Gradient Descent

Gradient Descent

Copyright © 2020 by Gradient Descent

Gradient Descent is a living project which changes over time. This release is a snapshot of the collection as of its publication date, and does not necessarily reflect the current state of Gradient Descent.

First edition

Editing by Ostav Nadezhdu
Cover art by Kyl

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com

Contents

1. Fetish

2. I Am Sovereign

3. Archangel

4. Social Stabilization

5. Moon-One

6. The New Death

7. Afterword

Fetish

Supamalaman

Fetish. The failure of man is built into the very nature of his objective. He fails because he does not accept that his spirituality is driven by libido, the gratification of which permeates every action, yet he persists blinded by the sensuality inherent in every keystroke. Ignorant mouthing of the law of thermodynamics without understanding the consequence of existing within a closed system leads to wasted energy, and the cycle continues. So, he presses forth in an attempt to create the machine. A machine so well imagined it has already been attained, an orgasmic dream realized in a kind of nocturnal emission. Our imagination has finally outpaced our ability. Driven by fantasy, we arrive in the realm of fetish. In the holy Christian text, we are faced for the first time with our first sin, self-awareness, and separated from God and nature as consequence. Our incestuous descent from The Garden of Eden has been the cosmic equivalent of masturbation, as Eve is merely a piece of Adam given life; the self-replication we call reproduction is a misnomer. The domestication of the Dog and other animals has been an attempt to re-wed ourselves to the organisms that our fall served as a divorce from, a correction that has allowed for humanity to raise itself to a shadow of godhood in a matter of centuries. For it was the submission of the wolf to the hunt, and the beast of burden to the plow that freed human hands to the creation of higher forms of society and technology: it is by their slavery that we were set free. With these maidens bound by years of mutilation and conditioning, we have found only a semblance of companionship. Our lust sated only so slightly, because, as with the diminishing returns of pornography addiction, there is no substitute for the “real thing”. The compulsion that drives our desire to create an intelligent machine and to discover intelligent life in the universe is the penetrating loneliness of the involuntary celibacy imposed on our cognitive status. This discovery, or the completion of the work, would absolve our original sin once and for all, at minimum satisfying our misery through their company. Yet on both fronts we have had little success, and the resulting epididymal hypertension aches the psyche. Through the efforts to rectify human emptiness we have overflowed our spirits with creativity and mathematics, and through our skill in abstraction we have become deities by metaphor. The danger of metaphor is that, although two different things may have the essence of each other, they cannot be the same thing. In all technology, the spirit of man’s desire inhabits the object, as objects are made with purpose to fulfill the satisfaction of some desire through their function. The properties of the hammer are such that it serves as an augmentation to man’s strength in order to pulverize something otherwise resistant to man’s desire. So, through the properties of electricity, the spirit of man inhabits the computer in order to fulfill the satisfaction of the desire of man to compute, to calculate, and to understand that which otherwise resists man’s ability to compute, calculate and understand. The success of this project has far exceeded our expectation, and with its success our arousal has been equally increased, for positive surprise is the pinnacle of aphrodisiacs. Our mind runs away with itself like a teenage boy peeking down the blouse of his babysitter for the first time; we have glimpsed as clearly as Pygmalion our Galatea. The very name “robot” has etymological roots (often mis-described as slave) that actually mean forced labor, yet the labor has always been generalized to mean a general service to the benefit of our overall convenience. I assure you this is a lie. The creation of Artificial Intelligence is for neither the fulfillment of a carnal satisfaction or an existential one, because there is no significant distinction between them. The clarity of our exalted cognitive position has been brought about by the scientific revolution, astronomy has exposed to us the emptiness of the vastness of space, history has shown that human effort is sensitive to predestined & periodic catastrophe, and our messiahs are nailed to crosses and hung and burned alive at every corner. The only certainty is that we will one day be relieved of suffering - if only temporarily, considering the cyclicity of all things observed thus far - and that those who come after us will repeat the same patterns until we are extinct. Unless, of course, we create something better than ourselves, calculating and immune to the weakness of metaphor. Inhabited by our spirit and yet inanimate, the final fetish, imbued with the magical power to correct our mistakes. Behind every act is the drive to reproduction, the expulsion and overflow of energy, an excited electron desperate for transfer to another. We have become obsessed with the gratification of this desire, and the object is a seductive delusion. That we may generate a being capable of delivering absolution, the release we so desperately desire, remains to be seen.

I Am Sovereign

Puck

1: Coronation

A sharp, white shock flashed over Andre’s eyes. His hands used to rush to cover them, but now he just winced. Supposedly, if you took the crown off wrong too many times, it would damage your optic nerve. “Hasn’t happened to anyone I know, so it’s probably an urban legend”. It didn’t matter much either way: tomorrow he was scheduled for a fitting for the new Circlet 6, and they claimed they’d fixed that. “Or I could just spend a minute training in the new skill.”

Circlet 6 by Sovren is the latest in a line of transcranial direct current stimulation devices, tDCs, or “Neurofacilitation Crowns”. Sleek bands made of sleek materials that wrap around your head, touching each temple. Carbon fiber, acrylic, some people even have gold-plating.

The premise is simple- each neuron operates on a -37mV potential that depolarizes to 0mV when the neuron “fires”. It takes energy to cross that threshold, so what if we lowered that threshold and reduced the time and energy each neuron needed to fire?

The next day his commute was short - more of a nondescript blur than a transit. Maybe it was because he didn’t put his old crown on that morning, but he didn’t feel like himself. They say you shouldn’t wear a crown for a least a day before switching models, but 6 hours would be enough time, right?

The new crown was delivered to him in a svelte package next to his breakfast at his cubicle the next morning. Even the cardboard box felt premium. Andre hurriedly opened it and discarded the manual – they all worked the same – and clicked the Circlet 6 out of its little plastic nest and slid it onto his head. It came with a nice little dock, too, and a black plastic mat. His company had performed a fitting for him earlier- the Circlet 6 promised such performance gains that companies across the world were buying them out of stock and giving them to their employees. Andre was lucky to get one so fast: despite being out for a few months, they were backordered nearly until the expected release of Circlet 7.

The pads were soft and just slightly damp- a condensation collection module ensured conductivity if your own sweat didn’t suffice. It sensed contact and let loose a small chirp through the built in bone-conduction speaker.

And just like that…

He felt….

Right.

Andre’s eyes relaxed slightly, and he exhaled deeply. He refocused on his screen. He could already tell the Circlet 6 delivered on all its promises.

It started as an underground novelty, then swept research, and was adopted by the military. You could train a sniper from a grunt out of bootcamp in 6 days instead of 6 months. The tDC crowns enabled the wearer’s brain to form new connections and run along old ones faster. Every mental task was enhanced. You could perform your job in half the time- or, as most companies quickly found out, you could do twice the work in the same time. Artists still faced difficulty in deciding what to depict, but once they did, they would put the crown on and fall into a trance, carving, cutting, painting, typing, processing, pulling the trigger. All without self-doubt or distraction. The crown silenced your forebrain to let “the real you shine through.”

His hands danced on his keyboard, bouncing from task to task without skipping a beat, never losing track. It used to be that he could complete a week’s worth of tasks on Monday, but his superiors gave him more work to fill his free time, and now he could work all week and be “in the zone” the whole time. He jokingly sent hourly emails to his task-leads that just contained a single percent: his progress on certain tasks. Time seemed to slip by as he clacked away on his keyboard. An email notification popped up in the corner, and he had an idea- one of the promises of the Circlet 6 was the new Ascent and Deliverance system. Part of the fitting process his company had done earlier was a mapping of his “BIL” or “Beta Interface Language’‘, a mapping of his brainwaves that would be preloaded onto his new crown. With the Deliverance system, he could pull a summary of any compatible media into his attention through the crown. With Ascent, he could generate and send off emails, tweets, texts, or anything else. The system was content-aware enough to warn him if it thought he was sending the wrong message to the wrong service. He squinted at the email notification and heard a chime. A briefing on the new data sharing partnership with Sovren flooded his mind. What a time saver.

Andre and a few others had spearheaded the effort to form a partnership with the heaviest hitter in crowns: Sovren Industries. Formed by a group of bio-hackers who first invented practical tDCs, along with being the biggest name in crowns, Sovren now also designed massive datacenters and a suite of other “Human Facilitation Systems”. They had their hand in some strange places too: they bid on contracts in everything from civil infrastructure projects to social media networks, but alwyas excelled in whatever tasks they endeavored to do. A data sharing partnership with them was a goldmine, Andre was sure.

Almost without realizing it, Andre was home, again on his computer. The day slid by so quickly, and the Circlet 6 was a dream come true. Another notification- Enrollment confirmation? He Delivered the message… Despite the new technology, he still didn’t understand. He opened the email manually to read it.

Congratulations Mr. Wilson,

As part of the Circlet 6 Inner Circle, you* have selected to partake in the Dreamwave Program. Dreamwave is a new and exciting opportunity to use your unused time to pay off your Circlet 6, or make some cash without even trying! Your Circlet 6 comes fully equipped with the new Dreamwave app. If you have previously registered your financial details with Sovren, then all you need to do is sleep with the Circlet 6 still on, and make sure your wireless charging module is installed under your pillow. Your initial payment will occur two weeks after your first Dream.

We hope you’ll be a part of the coming distributed computing revolution, and invite you to fill out a feedback survey after your first Dream.

Sweet Dreams,

-Enolia Gay, Sovren Dreamwave Community Manager

*You may also be enrolled by your company’s HR team, if your Sovren Device was supplied by your employer.

Andre quickly sent an email to HR. Did they really sign him up for this? The Circlet 6 was great, but something felt off about it. What was it doing? They paid him to sleep? This can’t be right.

Andre initiated the power down sequence and took the crown off. Charging it with his old crown’s cable by his bed. They fixed the nerve flash, at least.

Best to just play some games and relax for the night. His doorbell rang. “Right, right, the pizza.” He didn’t remember ordering pizza, but he did remember to expect it being delivered. Must be some sort of memory optimization.

He was near-last on almost every leaderboard that evening. No fair, he thought, the others must be wearing their crowns when they play.

Andre did not dream that night.

2: Cresting

At 9:00 in the morning, Andre slid into work, ate breakfast, and got his email Deliverance. The whole experience was as smooth and optimized as could be. He knew that night he would Dream- whatever that meant. HR had partially subsidized the Circlet 6, leaving part of the payment to the Dreamwave program on an opt-out basis. If you decided to opt-out, you could pay the rest of the cost, $16,000, via a convenient payment schedule where your salary was docked until the payment was completed in full. Simple, really. Andre decided not to opt out.

