Shyft

by Damien Boyes

  He disappeared two months after his restoration, never to be seen again.

  Until the day he killed Connie, me, and five other people.

  That’s him.

  That’s fucking him.

  I’m burning.

  I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone before, but there’s a rage in me I’ve never felt before. I want to find Amit Johari and beat him until he no longer exists. Erase him, like he erased Connie.

  Soon.

  As soon as I find him. I check SecNet, but according to Second Skyn’s location awareness system, his skyn went offline for good three weeks before the accident. There’s only two hits for him anywhere on the link or SecNet or the Service archives afterwards.

  The first is a missing person’s report filed by his father a week after the accident, just about the time Connie would have had her funeral.

  The missing person’s case never went anywhere, which isn’t surprising—most Reszo disappearances are seldom pursued very hard. After all, no one’s really missing. There’s still a copy of the person safe and sound at Standards, regardless of where the latest restored version got to.

  The second is a message. Only two words, sent from Amit Johari to me, less than twenty-fours hours after I died. It’s been sitting unread with the hundreds of other condolence notes I archived when I was first restored.

  It just says, “I’m sorry.”

  Who is this guy? Why would he go on a murderous rampage and then send out an apology afterwards?

  I run a trace on the message but it leads nowhere. Just a dangling port somewhere in the link.

  Playing a hunch, I get the IMP to cross-reference Amit’s communication records with Woodrow Quirk’s—the coder whose van Amit had been driving—and plug in the missing person’s case file number to get authorization for the warrantless search. The connections light up. They’d been in contact for months before the accident.

  Then I try it the other way, running Quirk’s communication logs for any reference to Amit. It comes up empty. If all you did was search Quirk’s history, you’d never know he and Amit had contacted each other at all. Nothing would lead an investigation in Amit’s direction.

  Communication logs erased. Visual evidence snipped from the link. However impossible it seems, it might be doable for a man who can speak code.

  And those messages I’ve been receiving. The threats. They have to be coming from Amit. For whatever reason, all the time I’ve been searching for him, he’s been searching for me too.

  I haven’t found him yet, but I’m getting close.

  Amit’s last known address is his parent’s, in one of Boston’s outer burbs. Close enough I can hop out there and be back for the rundown in plenty of time.

  I link as Gibson and start charting a hopper.

  StatUS-ID

  [fdaa:9afe:17e6:a2ef::Gage/-//GIBSON]

  SysDate

  [23:55:41. Saturday, January 18, 2059]

  I come out of the Fāngzhōu virt and back into my living room to Dora watching me.

  Seeing her standing safely in front of me causes my Cortex to spray out a wash of relief and guilt and annoyance that combines with the residual virtspace disorientation to momentarily short circuit my nervous system. All I can do is sit and stare at her.

  Dora looks at me funny, squinches her eyes then rummages through her big bag and pulls out two caps, their displays glowing a shimmering purple-pink. She presses one to her the cuff and her whole body relaxes. The bag slides from her shoulder and lands on the floor with a thud.

  What does she think she’s doing? We don’t have time for this.

  Her throat catches and she takes a step and sinks into my lap, straddling me, her knees squeezing into my thighs. She smells of lilac and a subtle musk that blooms in my throat and makes my mouth water in spite of myself. Heat flows off her in waves, as if from a furnace barely contained.

  She leans forward, into me. Her breasts press into my chest. Lust rises in my groin. She bears down on me and the pressure becomes fierce and even as part of me knows this is wrong, wants to tell her to get off, that I’m married, I close my eyes, grab her ass and pull her tighter.

  I don’t want this, in my head anyway, but I can’t help myself. My body is reacting to her, overriding my protests.

  Her breath caresses my neck as she reaches around and presses the Bliss against my cuff.

  Would you like to access this device?

  Green and red, yes and no.

  Do I want this?

  I lost Connie only three days ago. Three days. Since I watched her die. Since I woke up someone else.

  I promised to be with her forever, thought I would be. How, in three days, did I end up here, with this woman I hardly know grinding on my lap?

  Except it hasn’t been three days. Connie’s been dead more than a year. I grieved for her, I’m sure. I know because I still am, because I feel her loss like a fresh wound.

  But I started something with Dora. I chose this once. I may barely know her, but she’s not a stranger. She knows me. I gave her access to my apartment. This is something I wanted. If I started it once, why shouldn’t I want it again?

  I don’t know who I’m supposed to be right now. Am I me or am I him or is there even any difference?

  I glance down at the green dot, feel it swell. Dora’s lips trace the skin of my jaw, kiss up my cheek to nibble my earlobe.

  A shiver runs from the base of my skull to my tailbone, shoots down my arms and explodes from my fingers as tiny fireworks of pleasure.

  Why not let this happen?

  The green dot ripens through teal to aqua and zooms toward deep blue.

  “Think green,” she whispers, her voice smoke in my ear.

  And as she does something makes me twist my head. I break contact with her and the cap and the balls vanish.

  This isn’t right.

