was taking the time to actually look I noticed that a lot of people were holding their cards up and watching people through them.

  Not just people. Looking through AR mode gave me the same information I could find connecting through the card the normal way, but with less fumbling with menus. Expected train arrival times floated on a giant virtual billboard. Looking towards the stairs told me the weather and temperature up above. The busker drumming on the corner had a virtual tip-jar that I could access with a tap.

  And the ads. Oh, god, the ads. The small billboards across the tracks from the platform could be interacted with... I could buy one of those watches and have it shipped to my apartment by the time I got home, I could switch my Internet access provider, I could pre-order a meal from the closest McDonald's. They weren't content to offer me purchasing options, no, they actually swelled when I scanned past them, threatening to burst from their confines and overwhelm me, even going so far as to steal the focus from the people I was trying to get a read on.

  That was one means to stay anonymous. Stand in front of an advert. Privacy might be in scarce supply in 2025, but marketing clearly had priority.

  Tired of being marketed to, I slipped the card into my pocket and waited for the next train.

  ***

  When I emerged from the Jackson subway onto the streets above, I found myself in the Loop, the heart of Chicago. In some ways it hadn't changed much, the El tracks running overhead giving the downtown district its name, surrounded by Gothic architecture with hints of art deco. Alongside beautiful structures dating back over a hundred years towered ultramodern buildings of glass and stronger-than-steel polymers rising to the sky to kiss the sun.

  The streets were crowded, too, a teaming early lunch crowd, though there seemed to be more of us on the sidewalks than cars in the streets. Many people were holding their cards up as they walked, and since there weren't as many ads behind them I did the same. It was easier and less conspicuous to scan people in the crowd, and I did so as they walked past.

  Many people were open books, their profile data freely available. Others had nearly empty directory entries, or some kind of adware proclaiming that they were off-network. Few people, very few, didn't have names over their heads at all... and in a way, that seemed even more conspicuous. Abnormal. What were they trying to hide?

  As I made my way to the Starbucks to meet Baxter I noticed a peculiar thing about the advertisements I passed. While they weren't as clustered together as the ads down in the subway, they seemed more aggressive for it, sometimes sending virtual representations of themselves to try and impose themselves near me as soon as I even came close to looking at them through my card. There were also free-floating advertisements that didn't have physical representations, and these would pop up out of nowhere in front of me.

  And the content? Clearly targeted to me. I didn't know what my profile read now that I was presumably in the system, but I guessed the advertising software could tell that I was on government assistance credits, because I kept getting the same debt relief, cash for gold, payday loan, and cheap booze ads. I also got a few for products like low-end augmented reality glasses, and ironically enough, a subscription to an advertisement blocking app.

  There was just so much information all around me. Time left on parking meters. Next mail pick-up time at boxes. Menus and inventories superimposed on and stores and restaurants. VIN numbers of passing cars and details on the passengers. Links to electronic editions of the magazines and newspapers in the stands, and so much more. I was drowning in information, and the only way to get my head above water was to put the card back into my pocket.

  Was this how people lived now? So many people wore AR glasses, and I knew that my card was only scratching the surface of this sort of connectivity. I'd seen ads on TV for the latest models, even for late model bionic eyes that provided a continual social media feed in your peripheral vision.

  Somehow, the people of 2026 managed all of that information without overload. Just the thought gave me waves of anxiety.

  I didn't pull it out again until I reached the Starbucks a few blocks away. Curious, I gave the store a look through the card.

  It was brighter. Cheerier. And when I panned over the logo, a menu popped up, telling me what was on offer. I was somewhat grateful to see that it hadn't changed much, though there was an indication of what they were currently stocked with at their bakery counter. I could also access a map of the dining room, complete with icons showing me who was sitting where. There, in the back, was Baxter.

  Baxter. It was go time.

  I paused to check out my reflection in the storefront window, brushed an errant strand of hair back behind my ear, and entered the coffee
shop with more confidence than I felt.

  CHAPTER 7: JUST COFFEE

  It was a shock, seeing my ex-fiancé aged a decade in what felt like, to me, weeks. He was maybe a little heavier, a little rounder of face, but he carried it well. His sandy hair was a little shorter, but no thinner. His eyes were the same blue, and the grin that spread across his face when he saw me... nobody but my Baxter.

  The urge to flee rose up, stronger than it had when the gang cornered me outside my apartment. I felt self-conscious about the fading dye-job in my hair, about the new lines in my face, about my ignorance when it came to modern fashion. Every insecurity I'd ever felt came rushing back, slamming into me with the force of a decade, and this time I couldn't just flip over a railing to escape.

  Be brave, Erica.

  I nearly stumbled as I entered, caught myself, and hid my weakness behind a smile. I had this. I was Erica Crawford. I had been a respected pharmaceutical rep, and had collared million-dollar clients. I had wined-and-dined senators, I was the nightmare of lobbyists throughout the Beltway. I could handle an old boyfriend.

  Spine straight, shoulders back, grin cool, I walked right up to him. "Baxter."

  "Erica!" He pushed his chair back and stood. He stepped around the small round table and pulled me into a hug. I was lost in the pressure of his arms, the familiar smell of his mingled after-shave, conditioner, and cologne. Like fresh-cut grass and old leather. "You look great!"

  I held him for a moment, but only for a moment. My pride would not let me indulge. And, I reminded myself, he was a married man. I gave him a small peck on the cheek and sat down.

  He sat across from me. "I have so many questions."

  "Start with the big one," I said, cool, calm, collected.

  "Okay." He wrapped a hand around his cup. "Oh, can I get you something?"

  "That's the big one?"

  He blinked, and his grin widened. "You really haven't changed."

  I ran fingers through my hair. "Some things are different."