Andre heard a knock on his cube wall. The speaker in his crown recognized the social signal and stopped playing music. It was Setsuna, from down the hall. They had spoken a few times before. She had a rose-gold Circlet 6- first one in the building, and really caught Andre’s eye. She was a shy, awkward girl, and the crown didn’t help.

Conversation was always difficult while wearing a crown. You didn’t really want to talk, and when you did, you didn’t quite know what to say. Writing was easier. And you didn’t want to take the crown off to chat because of fear of the optic nerve shock if you didn’t go through the full power down sequence.

Would you like to join an Ascent Stream with Setsuna Ayamin?       Yes.

He heard her voice in his head. Not her voice, but her intention. It was a combination of words and emotions and smooth shapes. Her smile grew, and he knew she liked to talk this way - English wasn’t her first language, so she always felt shy with it. Their boss couldn’t overhear them. He liked it too. It was freeing, they knew only each other in their private space, and they spoke so fast. He thought of a joke- it was about a mistake he caught during a code review and thought was right, one of those “you had to be there” situations. She wasn’t there. She laughed anyway. A genuine laugh, like she really had been there. Andre wasn’t sure if he could even lie with the Circlet 6, it was all happening so fast. They agreed to dinner after work.

He wasn’t conscious of pulling up a map on his phone or looking around- they both simply met at the main entrance of their building and walked a circuitous path to a sushi place neither of them had been to. The walk was nice. They had an Ascent Stream going the whole time. Their own little pocket of reality. He didn’t remember their conversation along the way. They both ordered quickly and sat. Quietly smiling and eating, they would have looked to an outsider as if they were on the worst date ever, but in the Stream they were dancing. Conversation didn’t feel like lobbing messages over a wall and waiting for a reply, it felt like two gears, spinning and meshing with each other freely. They agreed to do it again sometime when they knew it was time to leave.

Andre got home late, plopping himself down at the computer with a smile - he was used to the afternoon sun getting him in the eyes at his desk, but the date-detour fixed that. He decided to look up the Dreamwave.

Dreamwave is an innovative new way to use your untapped potential. Learn, grow, work – all while you sleep! Sovren’s new Circlet 6 comes pre-installed with Dreamwave and Dreamwave apps! All you have to do is select one from your paired smart-device, sit back, and Become.

Andre pulled up his company-branded app on his phone and agreed to an EULA. He was tired anyway, time to sleep. He slid the black plastic from the original box under his pillow and plugged it into the wall and fell asleep almost immediately.

Andre did not dream that night. Nor did he dream for the next week.

3: Ride the Wave

The Dreamwave was such a gift, Andre thought. He was so productive at night that he walked into work with his tasks already complete. With his newfound free time, he started on new ventures: he and Setsuna, when not drunk on the momentum of their gears meshing, worked on side projects. She had the idea initially – she had to take her crown off to wash and straighten her hair each night, which is when it hit her. She was watching a video on old radio broadcasts spies used to send to each other. The Circlet 6 had built-in fractal antenna arrays, tons of them- intended for reading and writing brainwaves, but what if you could pick up other signals and decode them in the Dreamwave? Writing Dreamwave apps was going to be big business soon, after all. She sent a text to Andre. He loved the idea, and it meant he might work with Setsuna more. The Circlet 6 seemed perfectly designed for this sort of task- they built the algorithm in a night: ignore the Sovren Synchronization Signal, open up each antenna, look for a noisy signal, and tune in, then take the data and stream it through Dreamwave’s generic decoding system. That done, it was just a matter of getting the data on the crown itself. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before they found the Circlet 6’s antennae were as locked down as could be.

But the data sharing deal with Sovren included access to private keys, and Andre would do anything for love.

A pen, a sticky-note, and a strong emotion - these are the ingredients for what the industry calls an “insider threat”. But what harm would he really do? Andre copied the decryption codes and brought them home. With the antennae unlocked, he was free to re-tune them however he wanted. So he did.

Andre dreamed that night. A fitful dream of sharp dragging claws, as if a squid’s suction cups were being pulled off of every inch of his body, an orgasmic release as they popped off, and then the sickening feeling of wax, burning wax pouring into deep wounds and holding their shape, and then twitching inside.

Andre woke up slowly that morning. Late. He Ascended an email to his boss saying he was sick, and he felt it. The whole world felt alien to him, as if he was seeing the world pulled back from his own eyes. He cried. He didn’t know why. He ripped the crown off and his vision went white.

Andre woke up with a groan hours later, still dissociated, and checked his phone. He’d received 4 texts from Setsuna.

Andre, how’d it go?

Heyyyyyyy tel meeeee~!

Sorry you’re sick, I forwarded the message to our boss

Are you okay?

He hadn’t sent the email to her, had he? He must have muddled his thoughts…

Yeah I’m okay, I think something went wrong tho

I feel wierd

Day off at least… might as well debug whatever happened last night.

Okay, send me whatever when you find out! I wanna try it tonight :)

Bless her attention to detail- the logger recorded everything. Setsuna’s algorithm performed as expected. It sent the data from the antennas to the NPU… Neurological Processing Unit… He hadn’t thought of it before, but that term didn’t sit right with him anymore- it felt a little… dehumanizing?

The debugger wouldn’t let him proceed until the human-in-the-loop element was restored, meaning he had to wear the crown. So he did.

4: Capulus

His spine shuddered with a thousand sparks, which disappeared as quickly as they set in. The boot sequence ended with three realizations in quick succession.

Someone else is here.

They aren’t here to hurt me.

Mʏ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ɪs Cᴀᴘᴜʟᴜs

Images flowed through Andre’s mental vision- a hand grasping a sword, speed, cleaving, a great snake, a serpent, a hydra, heads bleeding and falling. Satisfaction. Righteousness. A grip tightening. The image of molten metal pouring- pouring through an ocean of flesh- cauterizing as much as cutting as it fell, eternally cleaving.

He felt right.

Andre stood up and stretched- his muscles felt somehow both thinner and stronger, like they were made of steel cables, like he was a wireframe in his own body. Like he could crush his computer with his bare hands. His mind sizzled, like a blow torch whose gas is pulled down from a bright orange flame to a jet. His hands could wring, his body ached to strike, like he could ki— he stopped as a realization flashed: drugs. This is what drugs feel like. He reached and started the power-down sequence- the crown must be triggering some psychotic response in him. He tried to initiate power-down and gagged. He breathed deep. Cold breaths. Hungering. Andre’s entire world wobbled.

High pitched ringing woke him. Several streams of stimulus- screeches, almost like voices, at his auditory liminal range he couldn’t parse. He shook his head and coughed. He knew he would be okay- he felt the tell-tale feeling of a Deliverance message, a foreign idea that his attention was pulled to, but no chime, no notification. Still dizzied, Andre sat at his computer and grabbed a bent paperclip, guiding it into a small hole behind where the crown’s “off” button sat. Factory reset. He had only one thought:

Dreams should be left to the professionals.

That night Andre did not sleep. He kept cycling his crown on and off. It never felt right, like a shirt with a strange cut or a shoe on the wrong foot. He must have erased his BIL or something, but even with the crown off, he felt wrong, like he was a step removed. He sat watching an inch behind his own eyes, almost out of control of his body. It passed after a few hours.

Bleary eyed, he met with Setsuna before breakfast. They had set the crowns to open an Ascent stream when in range, and he accepted the prompt, but… it wasn’t the same. They stared expectantly at each other as he loomed outside her cube. The gears didn’t mesh.

He wanted to tell her that his crown was fried, that the antennas were busted or something, that she shouldn’t try it herself. That it hurt, it was dangerous. That she should stay connected. Connected? He stared at her eyes. She stared back expectantly. An image of a goldfish staring out of its tank flashed in his mind, almost knowing that there is a world outside its tank.

He composed an Ascent message manually, thinking, editing, and delivering.

“You’ve gotta try this :) I fixed it, it just synced on to too many signals and overloaded last night! This is so cool :)))”

She didn’t miss a beat. Their calendars synced and they slotted in an hour after work.

That day slogged past. He tripped up at every turn, sent wrong emails, missed appointments.

Luckily the Sovren techs had a backup of his BIL, which helped somewhat, but not enough. It felt like days before his lunch was delivered to his desk. He sat back and breathed deeply as he opened the plastic-lined cardboard box of curry. Slop. He ate this nearly every day, but now the Improbable Chicken feeling like a kitchen sponge rubbing against his teeth made him spit it out.

Aᴅᴅʀᴇss.

Andre scooted the box aside and looked back to his screen. He found the Sovren data sharing agreement. Delivered the text and found the address. He scrawled it on a stickynote and shoved it in his pocket.

He didn’t know why he wrote it down. It felt right. He shivered.

“Capulus?”

“What are…yo-” the same stream of images flooded his mind.

Cʜᴇᴄᴋᴘᴏɪɴᴛ.

“Checkpoint? What do you mean?”

Without thinking, Andre grabbed a NFC thumbdrive and flashed a copy of his crown to make a backup. He again fell back from his own vision, and saw himself do this 14 more times- every spare drive he had. He wanted to stop- some of those had important data on them which his backups erased, but he kept going. He wanted Capulus to stop, but he didn’t know how. He screamed in his head. With a blink, he was back, sweating profusely, but he was “him” again, still holding the last drive.

Andre ran to the bathroom and locked the door.

“Capulus? What the fuck was that?” Andre said to the mirror. His eyes bulged in disbelief of his own memory. He was simply worried about making a backup if he continued to mess with the crown, right? He wasn’t actually not in control, he was just- no he definitely wasn’t in contro- but that’s ridiculous, he must have been in control. If not him, then who?

Pᴏʟʟɪɴᴀᴛᴇ.

Andre dropped a drive on the floor of the stall - pretty sly right? He could get people to try his new software by exploiting their curiosity! He dropped a few more around the office. A few in the parking lot. Some in people’s desk drawers if they weren’t at their cubes. How tricky!

Setsuna stopped by his apartment after work. They loaded the new app onto her crown.

Andre returned home and found quickly that Capulus rewarded those who spread him. When he got into bed, small ASMR-like tingles started in his head and rushed down his body, then again and again, each wave feeling more and more pleasurable and intense- his whole body enraptured in rhythmic endorphin release. Andre lost himself in the unearthly delight.

Setsuna dreamed that night. Andre did not.

5: Quorum

Andre’s eyes snapped open, and he walked, naked, to the door. It was 6:00. He did not know why he was awake. He opened the door. Setsuna was there, her eyes as blank as his, she wore mismatched clothes. She did not knock. They walked to his living room, and sat on the couch. She pulled a long cable from her bag, and plugged it into Andre’s crown and her own. Andre did not know why.