  This isn’t something I want. This is what Finsbury wanted.

  I’m not him, not anymore. I can’t live his life.

  Besides, I don’t know if I can even trust her. I still haven’t figured out what she’s hiding.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, easing back. Take my hands off her, put them at my sides, flat on the couch. “I need to take this slow.”

  She’s breathing hard but doesn’t object, just swings her leg over me and flops down at my side, head on my shoulder.

  “Where have you been?” I ask. “I was worried.”

  “Laying low,” she says, her voice slurred at the edges. “I’ve gotten good at it.”

  StatUS-ID

  [a646:d17e:8670:511f::Finsbury/D//GAGE]

  SysDate

  [19:22:02:48. Saturday, April 27, 2058]

  I’m coming for you, Amit.

  I’m out of my apartment and heading down the hallway toward the elevator when my IMP chimes through: Dora’s downstairs. She wouldn’t just show up unless it was something important. I tell the building to let her in, put a hold on the hopper, retreat to my apartment and answer the door when she knocks.

  She doesn’t say anything. Just stands there on the threshold, jaw set, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, eyes expectant. Her low-necked white workout-T is soaked with sweat, her red jacket unzipped, her usually neat hair in wind-blown disarray.

  It looks like she ran here.

  She steps forward and raises herself into me, wraps her arms around my neck, presses her chest into mine. I have a second to consider what’s about to happen and then her lips are on me, her fingers in my hair, nails scraping my scalp, dragging my head down into her.

  My head rushes, bombarded by everything that’s happened over the past weeks: the ever-present grief, fighting against the revulsion at my new existence, the superhuman high of running Revved, the draining uselessness at work, the elation at finding Amit—and now Dora.

  I kiss her back, cup my hand under her, lift her off her feet. She wraps her legs around my waist and I carry her into the apartment, kick the door shut behind me, walk us to the bedroom. She
barely weighs anything.

  Her kissing becomes fierce, biting my lips, grinding herself against me and I drop her to the bed, fall on top. She pulls my shirt and jacket off, ignoring the buttons, ignoring the tie, everything straight up over my head, fumbles with my belt before I take over and she whips off her thin jacket, then her shirt. She isn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts are small, firm, damp with sweat.

  I’m hard for the first time since my restoration. She grabs me, strokes once and my knees buckle. I’ve never had a foreskin and the sensation is so intense, I nearly pass out. She yanks down her pants, sinks her nails into the flesh of my haunches and pulls me into her, makes a noise like she just impaled herself on a shockwand and doesn’t stop.

  I thrust five times and explode with a flash that knocks out my vision and severs the ties between my head and my body and I collapse onto her, unable to move, unable to think, exhausted and blissed out, but ashamed of myself.

  We lie there without speaking, me still inside, her trailing her nails up and down my back until I start to grow again and she rolls me over and this time it’s slow and intentional.

  I close my eyes, and imagine I’m with Connie.

  End: Book Three

  Continued in...

  Lost Time: Part Four Social Faith. Coming Jan 30, 2016.

  Lost Time: Part Five Sync. Coming Mar 26, 2016.

  Ready to keep going? Get Lost Time: Part Four [Social Faith] at Amazon.

  Thanks for reading.

  Glossary

  AMP. (Artificial Mind Pattern) Advanced neural code approximations running on cortical processors. They are classified as superintelligences but their use is governed and their operating code secured. Only licensed government agencies and select corporations are allowed to employ AMPs. The Ministry of Human Standards is responsible for monitoring and tracking down illicit use whenever it’s discovered.

  BioSkyn. An artificial, lab-grown body. Components printed a layer of cells at a time and then assembled and implanted with an optical processing Cortex.

  Biosynth. Someone who uses geneblocks to assemble unique, life forms—bacteria capable of operating to order to create atomically precise circuitry, manufacture drugs, enhance the immune system or replace biological functions. Plants that grow directly into furniture. Or wholly fabricated animals for domestic or military uses.

  Bit-head. Xero. Sudo. Derogatory slang for a restored personality.

  Bright. An extropian, far leftist, digital human philosophy. Brights believe in a creator of the Universe—or ’the system’—and that humanity is one of a billion billion probable physical manifestations of rules that began to play out at the moment of creation. God didn’t create us, but it allowed the conditions for us to exist, like a scientist fine-tuning an experiment, and humanity its results.

  Continuance of Personality Act. The set of legal guarantees allowing for the transfer of a consciousness from organic to digital.

  Cortex. Second Skyn’s in-house neural prosthetic. Now common slang for any neural prosthetic.

  Cortical Field. The composite image of a scanned consciousness. Since consciousness is stored holographically, the stronger the field, the stronger the fidelity to the original personality.

  Cypher. A rithm without an official restoration record from the Ministry of Human Standards.

  Digital Life Extension. Extending a human consciousness past brain death as a psychorithm. The personality is captured, translated to a psychorithm and the resulting rithm loaded onto a prosthetic mind implanted in a bioSkyn. The Continuance of Personality Act provides digital humans with all the legal rights of a fully organic human, while Human Standards laws limit the extent to which digital humanity can augment its existence. DLE is fraught with political and social turbulence.

  Dwell. A simple shyft that allows the user to speed up or slow down stored memory playback.

  Fate. The rapidly growing corporation bringing immortality to the masses and hiring out low-cost knowledge work, all while reducing governmental expenditures around the globe.

  Fleshmith. Someone who uses modified Geneblocks and scaflabs to produce designer bodies and organs.

  Genitect. Someone who architects and encodes custom genblocks, the genetic code building blocks used to form the genomes of synthetic lifeforms.

  Headspace. A digital human’s customizable home running onboard their prosthetic brain.

  The Hereafter. The brand-name of a virtual reflection of the real world, where digital humans can visit the living. It is the largest, and most populous, digital virt.

  Human Standards. The legal baselines limiting human life extension, physical augmentation and neural enhancement.

  IMP. (Intelligent Mediating Personality) Originally designed to assist with daily communication, the IMP’s capabilities quickly expanded to become a full-fledged digital assistant that learns over time. Upgradable with personality sprites.

  The Link. The world-wide stream of conversations, sensor data, cameras, feeds, virts, games, and everything else that arose from the internet.

  Lost Time. The minutes or hours of memory between personality back-ups lost due to a pattern decoherence or Cortex damage.

  Lowboys. A gang of low-rep petty criminals. Kids, mostly.

  Ministry of Human Standards. The government agency tasked with enforcing Human Standard laws.

  Neurohertz. (NHz or N) 1N is the average speed of human neural processing. Human Standards limit the function of prosthetic brains to 1.15N.

  Past-Standard. The only Human Standard criminal offence. Past-Standard encompasses everything related to genetic augmentation and manipulation of a mind or body past established human norms. Past-Standard Offences and Psychorithm Infractions often intersect, causing friction between investigating agencies.

  Prodeo/Prodian. What digital-only personalities against the restrictive Human Standard laws call themselves: Homo Prodeo. From the latin "prodeo": to go forward, and "pro Deo": ’before’ and ’the supreme being.’

  Psychorithm. The Conscious Algorithm. The human brain’s self-sustaining, recursive algorithmic neural code translated into digital.

  Psychorithm Crime Unit. The Toronto Police Services unit responsible for investigating crimes by and against the local Reszo population.

  Psyphon. To extract a rithm from its Cortex by force.

  Recovered. A psychorithm is recovered from a dying or unhealthy brain and imprinted onto a cortical field.

  ReJuv. The genetic reset performed once a year through the intravenous injection of a gene-regulating cocktail.

  Rep. The cumulative social reputation earned by a personality on the link. Also known as Social Faith.

  Restored. Layering a recovered cortical field onto a prosthetic brain. Also a common identifier for a digital human.

  Reszo. Slang for a restored personality.

  Revv. A shyft that allows the user to bypass human-standard neural governors and run their rithm higher into the NHz range. The effects are limited only by the hardware.

  Rithmist. Someone who hacks the psychorithm. From manipulating autonomous and emotional responses all the way to enhancing or creating new cognitive abilities.

  Second Skyn. The global leader in digital life extension. In defiance of global courts, Second Skyn opened its first facility in a small South-East Asian country that had more pressing concerns than enforcing soon-to-be-outdated UN cloning laws. Once Personality Rights legislation was enacted, Second Skyn formally opened in Toronto, Stockholm, Seoul and Dubai, then expanded around the world as demand grew.

  Skyn. Slang for bioSkyn.

  Scafe. An illegally copied or hastily created skyn.

  SecNet. The interconnected web of cameras, sensors, and databases that comprise the backbone of the North American Union’s security and surveillance infrastructure.

  Shyft. General consumer term for a neural state overlay. One-time-use code snippets legally sold to temporarily simulate drunkenness, enhance pleasure, dampen fear, or one of a thousand
other emotional flavours. Much more powerful illegal versions also exist.

  StatUS. Formerly a governmental organization, StatUS was spun off as a private company and is now responsible for providing and maintaining identification for all Union citizens and visitors.

  About the Author

  Damien grew up on Terminator and Raymond Chandler and Green Lantern. On Deus Ex and PWEI. Blade Runner is his chicken soup when he's sick. He rereads Neuromancer every few years, and still loves the image of payphones ringing one by one as Case walks by, anachronistic or not.

  He's s UX designer by day, a dad and husband by night, and a writer in the moments between.

  Email him at damien@damienboyes.com or visit his website at damienboyes.com and sign up to his mailing list for deleted scenes, free stories, and more.

  Thanks To

  Mom and Dad, for stoking my love for stories.

  Everyone at Critters who helped shape the first draft, and especially Ted Cox for all his great suggestions.

  Laura Kingsley for helping me with ‘what’s he thinking or feeling here,’ and Natasha Snow for the countless rounds of cover designs.