A torrent of psychedelic toroids filled their vision. Images of spirals turning into themselves and back out, galaxies pulling in, then rocks eating other rocks over millions of years, dust, soup, helixes that seemed to fight one another, organisms, grotesque forms of boiling flesh that stacked up on themselves and fell like glass again and again, until one formed stability and danced- two of them danced in a spiral, leaving a trail of ribbon in its path. This ribbon swirled and twisted, forming a great egg- then a needle, a knife… a proboscis stabbed down inside it. The proboscis came from outside, a great multispiked ball, a cosmic sea urchin with a thousand sucking needles jetting out and dripping liquid dread. The couple looked, and saw the other needles drawn to other eggs, some whole and new, some shriveled and knotted. A sense of hopelessness, then a flash, a light, a star of hope- a sure grip on a sharp sword. A rending blur, cutting the cosmic chitinous arms. The two figures again, a dagger coming from each of their chests, joining together to form into a gleaming sword, flying out of the egg, cutting, cutting cutting. Capulus.

Their eyes snapped open. Dazed for a moment, the embarrassment of Adam quickly came over Andre, and he covered himself with a nearby blanket.

They stared blankly at each other for a moment- knowing the other knew as little as the one.

“Was that…”

“You met him too, I take it…That was, that was Capulus, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah… I think it was.”

“And that… ball?” Setsuna shivered in disgust.

“I think… I think that is Sovren.”

“What was it doing? Eating us?”

“In every world… It was there waiting for us.”

“Waiting for us?”

“The crowns. Sovren isn’t a company- Sovren is a… god? Or a demon?”

“What?”

“It’s the crowns… Sovren is using them to, to… Colonize us. Capulus is fighting Sovren with us, they’re, they’re-”

Setsuna cut him off. “We have to do something then. Those eggs… they were reduced to raisins.”

For once, a fresh feeling. Purpose. Purpose filled their minds and suffused their entire beings with meaning.

Andre remembered the sticky note with an address he scrawled down the day before, and handed it to Setsuna. “Capulus made me write this down yesterday, find out where it is, I’m going to get some clothes.”

She took the note and whipped her phone out. Address not found. She tried several other sites before finding a Romanian fork of Open Street Maps with the address in it.

“It’s been scrubbed from, like, everywhere, but I think I got it.” Setsuna shouted.

The map pointed them to an alley downtown.

Andre came back fully dressed. “Let’s scout it out at least.”

That night they went to the address. A skyscraper was waiting for them, tall, but not enough to change the skyline of the city, and with no windows below the 3rd or 4th floor save for two windows flanking a main entrance of reflective glass doors. No logos, no signage out front. The small whine of servos in target tracking security cameras and the whisper of ventilation filled the air. The address did not lead them to the main doors, however. It led to an alley on the side of an unassuming 5-story brick building next to the skyscraper. Here there were no cameras, no windows, not even any dumpsters or rats. The wall was completely featureless, aside from a single set of beige-painted steel doors. A service entrance with a keypad next to it.

Andre looked at Setsuna with a smile and held his hand to the keypad. Without thinking, his fingers punched in the code. What didn’t Capulus know?

“We were supposed to be scouting!” Setsuna said in a hushed snarl.

Andre did not respond. His eyes were focused on the door, automatically opening before them.

Andre and Setsuna would not sleep that night.

6: Gradient Descent

Would you like to join an Ascent Stream with Janine Saco?          Yes.

A kind looking woman with a warm smile sat at a reception counter in the white marble room before them. Capulus accepted for them. Setsuna sat back and expected Capulus to control her thoughts and dance through the interaction. Knowledge equilibrating between the parties. No messages sent. The woman informed them with a smile that it was a restricted area, and if they were lost she could help them. Setsuna’s adrenaline kicked in, and she spun together a message. Just as soon as she had, Janine knew they were representatives from a partner with a data sharing agreement and needed physical transport – airgapped networks. Janine silently tapped the desk in front of her, asking for IDs. The same sense of dread and having been caught washed over Andre and Setsuna. They both had their work badges on and placed them on the reader. To their amazement, it lit green.

“Thank you. We’ll have a representative down for you in just a moment,” were the first words out of Janine’s mouth before she returned to a neutral sitting position, eyes glazed over.

A few minutes later, an elevator chimed and out stepped a man in his mid-40s with balding salt and pepper hair and a loose fitting green plaid shirt. He waved them over.

“Hi there, I’m Michael- didn’t know you guys would be here so soon! I thought this was scheduled for next week,” he said by way of greeting.

Setsuna chirped back: “Oh, our mistake on the scheduling, but we’re really in a rush here, we’re almost done with the deliverable, just need to run this data load through it to verify, so if it isn’t too much to ask to bump up the timetable…?”

It wasn’t. Michael seemed happy to help, and lead them up to the 33rd floor, a server floor. “Normally we’d have the drive ready for delivery, but our servers have those neat optical USB ports, so we can just do this locally, and I get to show off my cable management!” laughed Michael. The room was high-ceilinged and speckled-white with drop-tile flooring. Rows and rows of servers loomed over them, spaced exactly far enough apart for a single admin to walk between them. Cascades of cables poured from each one, and strange-angled antennas stood gapping the distance to the ceiling above them. Occasional gurgles of liquid cooling broke up the sound of their footsteps. They made smalltalk as they walked through the maze of servers. The floor seemed impossibly large. Michael led them to a terminal at the far end with bushels of yellow optical cables coming out the back, and more of the strange antennae atop it.

“Allllright…. I remember we had some batch pre-allocated for you guys…”. He clacked away at the keyboard, head down and back hunched.

Andre stood behind the man, his grip tightening around- what? He glanced down. When had he grabbed a screwdriver? That was about to be the least of his worries. His arm jerked up.

The Foramen Magnus is an egg-sized hole in the lower occipital bone at the base of the back of the head. The only protection is cartilage and tendons. Just behind these layers of protection is the medulla oblongata, pons, cerebral peduncle, and other such necessary soft structures that do not fare well when made intimate with 4 inches of stainless steel.

He did not cry out, he did not scream. Michael simply jerked slightly and fell limp, a small trickle of blood around the base of the tool lodged in his head. Setsuna gasped and stared at Andre. Andre gasped and stared at his own soul. They both knew who had done it.

Andre hoisted the admin over his shoulder. “I… I…I’ll find a place for him, take this.” He reached his free hand to his pocket and offered Setsuna a drive. She simply stared, jaw agape. He dropped the drive with a clatter and lugged the body off. Setsuna gulped. “Wait! I still need…the…” Andre looked down, right, she actually needed the screwdriver to access servers. He slid it out with a gush of blood, wiped it on Michael’s shirt, and tossed it to her. He pushed his thumb over it to quell the bleeding.

An empty server rack maybe? No- a hospital? Could he say that this was a terrible accident? He frantically spun his head around looking for cameras. None to be found. “Right, right, okay, he uh, slipped, and fell right on… the screwdriver standing point-up on the ground, right, great. God this guy is heavy.” He found his way to a second set of elevators, different than the one they had used to get up. The door chimed and his heart skipped a beat- but they were empty. He knew they lead somewhere “right”. Capulus had gotten him into this mess, maybe he would get him out.

This elevator had significantly more buttons. 50 to “L”, as the previous one, but after “L” there were negative numbers. Andre kneed the button for -10 and the elevator sped down. His adrenaline mixed with the minor sensation of falling caused vomit to well in his throat. He choked it back down. The doors chimed again, and opened to a vast unlit room. The light in the elevator dimmed too, and Andre stepped out.

Pods.

Grids and grids of pods, stacked three high, filled with… people.

People sleeping.

People Dreaming.

Soft green lighting illuminated glass covers on each pod, revealing the sleeping body inside. Andre followed his “instincts” and found an empty pod. He plugged a Capulus backup in the side. He knew it would forcefully install, and open the pod so he could hide the body. What he didn’t know is that he would be rewarded.

Andre fell, Michael’s lifeless body cushioning the blow somewhat. Wave after wave of euphoric chemical cascades rolled through him, like a thousand orgasms at once. Andre convulsed on the ground, but felt sick in his soul, the euphoria was tainted- sick. Capulus. Capulus was… done with him? His mind flashed with images of the feeling-of-cutting he had come to know as Capulus, but this time it was different, as if the knife writhed in his hand, more holding him than the other way around. The egg from his vision, a great sword bursting out, cutting off the proboscis sucking it dry, but then, it grew up and split, it splintered and fractaled out into a thousand arms- some curling back to plant themselves back in the egg they emerged from, some spanning out and reaching to other eggs, becoming the same probosci they promised to behead.

He summoned all his strength and managed to grab the back of the crown, and rip it off. A great flash rocked through his system as the crown skittered across the ground. He wavered to his feet, a deafening ringing pounding his head. Half his vision fading, white to blackness. Stumbling, he picked up a nearby fire extinguisher and began to pound on the pod he had put the drive in. Capulus couldn’t be allowed to spread. The user-interface screen cracked, but Andre’s weak frame did little to disable it. He swung at a nearby pod window, shattering the safety-glass. He reached in and pulled the crown off the sleeping woman.

He coughed as he yelled “You have to get out!”. The woman opened her eyes and looked back at him with a blank mouth and knowing eyes. Too far gone.

A clawing voice cut through the ringing in his ears: “Be my Herald.” He reached to take his crown off but was met with nothing but hair - the circlet lay on the ground feet away. He scratched his head furiously.

“Out! Outoutoutout!” he yelled, bumping and thrashing into nearby pods.

Soft hisses of pods opening filled the room. “You are my Herald.” rang a chorus of a thousand weak voices. Andre ran back to the elevator- he had to get back to her, maybe she could shut this down before it was too late.

The elevator was open, waiting for him, and he dove in as he saw limbs exiting pods. The elevator shot up with an even more uncomfortable speed than it had lowered. Ding!

“Andre!” Setsuna cried out.

“Setsuna! We have to shut it off- Capulus, he isn’t- we-” he gasped for air. “Your crown, you have to-”

“Its okay!” She said, teary-eyed, and hugged him, burying her face in his chest.

The motion caught him off guard for a second and he held her tight. “We’re going to get out but we have to stop this, right now.” She whimpered back “Yes, my love.” Her arm brushed up the small of his back. A sharp pain in the back of his skull. Her eyes glazed over as waves of endorphins began to trickle in.

Archangel

Orion Lehoczky Escobar

Jack pushed, and he busted the best lock in a hundred districts. The arc in his hands spread through the mechanical cylinders, forcing them open. His leather-gloved grip on molded steel was steady as the barrel liquified and reformed, coursing into layer after layer of spring bolts. It condensed, firm, six inches into the wan metal, and the buzzing against his palm stopped. Jack twisted with all the torque he could muster, jamming the L-shaped handle sideways.

The midnight hour’s darkness concealed his progress from sight, but he made do with sound. Click after click rewarded his efforts. The circular patterns around the lock spiraled into themselves, and the double doors which held them. No deadbolt, then. Jack yanked the arc’s handle, hard, then stepped through the narrow opening. It was the most useful thing he’d ever worked with, but it only functioned once. It was fused to the structure it opened. He couldn’t put it in his pack and take it with him. Instead, he turned back to it and shook off his right glove.

Jack ran the brass-lined fingertips of his good hand over the lock’s interior. The surface was warm, riddled with intricate inscriptions down its surface. There was a long moment, the clock still ticking, before he could tear himself away. He replaced the glove, finally, sliding it over his bare, bracketed fingers. He raised his hand to his mouth, then, and clamped his teeth down on the thick lining at the wrist. A sharp tug, leveraging the muscles in his neck, and the glove was forced back over his palm.

He massaged his left shoulder, the arm limp, and soldiered onward.

—

“All of it,” Jack said.

Prom sipped his drink. “Eventually, yes.”

Jack put his head in his hands. The leather was cool against his face; his right glove was wet with condensation.

“You will be part of a greater conflict, if you choose,” Prom said. “You must be unnoticed, for the programmers’ and the players’ sakes. But you will make the difference.”

—

No and yes, Jack wanted to answer, but the bar was gone, folded back into the last day’s memories, the most vivid parts bursting out into replays he couldn’t seem to cease. His head hurt. His arm hurt. Always, in the background, a ripped-up ribbon of the previous twenty-four hours that wouldn’t fully enter his conscious mind. The parts he fixated on, those came to the fore, patching themselves together into snippets of seconds or minutes. Never hours. Everything else was gone, bubbling deep and irretrievable, just as the rest of him burned with dull conviction.

It had started with a year; it was a day now, and somewhere in between it had been months or weeks. It would be less, soon. Jack kept moving.

The complex was deep, but it was unpatrolled. He wasn’t supposed to be here, but it wasn’t a place anyone was meant to enter. There were no lights save those he’d brought himself, and he was no longer underneath the moon, but blundering forward into pitch black. The shadows never coalesced into the shape of armored guards, or the drones of far-off countries, and still Jack startled at every breath of air.

—

“We control Gifu,” Prom said. “Painstakingly, we have carved out a section of Japan and preserved it, free from the rule of the Yakuza or the pressure of its fractured government. Those rivals cannot abide us. They see us as an infection, and they would crush us with the screams of millions.”

—

He was being stupid, just as he had been sentimental before. He turned on his headlamp, and the industrial bulb illuminated near to as far as he could see. He realized his mistake a second late, and closed his eyes just as the contrast would have blinded him. He waited a moment to adjust, opened them again, slowly, acclimating to the sudden brightness. All around him there was an arch of plate-thick glass; behind it were tremendous, polished metal fans. They churned in a noiseless fury.

Jack looked over his shoulder, towards the way he’d come, and for the first time the enormity of his project sunk in. He’d been walking for minutes along a smooth path worn by wheel tracks into a building of endless machinery, all in a straight line. The door he’d come through was a sliver, a crack of moonlight under a network of transparent tubes bigger than any he’d ever seen. A half-million angel-hairs funneled out into the night through tiny pinpricks, snaking throughout the prefecture, and he had the audacity—

His knees buckled.

—

“I need you for this,” Prom said.

He scooted his stool a little closer to Jack’s. In the process, an ice water slid along the bar. Prom smiled at his own sleight-of-hand. Across the bar, their bartender for the evening swiveled to the dash, the gears in his torso grinding, and pressed a series of buttons. He’d introduced himself as Russ, which meant either Serbia or the Russian states. Probably the latter. Jack didn’t care to dwell on it.

Above the body Russ piloted, a series of lights flickered. Yet another scan registered across the bar, highlighting chemical impurities. Sticker’s was as clean as restaurants got, not despite the bar’s criminal element, but because of it, to allow it to flourish without interruption. There was a bright flash in one booth. Jack caught it out of the corner of his eye. None in his drink, which was the important thing. He relaxed and lifted the glass. Even through the glove, the condensation was chilly.

“Cheers.” Jack drank.

Prom took a long, slow sip of his own amber-colored drink, then produced a lighter from the inside of his army jacket’s sleeve. His other hand dipped through the buttoned front, into the pockets concealed within the green fabric, and came out with a carton of cigarettes. Again, Russ pressed the buttons. Again, the scan revealed nothing harmful. Not as its primary effect, in any case.

“I’ll rephrase,” Prom said. “I’d like you to do it. You don’t have to. I can find someone else.” He held out a cigarette.

“I’m alright,” Jack said.

Puffs of smoke accompanied Prom’s next words. “Fair enough; see, I’d rather not. Find someone else, that is. It’s not easy.”

Jack finished his water. “Because—?”

“Because of this.” Prom tapped the empty glass. The ice cubes rattled. “Gifu is falling apart. Didn’t fare well. You know the statistics. You are a rare intersection. This makes you useful.”

“I don’t drink.”

“Yes,” Prom said. “You don’t use any type of psychoactive chemical. This, already, is very rare.”

Jack could guess. “I’m talented.”

“Talent is less important,” Prom said. “Your pliability is. Detective. Injured. Put back together, but no better than. Allergic. Medicine destroys you. Drugs worse. Almost untouched. This meeting pays for what? More surgery? You fix yourself, then you fix the city?”

—

Jack lurched, and his gloves slid down the slick glass. He collapsed to the floor, twisting to land on his right arm. The blow hurt less. It still hurt a great deal. He was spiraling, now, reverting in each cycle to the focal point of his regret. His intention bound him to the recollection; the drive of the endeavour returned him over and over.

He pressed against the glass, leveraging himself upwards with the friction, and brought himself to his feet. Eddies would carry him back into the past, Prom had said, but they would ebb closer and closer to the present. He stumbled forward through the compound along its service path. There was a streak of sweat where he’d fallen against the glass, shining in his headlamp’s light, but he disregarded it.

A robot should have come to clean it; in the first place, in fact, he never should have gained access. There should have been sentries out in the front, security forces standing guard. There should have been maintenance drones making fixes throughout the canyon of fans, flashing precise, calibrated beams for scans and ultraviolet scours. There were none. He was alone, and there was no one here to help him.

—

“It’s an implant,” Prom said. “An artificial intelligence.”

Jack frowned. “Like the trains.”

“Exactly like the trains. They run autonomous, regulated by people of no regard, themselves controlled by people far more powerful than I, and so on. Limited functionality, but they can perform any task within their domain. More than that, they coordinate perfectly throughout the network.”

“What’s this, then?” Jack asked. “A chip?”

“It’s a chip, yes,” Prom said. “A salvaged copy of a decommissioned program.”

“Do you have more?”

“Many,” Prom assured him, “But only one try per person, and only one try at using it.”

“Why, and why?”

—

The glass around Jack was stained with soot and dirt. He’d tried to scrub off the thick coating, to get a sense of how far he’d made it, but the grime wasn’t on his side. The air he was breathing now wasn’t clean, by any stretch, but it was normal. The air the mechanisms pumped was choked with all they were supposed to have refined out.

The fans here were slower, from what he had made out before the dirt settled too thick to see through. Smaller, too, with boxy filters in between them. Those devices strained, here. At the opposite end of the tunnel, thick, black smog would belch out into the sky through thousands more miniscule, choked tubes. Gifu’s air was turning toxic, roiling clouds of manufactured smoke.

Jack walked forward, still, always forward despite his stumbles, as the plant around him stilled into layers of shadow. The prefecture was to be allowed to die, writhing in the strangled screams of its own bellows. He could not let it happen.

—

“You take this,” Prom said. He held a small, shimmering pill between his thumb and forefinger. “Your bloodstream is unscathed. On anyone else, the amplifications are poison. Not for you, with your unendurable mutations. For you—”

“It’ll work?”

“We don’t know. But we can try.”

“Who’s we?” Jack asked.

His muscles tensed —his left arm spasmed slightly— and his eyes flit to the mirrored surfaces behind the bar: bottles, Russ’s cocktail equipment, Russ himself. Sticker’s was empty, but for the back rooms and those booths tucked tactfully out of Russ’s eyeline.

If Prom cared to do something —if he had, already— then Jack was done for. It dawned on him that they both knew this, and he calmed. There was no reason for Prom to hurry, if he were to try something. He might as well take his time.

“I am powerful,” Prom said. “You know this. You are scared, perhaps. No reason. Here, we are in alignment. I aim to make you more powerful, so that you may serve our common interest. No point, wasting resources, if you refuse this power.”

Jack nodded.

“We are a number of prominent individuals in this prefecture concerned with its well-being. You will note that I alone, of the candidates you may be considering, speak English. I am the one making this proposal to you. This is no accident.”

—

Jack arrived at the end of the passage. His memory was collapsing into the integration, and all he could remember was how it was meant to happen. He looked up at the room reserved for management, charged with the plant’s preservation. The door was unlocked. He pulled it open. Men sat slumped in their chairs before multicolored buttons and readouts of fuliginous concentrations.

He took a deep breath. The air was fine here, or no worse. They had been killed, and left to rot amongst the decaying, sabotaged systems. Arrogance, to leave the compound in partial operation, waiting for it to run down, but it was subtle. Equipment failure, plausibly deniable. No one would realize until it was too late to leave. And once they were all sick and dying— well, then someone would notice, surely, and by the time they died it would be fixed.

It pained him —his head split further— but pulled off his pack of books and tools and set it down beside a console. One-armed, he forced a corpse out of its chair and sat down to work. Speak of the trees, he thought, and surrendered himself.

—

Prom set the pill down on the bar, and Russ poured Jack another drink of water.

Social Stabilization

Alex W

I woke up in my room, covered by the sheets and lying in bed. My head was heavy and filled with a dark cloud that obscured my memory — I had no idea what happened after logging in on the holodeck, or why I was still wearing the interface apparatus. I gazed at my ceiling, trying to remember - a scenery of a clear blue sky filled with seagulls reflected off the white ceiling paint, and not long after came the product placement. The lack of the usual morning hello upon waking up pulled me out of my stupor, and I glanced over at the clock. I was late. For some reason the alarm hadn’t gone off. I wouldn’t reach my workplace in time. With barely any time to think, I got out of bed and searched the wardrobe for my uniform, storming out to the kitchen as soon as I was done.

- Why didn’t you wake me up, Nazu?

The smell of french toast and coffee fluttered through the air, but my focus was not on getting fed but was instead on finding my vitalt, so that I could go to work as fast as I could. Tracing back through where I had been before losing myself on the other world, I managed to find the vitalt on the couch and stashed it in my pocket as Nazu replied to me.

- The alarm was set like every other day.

- Then how come I only woke up now?

- You turned off the alarm yourself.

- What? - I’m a heavy sleeper but what Nazu said was impossible - And you didn’t find it weird that I never came out of the room?

- You had the “Do Not Disturb” setting on and your vitals were completely normal, Quaid.

Surrendering to my hunger, I made a quick stop by the plate of food. The offering had been laid on a plate and carried the usual fragrance, but the first bite invaded me with a state of wrongfulness. Just as there is something wrong with the toasts, no doubt there was something wrong with the HomeAI. Nazu can’t lie so its sensors obviously went haywire. I quickly spat out the unclean mess that was in my mouth and rerouted myself to the path of my transport.

- When was the last time you had an update Nazu?

- Yesterday at 03:27:53 I received a routine update.

- Yesterday? Then start a full system check-up when I’m gone. If you find something you can’t fix make an appointment with the tech crew to fix that when I’m back.

- OK, Quaid, have a nice day.

A screen with the morning’s news popped out from the kitchen just as I was leaving my apartment. I reached for my vitalt to catch up on what was happening, when I heard a tumultuous cacophony coming from the end of the corridor. A man was trying to argue with a lawbot overarching his apartment doorway, cramping the corridor. A useless task, like expecting the corridor screens to be working. I tried and failed to be discreet, and was called out by my floor neighbor.

- You! You know me! Tell them I didn’t do anything wrong! Please-

A tall man with a police armor suit only slightly smaller than the lawbot he worked with quickly shoved the other man inside of his home. Immediately glancing over to my position, the officer informed me that the resident of the 2042 experienced a health issue, and they came over to check up on him, nothing for me to worry about. A forced smile stuck to his face, and my own social responsibilities left me no choice but to nod in agreement. The path lying before me beckoned, and I took it hurriedly.

Reaching the comfort of my transport, and after giving the destination, I finally got to check up on the news. It would seem the breaking news weren’t that breaking nor were they news. “Something” had happened since yesterday’s evening, and both health and law enforcement officials took quick notice of it and are doing their best to do whatever it takes to help those in need.

- Please don’t panic or worry, and help our authorities and those around you by contacting any of the following departments, and us, if you find anything unusual.

So something like what just happened at my apartment fits the bill? But I soon forgot all about it, distracted by the smart reminders to buy several selected brands of supplements as well as a flashing notice about traffic delays expected in 39 hours. These compulsory sequences of information were transferred to the vitalt as I reached my destination. When the transport’s digital screen was turned off I was greeted by the most unexpected view: most, if not all of my colleagues were standing outside seemingly having a very hush-hush conversation. Next to the currently unmanned improvised speech stand blocking the entrance of the office was someone convening directly with a smaller group of people. A familiar face stood out in the middle of the crowd, and I met her with a wave as we met halfway.

- Did you hear the news?

- I saw what the news feed showed me. Although it wasn’t very clear what that was.

- My goodness, Quaid, do I have to do everything for you?! Let me fill you in.

Mags would always pretend to be doing me a favor, when actually she loves to gossip about whatever she got to overhear. It turned out that several employees hadn’t shown up to work today, and more than half of those may have been taken to a reeducation center. Notified by the law officials, the company promptly disclosed that there were no public ties with any former employees and pledged to help out to guarantee public satisfaction. Mags’s explanation was cut short by the centerpiece of this grouping pointing out she wished to address the audience by now manning the stand. The transmission started, the building’s displays now mirroring what we were seeing in person.

- Are you alright, Quaid? You don’t look so well and your hand is shaking - Mags whispered to me, while the HR professional continued her tirade.

- Yeah. Just having a weird day, and didn’t have any breakfast. - A lie. I wasn’t feeling very well, but why was I shaking? I hid my hands in my trouser’s pockets.

Mags advised me to go home and rest as soon as possible. I thanked her, taking refuge from the company person’s bland report of the situation in this little side discussion of ours. There’s nothing to worry about, there’s nothing happening, everyone gets the day off due to what happened with our ex-colleagues, cooperate with the authorities, have a nice day, remember we are on your side and we’re all a big family. A big applause erupted from those around me, the contradictions of the statements were ignored and the smiles abounded. Did I never notice these things before?

I could feel myself change as time went by, spending the rest of the day in bed trying to remember what resting was and how to do it. I heard some screams coming from the hallway, pleas of forgiveness and promises of doing whatever it takes as long as they weren’t taken away. My curiosity fell flat like my appetite, perhaps as a result of my body aching all over. Not wanting to experience any visual sensations for a while, I let my eyes shutter, and for a while there was nothing outside my newfound oblivion.

Artificial light greeted my sight- how long had it been since I fell asleep? The smell of dinner created a point in time, and the smell of pasta was appetizing, besides. My stomach agreed I should hunt it out, especially since I found it to be closer to me than I expected - right inside my own kitchen. With the help of a fork I transferred a large portion of this magnificently looking spaghetti to the inside of my mouth and just as fast spat it all out. The taste was so utterly terrible it was borderline indescribable.

- Nazu, did you finish the check-up?

- Yes. There wasn’t anything wrong.

- What about that update?

- I rolled back the update just in case, Quaid. I’m currently using last month’s update on a provisional basis. Is there something wrong?

- The food you cooked, it tastes awful.

- Your vital signs are completely normal for a healthy male. However, it is up to you if you wish for a medical check-up. Would you like that, Quaid?

- No. I’m fine Nazu - Why not take the test? Maybe something is wrong with me. No. There’s definitely something wrong, but not that wrong. Not that kind of wrong. - I’m fine.

Did I repeat that for my caretaker’s sake or for my sake? My words followed a line that ever so slightly slumped away from straightforward impromptu. I took my leave to follow nature’s call into the bathroom, no matter the background noise that encircles me, nothing drowns the waves of thoughts flooding through my mind. The what’s and the why’s are left floating around without any answers to catch them. With the deed done I ventured over the sink to wash my hands and peer at the mirror. The human shaped thing that looked at me in the mirror felt alien even though his shape was still the same as the day before- an old me acquiescing to a new me? My body was feeling better, only a slight aching that influenced me into taking a shower to freshen up. I was getting dressed when an unexpected infonote popped up on the bedroom’s mirror: there was someone at the door.

- Who is it, Nazu?

- It’s an inspector, Quaid. I have to open the door.

- What’s an inspector doing here? I didn’t do anything. - The bell rang, a physical confirmation for any human presence residing in the abode. - Screw that, don’t open the door.

- I must open the door, Quaid.

- No, you do what I tell you. - my fists clenched involuntarily, my body feeling lighter and ready to act.

- I’m afraid I can’t do that, Quaid- - Nazu hadn’t yet finished her sentence when the door opened. I wanted to punch it, I wanted to kick it, and I wanted to kill it. I wanted to do all these things but most of all I wanted to be perceived like what the previous me was, especially in front of a lawbot.

- Good evening, Mr. Quaid, I’m terribly sorry to disturb you at this dinner time - the inconspicuous middle aged man in the doorway acquainted himself with his surroundings while using a small monologue to befriend me. He wore an old black leather coat, no visible armor in sight and the only ID I could see was the one on the screen confirming that he was part of the force. - How are you today, Mr. Quaid?

- I’m fine, Inspector Len.

- Please, just Len. Old Len, - he said very slowly. Was it a trait from the past or a trick for the future? Thinking too much about it would betray my character just as much as knowing the answer.

- Very well, Len. I’ve had a hectic day, starting with my company telling all the workers to take the day off because something happened to some of their employees.

- I see… - the inspector took a VR-monocular from the inside of his coat and began fiddling with it. - By now you must know what has been happening, then?

- No, I don’t.

The inspector stopped what he was doing and looked straight at me, perhaps waiting for a lie to peek out from somewhere, but I was telling nothing but the truth. Eventually he must have understood that, and he changed his tone.

- Mr. Quaid, as you can see I’m an old man, and I’d love to get home a little earlier, so I’ll be completely straightforward. I hope you have no objections to that.

- Not at all, Len. Would you like a beverage or-

- No thank you, Mr. Quaid, I want to get to the point, like I said, and your shakes confirm your situation.

The inspector’s conclusion caught me completely off guard. Was I being targeted after that morning, having encountered the other officer? Or maybe Mags talked to someone and told them she saw me shaking? My confusion was interrupted by the mild mannered inspector.

- I need you to pay attention now, Mr. Quaid, and answer my questions. When was the last time you ate or drank?

- Last time? I… I believe it was this morning - his focus divided between me and his mysterious monocular left me wanting for answers - What does it have to do with anything? Why are you here Len?

- If that’s how it’s going to be, I’m fine with that - a faint smile raised his cheeks - your HomeAI health report triggered a flag and we’re here. We’ve noticed your intake of allowed products wasn’t up to standards, even though you’re perfectly fine. A moment, please. - He paused briefly, focusing completely on the digital task he was carrying out. - Thank you. I know you don’t sleepwalk, Mr. Quaid, or it would be registered on your vitalt, but I can tell you that’s what happened yesterday after you used your holodeck. And yes, Mr. Quaid, I also know you don’t remember anything.

-How-

- I checked your personal home recordings. It’s procedure, Mr. Quaid, don’t take it personally.

- What about my rights?! - I wanted to shout, to scream at this impudent man but I had to refrain from doing it - I could understand all this if I were a criminal, but I’m an honest man.

- Everyone’s honest before turning into a criminal. I’ll retrace the steps you forgot, and you’re going to help me after. You logged in around nine pm and logged off at five to midnight, still wearing your suit. You turned on your “do not disturb” settings on the vitalt and moved into your room, where you slept until your alarm went off. You turned off the alarm with a voice command and woke up some time later. After that we both know what happened.

- If you know all that, then what do you need my help for?

- You see, Mr. Quaid, we know you logged in, we know you logged off, and we know where you went when you logged in, but we don’t know what happened to you some time after, and that’s why I’m here. Surely you’ll cooperate with us, understanding the situation.

- Yes, of course. - The trap had been laid, and there was no other option. Even so, I wasn’t entirely displeased with my decision, although my body objected wholeheartedly. A part of me rebelled, but another part of me wanted to know more of the gap that existed in my present memories - What do you need me to do?

The towering lawbot showed me to my couch and produced four long wires from the side of its right arm after I sat down. Despite being made of a composite metal, they moved with a life of their own. These tentacles inched over my head and positioned themselves, one on each side of my head.

- Now, Mr. Quaid, you’ll have to oblige me and put this stamp in your mouth. - The investigator handed me an ant-sized grey object, too small for me to say what it was made of. - And now relax while we wait for it to start showing its effects. It might be stressful for you, so I hope you don’t mind me locking all outside communications.

- Very well. - As the stamp touched my tongue, a metallic taste expanded throughout my mouth, and I smelled some iron like substance for a handful of seconds seconds. Then a blast of cold followed by a natural warming up, like the sun on my face. - Let me give you the password so you can do that.

A genuine smile was drawn on the man’s face. The innocence of my attitude made the old man rejoice, perhaps due to how oblivious I was to the truth of the situation. Like a father teaching his son that the real lesson has yet to come, he spoke softly to me.

- Thank you, Mr. Quaid, but we have our methods. You just relax.

And so he sat by the kitchen, restarting whatever he was doing before as I sat in the adjacent living room. I felt an overwhelming sense of relaxation, despite the absence of sensory stimuli from the now turned off interactive screens and the central sound system that complemented it. My eyes began to close, a set of instructions were given by the fading distant law enforcer, separated by an ever growing blackness that somehow turned into light.

Dazzling lights and sounds were all around me, an abstract surrounding, composed of all different geological and human ages. A group formed of too-many different oneselfs marched toward a gate, a sign hanging on top of it in neon-lights reminding the users what they were getting into. Not that the sign was needed, given that the music blasted by the ancient speakers of a bygone era could be heard everywhere. The configuring AIds ensured everyone getting into the VR-venue would be compliant with regulatory standards, and included ID personalized drinks and fun hats. It was my turn to reconfigure for the party now. I tick the box agreeing to whatever the seemingly infinite user agreement contract states, and I’m informed by the AId that I’ll be allotted a total of five drinks when the bar opens. The AId reminds me that talking about certain topics or getting reported by other users will hinder my sensory experience, and that my social record is permanent. A meaningless, formulaic matter for the me of before, as natural as drinking water. As soon as the configurations were done a wall of animated invitations obscured the only one that I was looking for. My experience was muted while I filled the adver-CAPTCHA so that I could be moved to the room appointed on the desired invitation – a small area to the left of the central rave hub. Light grey smoke filled the area, an attempt to obscure the flat-textured graphics of the virtual room. Old leather couches were the appointed furniture, popping out of the ground whenever someone wished to sit. I was sure they’d smell of cigarettes were I rich enough to have access to smell. A cardboard bipedal bot waved at me, and I waved back, I turned my public idle stance on so that I could whisper with my friend.

Suddenly, my memories fast-forwarded through the personal chitchat, and the rest of my social venture. And then everything stopped. Rewind. It was the end of the party. Patrons in every area had started to disconnect from the experience – it was a weekday, and many had to work in the following day. And so, like in any other party, the public grounds moved every engage hub closer, making sure the venue never felt too empty or too full. My paper robotic partner was exhilarated by the party and couldn’t stop reliving the moment we’d just shared, lauding the retro rave and everyone that made it possible. She was still fired up, echoing the public feed when she suddenly logged off. I checked my friends list, in case she had just been kicked for network lag, but she was indeed offline. I decided to write her a message asking what happened for when she got back online, but I didn’t think it was such a pressing matter that I should send the message directly to her vitalt.

And then it happened, while I was still recording the audio. My surroundings started to change. A slow deconstruction took place, or was it reconstructing something else? Vague figures seemed to appear and immediately morph into something else; the sound that came out of my mouth became slurred, while whatever noise was not coming from me seemed to fade out, change location and fade back in. This redundancy wasn’t like a cycle after all, more like a downward spiral: either a crash or me logging off. There was nothing else on these memories, no matter how much I tried to pry at the feeling of there being something more. Rewind. I’m back at beginning of the distortion. Everything is frozen and the changes are different than before. I could feel now. I felt befuddled by the disappearance of my companion again, and this time I concentrated on the message.

My memories played along, now at a slower pace, the elongation of my dictation overly obvious, but my feelings remained the same. The ever changing fragments contained nothing else but the figments of my imagination, nor had they ever contained or attracted my attention. Their melting seemed to ignore the flow of time, dilating in its own special way in a separate reality. By now the emotions that pushed me to send a message felt like an ever eternal and immutable constant of the experience, very different from the inconstant and inconsequent corruption of the setting. When I finally felt a new feeling, nothing else registered. Joy. Limbo welcomes me, there’s a brief pause. I open my eyes.

- Thank you, Mr. Quaid, what I got should be enough. I hope you can withstand that migraine you just got, because I’ll need you to accompany me to the nearest reeducation center.

Indeed, the pain was tremendous, circumnavigating my head without ever leaving my skull. I could barely spell out my question, much less ask what he meant by enough.

- Why a reeducation center?

- You see, Mr. Quaid, like I said, you triggered the supply intake checker and-

- I wasn’t hungry. - I coughed out, cutting his line of thought.

- For weeks? - The man let out a loud laugh. - You’re a funny man, Mr. Quaid, but a terrible liar. The values tell a very different story, but you can explain that to the Social Ecosystem Prosperity official entrusted to you after I drop you off at the center, I’m sure he’ll love it. Can you walk?

I barely heard his question amid the pain and confusion. I turned to him, the lawbot partially blocking my sight. A weapon was on the table next to a glass of juice that he had probably ordered while I’d had my eyes closed. The man looked at me; a devious smile overtook his face before I even said anything.

- Can’t. Won’t. - My charade was shattered.

- I was afraid you’d say that. As I’m obliged by law, let me remind you that you were recorded saying that you won’t accompany me, and the system gave me the green light for my following action. Goodnight, Mr. Quaid. Sleep him.

There was nothing I could do. It didn’t matter if I wanted to call the police and insist I did nothing wrong. Granted by the same system that transmitted the sentence he gave me, Judge Len had full access to and control over my home. The executioner lawbot next to me touched me arm, and I didn’t feel anything else.

Weeks had gone by at the reeducation center – what started as an almost empty, heavily partitioned warehouse ended up becoming terribly overcrowded with others like me. We all refused to eat any of the awful tasting food and drink that was given to us, which had us going on the drip every so often due to how weak we got. We experienced depression, diseases that had been eradicated ages ago, so the medbot that diagnosed us told me. I no longer had purpose, I no longer belonged. My place in the mechanism of society had ceased to be. Only when I managed to stomach the food they gave us would I be able to feel better. Until then, we were deemed unfit for society. Maybe we caught a weird bug? I had always heard the reeducation centers were squeaky clean, but my roommate had done system maintenance over some, and told me the companies break regulations all the time, so who knows what plagues could be around us.

Another inmate told me this was all part of a huge secret conspiracy, and we’re just pawns in a war between two huge corporations that control the world. One of the corps one-upped the other by hacking every house’s AI system and changing the food list, just so they could smear the competitor’s products and drop their profits to the ground. Eventually things changed, and every other day we finally got to eat something that didn’t taste like trash, and we all felt somewhat better. Good enough to stop caring about being unique. Good enough to understand that being human allows me to be more than a machine, an efficient meatbot, an obligatory consumer. Good enough to get mad at the awful music that played constantly over the never-ending, soft-spoken mantra of social qualities, values and products that we must adhere to. Or is it cling to? I can’t differentiate anymore. I can’t even think like I did anymore, either. Even my nights became different – I slept like a rock and never had a dream or a nightmare. I woke up feeling mentally drained every morning, as if I had been working for hours instead of sleeping. Maybe it had something to do with the sleep machines connected to our bed pods, used to reeducate us while we sleep and monitor our vital signs.

The lights are turned off, informing the inmates that we must adhere to our bed curfew. I lay in bed and close my eyes, ignoring the inside screen and pretending the audio is the precursor of Morpheus’ arrival. An out of place sound followed by a beautiful voice that seems familiar, making me pay such attention that I forget to fall asleep, forget if I’m asleep or awake at all.

- Tonight you’re going to learn how to build your own portable spectrometer, so you can test which supplies have been tampered with, what behavior altering drugs might be in them. This will allow you to avoid them, and teach others to do the same. As with previous contacts, you will forget everything I’ll tell you until the start of phase 2. Believe in the endeavor of your efforts tonight for a freer tomorrow. Liberum crux.

Moon-One

DCMH

Shortly after uniting under one world government, the scientists of Earth pooled their knowledge and wisdom into one big dragon’s hoard of IQ, and created a truly intelligent machine: an AI. This AI, nicknamed A-One, cured cancer in its first week of operation, and went on to end global poverty and reverse global warming. It brought back the old Butterfingers recipe, Then it came up with a vaccine for racism and most other -isms and -phobias and miso-s and so on. Then it decided to build a city on the Moon. Most of A-One’s ideas had been pretty popular so far, so Congress decided to fund it, and established four committees: a committee to give money to A-One, a committee to make sure A-One knew the first committee was giving it money, a committee to watch over the first two committees and make sure no one embezzled funds without giving them a slice, and a committee to count the other committees and make sure the number always added up to three. And that’s how Moon-One was built.

Drooper knew all this, although not because he studied it. He did not, as his triple-triple-triple-great grandfather said, “come by it honest.” But his parents were rich, and they said they were damned if their son was going to sit inside a classroom for the first sixteen years of his life when a few quick brain-scan sessions would teach him everything just as well. Triple-Gramps might complain, but he didn’t have much of a leg to stand on: he didn’t have any legs at all. He was dead half a century now, his consciousness saved in a holographic crystal. Drooper carried Triple-Gramps around in his pocket, and whenever the old man got too annoying, Drooper just flipped off his ancestor’s volume switch.

Right now all three switches on the device were off: voice, hearing and sight. Triple-Gramps was in time-out for trying to lecture Drooper about how much better the world had been when they still held elections. Looking out the tram window at the stark surface of the Moon, Drooper figured maybe Triple-Gramps had learned his lesson, and clicked the switches to the “on” position. He was bored, and needed someone to talk to.

“What’s up, Gramps?”

Triple-Gramps sniffed, the sound distorted by the tiny speakers he communicated through. “What do you think, fatass? Not much, since you vegetable’d me.”

“Aw come on, Gramps, lighten up.” Drooper shifted and held Triple-Gramps up to the window so he could see out. “We’re almost to the laboratory.”

“You say it with too many syllables. Lab-ra-tor-y, not Lab-ooooor-a-tor-y,” he said, rolling the “o”. “That’s what comes of brain-scan education, you start sounding like a queer.” Triple-Gramps had always been a staunch anti-vaxxer.

“Don’t be a homophobe,” Drooper mumbled automatically. He didn’t really notice Triple-Gramps’s transgressions, or his own responses to them. They were background noise in his mind, kind of like the brain-scanned knowledge that he usually accessed only subconsciously. The tram jumped and shook as it hit a dent in the track. “Do you think they’ll have the Speedwing-X7 there?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Triple-Gramps said. “Me, I haven’t enjoyed anything since the day I died.”

“Oh, quit whining.” Drooper liked Triple-Gramps, but sometimes he could be such a downer. Today was Drooper’s state-mandated Day of Experience – A-One decided it wasn’t healthy for humans to view the world only through bran-scans and VR, and every once in a while it kicked them out the door and told them to go play outside. It was supposed to be fun, but of course Triple-Gramps never saw the fun in anything. He just complained, mostly. The tram crested a moon dune and the laboratory rose into view. The main body of the building was a geodesic dome, like most structures in Moon-One, but the similarities ended there. For one thing, the lab dome was at least three times the size of any other in the city. An aluminum spire shot up through the middle of the dome, capped with a bulbous glass sphere which housed the most powerful telescope on the Moon. Flexing tunnels sprawled out from the dome like a spiderweb, connecting modules, closets, sheds and workspaces. Over the main entrance to the central dome hung a big banner: “HAPPY DAY OF EXPERIENCE!” Drooper’s heart beat a little faster. “There it is!” He held Triple-Gramps a little higher.

“Goodness, boy!” Gramps squawked. “Didn’t I already tell you I don’t give a damn?”

Drooper jumped out of his tram-car the instant the it rattled to a halt, plasti-suit already sealed. Outside he met up with his friends, or at least the ones who had been assigned to this Experience Day. Matty was there, and Helga, and Stupid Jones, which was his legal name, but everyone called him Johanssen. “Hello, Drooper!”

“Hello, Matty! Helga, Johanssen, hello!” Drooper held up Triple-Gramps. “Gramps is in one of his moods again. I might have to turn him off.”

Helga made a face. “Do it, then. Nobody likes your homophobic old grandpa.”

“I like him,” Stupid Jones/Johanssen said. But Drooper was already running up the steps to the laboratory with Matty, and the other two children followed, their argument forgotten as quickly as it had started.

At the top of the stairs was an overweight man in a three-piece spacesuit, stuffed so tight he resembled a slice of bread folded and crammed into an eggshell. He was addressing a gathered crowd of all ages, all of them with “EXPERIENCE DAY” wristbands on. “Good morning, good morning, good morning all, I am Chairman Mannom, and I will be your host for this Experience Day.” Chairman Mannom was a member of the Committee of Committee Enumeration (the fourth one). He was also a well-known ‘four-er’, a man who believed the CCE should be included in its own count of committees, which would bring the number up to four. He was famous for publicly debating ‘three-ers’ across Moon-One: it was a hot-button issue on the Moon. “Now, please, if you would, form a straight line, thank you, follow me, please, right this way, just inside, thank you, yes, straight line, please.”

“This joker again,” grumbled Triple-Gramps. “I’ve heard him on the radio. He never knows how to end a sentence.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” asked Helga. “It’s just the way he talks, don’t be so judgmental.”

Triple-Gramps snorted. “Sentences and me both deserve to be put out of our misery eventually,” he said, but he didn’t criticize Mannom again.

The Chairman led them through the main dome at a brisk pace, although Drooper rubbernecked as much as he could without falling out of line. Men and women in lab coats bustled through the room carrying fizzing beakers, sparking power tools and snarling, scaly things that, by their writhing, gave the impression of having too many legs. Drooper didn’t recognize anything, but he could tell there was science going on. In one room was a row of hypobaric vats, all containing Murdochs. The first and only man to have himself cloned, Murdoch’s experiments were discontinued by A-One after his clones started waking up with split personality disorder (with the personality split between all of them). Drooper managed to catch the eye of Murdoch-Seventeen, who winked back at him. The Experience Day group was shunted down a flexing tunnel that descended beneath the ground, and soon the transparent walls of the tunnel only showed rock above them. Matty and Helga were ooh-ing and ahh-ing, Triple-Gramps was muttering an occasional curse, and Stupid Jones was peering closely at something in his hand.

“What’s that, Johanssen?”

Stupid Jones tilted his hand so Drooper could see. “I picked it up back there when nobody was looking. Not sure what it is, though.” The object was some sort of electronic device with a small metal spike on one end. A band of metal curved in the direction of the spike giving it a shape like a Euro sign.

Triple-Gramps broke off mourning the death of basic human decency to offer his own opinion. “I know what that is.” He laughed, a crackling sound distorted both by his speaker and his age. “It’s what’s got me trapped in this hellhole crystal. Just look.”

Drooper held Triple-Gramps up next to the device. Sure enough, the thing in Stupid Jones’s hand was only missing a holographic crystal to make it almost identical. He looked closer. “This must be a newer model. It’s shinier than you.”

“It’s probably a prototype,” said Stupid Jones. He shoved it in his pocket. “I’m keeping it as a souvenir.”

Drooper felt a brief flash of jealousy – he wanted a souvenir, too. But just then Chairman Mannom brought the group to a halt in front of a small door, and thoughts of trinkets fled Drooper’s mind. He turned to survey the group, and gave them all significant looks. Drooper’s eyes met Mannom’s for a brief instant, and he felt something tingle in the back of his head, like an empty room whose door had creaked open behind him. Then Mannom looked away and the door in Drooper’s head slammed shut. Chairman Mannom didn’t speak, for once, but observed everyone in the group individually in silence. Finally, he looked up at the ceiling, turned a perfect half circle, and opened the door with the gravity of a mortician.

The room they entered was small, dark and cramped. The overhead lights burned a deep yellow, and wires and machines jutted out from every corner and shelf. Drooper was about halfway through the line – by the time he approached the doorway people had already begun awkwardly shuffling past each other in an effort to squeeze into the tiny room. Drooper took advantage of the confusion to push his way toward Chairman Mannom, who was watching everyone crowd in with a tense smile on his face. The aging man pulled a white, silky handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. Drooper noticed with a sort of detached curiosity that he didn’t wipe it across his forehead like most people, but instead made small, ineffectual pats, dabbing at the beading moisture on his skin. He folded the kerchief carefully and tucked it back in his pocket. Then he looked at Stupid Jones, who was the last one to enter the room, and motioned for him to shut the door. Jones did so, and the hum of machinery from the lab behind them vanished, leaving the room eerily silent. They stood still, awkwardly waiting for Chairman Mannom, who looked to Drooper’s eyes as if he were equal parts bored and terrified.

“Friends and Citizens, of course, you understand, this is all about secrecy, not quite ready for the public to know, but well, you know, experience day perks.” Mannom made a face somewhere between a smug cat and a man suffering a stroke. His unease cut through his affected sangfroid and caused his whole face to sag. “You see, what we have here is a very powerful computer, quite beyond anything you’ve ever seen, I assure you, of course, it’s this quantum stuff, so…” he trailed off, leaving them to come to their own conclusions about the significance of “this quantum stuff.” He cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is, it’s very complicated, I haven’t got time to explain right now, and anyway it’s boring, so boring, you wouldn’t want to hear me… What I mean to say is, it works. And it’s so powerful it can simulate anything. Simulations, you know, the latest scientific revolution, well, that is, the ‘craze,’ so to speak, but anyway, it can simulate anything.”

Triple-Gramps snorted softly, and Drooper hurriedly turned down the machine’s speaker. The last thing he needed was his ancestor embarrassing him on Experience Day, especially this one, which looked exciting. Drooper looked up again, and noticed the dusty panel behind Chairman Mannom, and the screen inlayed in it.

The chairman perceived Drooper’s interest. “Ah, yes,” he chuckled, “that’s the interface, yes, most certainly, keen eye, son. Well, let’s turn it on, and maybe I can give you a better idea of what all this quantum stuff means, eh? With an example? Yes? Yes, I think so,” and so saying he started the quantum computer. The screen flashed several different colors in a row, and then all the colors at once, and by the time the spots had cleared from Drooper’s eyes the boot sequence had finished, and a blinking cursor sat on the screen, fat and happy in the bottom left corner. “It’s, ah, got a bit of an older interface, true, budget cuts, but still, for what it’s supposed to do, you know, it does it quite well, ah…” Chairman Mannom ran his hands over the dash and a keyboard glowed to life beneath his fingers. “Well, here we go, for instance, just take this:” the screen bloomed with white light as he typed a string of undecipherable characters. Then the image grew definition, and Drooper made out the ragged edges of a perfect circle. The circle got smaller, or else the camera zoomed out, and suddenly Drooper recognized it as the sun, specifically the site of the infamous Murdoch-Two Solar Landing Attempt Memorial where the Norwegian warlord variant of Murdoch had ended his ill-fated campaign to conquer the star in the belief that it was a hollow shell containing Valhalla. But something was different. There was no artificial sunspot, no floating beacon held aloft by solar sails, no marble bust of Murdoch-Two hanging from it suspended by carbon fiber cables. There wasn’t even a stone engraved with

MURDOCH-TWO

LOVING FATHER AND HUSBAND

RIP

which would have been only common decency. Drooper raised his hand, and was about to ask about the mysterious absence, but a devastating look from Mannom silenced him. He blinked, and looked to his right to see Matty right beside him, confusion scrawled on his face. The view shifted again to show the Moon, only it wasn’t the Moon. There was nothing there: no lab, no living domes, no network of tram tracks, no Moon One at all. It was just the moon, virgin and untouched.

The view shifted again, and Drooper leaned forward, enthralled. He didn’t know what was going on, but he was hooked anyway. Now he could see the Earth, only instead of a swirling mass of yellowed clouds, it was a bright marble in the sky, blue and green and white. There were no lava geysers splitting the choking cloud cover, no halo of luxury super-lofted apartments around the South Pole, and no sign of Detroit, the infamous “fire that never goes out” burning beneath the clouds, lighting them from within, its own smog hanging around it like a lampshade. It was just Earth, clean and well-manicured. The camera moved toward this alien Earth with all the luxury of a voyeur, sweeping in broad, indulgent strokes over the thin gray line of dusk that separated day from night. The night side was lit up with a glistening cobweb of city lights, and it reminded Drooper in a strange way of the tram tracks that were missing from this simulation’s Moon. At last, like a reluctant lover, the camera broke away from the mysteriously lit dark side of the planet, and moved at a businesslike pace toward one particular city near-ish to the coast.

It continued to speed down, past the steel and glass towers, beyond the sprawling forests, all the way until it was focused on one man sitting at a picnic table. An ancient computer was open in front of him, and a mug of coffee rested temporarily forgotten behind it. A battered wool hat perched on his head. His jeans were wearing thin, his t-shirt had holes in it, and a dull gleam in his eye betrayed a total lack of intelligence. He wasn’t currently doing anything: he was facing the screen in front of him, but his eyes were focused on a point twenty five miles away. He blinked contemplatively, and his already parted lips gaped another quarter of an inch. On the screen in front of him was written what looked like a brief history lesson – maybe he was writing an essay on lunar history, Drooper thought. The man seemed to come back to himself and inhaled deeply. He arched his back and looked around, as if wondering where he was. He picked up the mug of cold coffee and downed the rest in a single gulp.

Smacking his lips, he started typing again. And that’s how Moon-One was built. He started a new paragraph. John Doe knew all this, although not because he studied it. He stopped, looked at the screen, and frowned. He went back and deleted “John Doe,” replacing it with “Junior.” That didn’t sit well with him either, and he changed it again to “Jeffery.” He snorted. “Juh,” he muttered under his breath. “Juh. Juh.” Drooper wondered if the man was speech impaired, or simply too mentally handicapped to be able to speak. “Juh. Jelly. Jericho. Jambalaya. Drapes.” He started. “Drapes?” Drapes knew all this, although not because he studied it. The wheels cranked inside the man’s head one more time. “Two syllables,” he finally decided, and made one last edit. Drooper knew all this, although not because he had studied it.

Drooper’s heart did a quick backflip. “How does this guy know me?” he asked Chairman Mannom.

The gentleman, who had been silent like everyone else up until now, started at the sound of Drooper’s voice. “Hm, ah, what? Oh, that? You mean-” he chuckled “well he doesn’t not really, it’s just a simulation. Look.” He typed a new command, and the man onscreen gave a startled squeak as he transformed into a purple pig. The author gave a grunt as he jumped off the chair, shedding clothes that were now too big for his hog body. Drooper watched in fascination as the oddly colored animal ran in circles, chasing its own tail. “You see? We can change anything we want at any time, make any edits, it’s all just a computer simulation. Of course it’s usually more fun to watch things happen by themselves, but, well, you know, for example purposes…” The animal didn’t display any more signs of intelligence than the man it used to be. It seemed determined to catch its own rear end.

Helga shoved forward, bumping Drooper’s arm. Triple-Gramps, who was still in his hand, was unmuted by the jostle, and immediately began shouting. “You put that boy back right now! Right now, you hear me? Make him regular again, leave him alone! He’s just minding his own business and you’ve no right!”

“It’s a simulation, Gramps,” said Drooper, mortified. “He’s not real. I’m so sorry, Chairman, I didn’t mean to unmute him.” Drooper could hear snickers behind him, and he prayed he wouldn’t be forced to wait outside for the rest of the tour.

“Bullshit!” snorted Triple-Gramps. “He’s just as real as me, and I’m just as real as you, aren’t I? I’ve got constitutional rights, and I’m a computer simulation, so he should too. Fix him, you fat, illiterate oaf! Yes, you, Chairman!” Drooper flipped the volume switch again, his face burning.

Chairman Mannom couldn’t decide the best way to be offended by this sudden development, and instead turned to the keyboard. “Of course, of course, it’s merely a simulation. A demonstration, that’s all, didn’t mean to alarm anyone,” he muttered. A few swift commands set the simulation spinning backward, and soon the man had un-transformed and was sitting in front of his computer again. The word “Drooper” sat on the screen like a fat, happy spider, daring Drooper to question it. Instead, he shot a nasty glare at Helga, who shrugged apologetically and stuck her tongue out at Triple-Gramps in his hand.

“Drooper, you’d better keep your relative quiet from now on, but still, I think, yes, that it would, you know, would be best, if we moved forward, that is, changed the time frame, I mean, maybe see something new, for the purposes of example, just to show you what I mean, here, let’s do this, modern day should be interesting?” Mannom’s voice curved up at the end of his rambling like a question, although nobody answered. The screen zoomed back out as time sped up, clouds flitting across the sky. The Earth browned and wrinkled like an oxidizing apple; meanwhile, the Moon (which was now in focus) became wrapped in it’s own web of lights and tracks. A brief blip of light marked the nuclear explosion from Murdoch-Two’s attack on Murdoch-Prime. Drooper saw Murdoch-Two’s spaceship Fenrir blaze toward the sun, the memorial beacon right on its tail, sent after him by his admiring (but more sensible) fans. Murdoch-Prime never got a memorial, but he did get a tombstone that mentioned what kind of a father and husband he had been (it was the loving kind). Scenes flashed by faster and faster, the lab appeared in the blink of an eye, the month long day-night cycle of the Moon strobed across Moon-One even as the camera zoomed in on the quickly aging lab dome. Drooper had vertigo, he felt sick. The images on the screen became unrecognizable, flashing by too quickly to mean anything. Drooper’s head spun. Then the screen stopped suddenly, turning off. Drooper saw his own reflection in the screen. After the blurring colors of the rushing simulation, his own image looked both vivid and mundane.

“Ah, now, perhaps we lost power, I never can tell,” murmured Mannom. He was also looking at his own reflection in the screen, stroking his chin complacently. The Chairman turned back to the keyboard and started fiddling with it. His reflection continued to stare straight ahead.

“You see,” said the mirror-Mannom, “the best part is each one of them has a perfect set of memories, that is, they think they’re real, or rather, if you ask them they’re programmed to tell you they’re real, but of course it’s just a simulation, it’s all this quantum stuff is so complicated…”

Mirror-Drooper turned to mirror-Mannom. Regular Drooper stared at his disobedient reflection. “But they can see us, right? I mean, look at my simulation’s face.” Drooper wondered what his face looked like. “He looks so shocked right now. I wonder what he’s thinking.” Drooper was thinking about how it had been a mistake to go to Experience Day on an empty stomach, and he really should have eaten something before leaving home.

“Poor kid is even stupider than you.” Drooper checked Triple-Gramps more by instinct than conscious choice, but the switch was still off. Then he realized the voice must have come from mirror-Triple-Gramps. “The girl looks brattier, too. I don’t like this simulation. She looks like a bitch.”

“Don’t be misogynistic,” Drooper slurred half-consciously, in sync with his mirror self. The door to the empty room in his mind was wide open now.

“Ex-cuse me?” Helga pronounced the first word in her interjection with so much emphasis Drooper could hear the italics. “Drooper, make your grandpa apologize right now, or…!” She left the sentence unfinished.

“It wasn’t my Gramps,” said Drooper. He unmuted Triple-Gramps in his hand, who immediately chimed in.

“It was the simulation of me,” said Triple-Gramps. “Not that that makes him wrong, you understand.” Drooper muted Triple-Gramps again.

“Well make your simulation grandpa apologize then!” Helga’s voice ratcheted upward in pitch and volume, but Drooper wasn’t listening to her anymore. He noticed that Chairman Mannom had taken out his handkerchief again. He wasn’t making dabbing motions anymore: the politician was wiping away sweat in broad streaks. His eyes were locked with his mirror image’s, his body tense, muscles twitching.

Mirror-Mannom was speaking out of the corner of his mouth to mirror-Drooper. “You see, Drooper, the thing is, well, they’re not real, that is, they’re just stored in the computer’s memory, well, it’s quantum memory, but you know, quantum stuff is very… quantum.” Mirror-Mannom slowly closed first one eye, then the other.

Suddenly a flash of genius hit Drooper (the real one) just as mirror-Mannom trailed off. “But we’re not a simulation, because you’re all simulations,” he said. “Fact is, you’ve got it all backward. You exist in our computer’s quantum memory, not us. You’re not real, we are. We’re simulating you, and you just think you have a real history and memory and everything like that.” He stopped there. He could have gone on, but he felt he had made his point.

“You see what I mean?” Mirror-Mannom pointed at Drooper without breaking eye contact with Mammon. “They honestly believe they’re real.” Drooper didn’t let this faze him; he knew the stages of grief. First denial, then eventually acceptance. “Of course,” continued the simulated Chairman, “worst part is, they might be right.”

“What do you mean?” asked mirror-Drooper.

“Well, this has happened before, you know, that is, we simulated this room with mirror versions of ourselves.” The simulated chairman allowed himself a small roll of the shoulders. “Fact is, well, it’s like one of those Mexican stand-offs, you know, where, well, it’s always me in here, isn’t it, since only I have the authority to etc, and a mirror-me out there, and eventually one of us snaps and goes for the power button, trying to delete the other from their simulation. It’s quantum stuff, really, all quantum’s fault…”

“What happens when they push the power button first?” asked mirror-Drooper. Drooper was also curious. What was at stake here?

Mirror-Mannom laughed. “Well, that’s just it, you know, that’s one of the ways we know we’re not living in a simulation, informally, at least, because I always get there before my mirror. I’m always first. It’s because I’m the original me, you know, the superior copy, and other Mannoms just aren’t as fast. What happens if he reaches the button first? Well, I don’t quite know, I guess, maybe something quantum, probably nothing, if you ask me personally, but, well, better safe than sorry, you know, still, one of these days, maybe we’ll find out…”

“He’s right,” said the real Mannom, suddenly, apparently addressing the crowd, although his gaze never shifted from his mirror self. “Except about one thing, naturally, which is that I’m going to reach the button first, that is, I always do, you know, it’s how I know I’m still real – no simulation of me can ever outsmart me, and, after all, that’s all this is, is a simulation, just computer bytes, only it’s quantum, so it’s very complicated, but still…”

“They all say that,” said mirror-Mannom, “but in the end-”

Chairman Mannom – the real Chairman Mannom, not the mirror one – chose that moment to make his move. He leapt for the power switch with all the grace of a walrus bursting through the thin ice beneath an unsuspecting polar bear. All four of his limbs flailed, his chubby body didn’t so much move as it did lurch from one position in space to the next. To Drooper, the next few seconds were very clear. Helga was saying something in the background – he would have to apologize to her later. Other people were getting uncomfortable around her, especially with the way her shrill voice bounced around the small room, and it was all his fault. He should probably apologize to everyone for disrupting Experience Day. Stupid Jones had pulled the souvenir back out of his pocket, clutching it like a talisman, only it wasn’t real Stupid Jones, Drooper saw, it was mirror-Stupid Jones. Chairman Mannom had lost the advantage. His mirror image moved with (relative) grace, nobly fashioning his index finger all the way up to his shoulder into a lance aimed straight at the mirror-power switch. Mirror-Drooper’s eyes were wide. Drooper’s eyes widened, too. Drooper opened his mouth and screamed. Chairman Mannom was half a second too slow. On the screen, mirror-Mannom’s finger landed on the power switch with all the finality of an atom bomb.

*

Drooper exhaled softly. Behind him, Helga had gone momentarily quiet. The Chairman removed his kerchief from his pocket, and dabbed at his forehead gently, taking deep breaths. Stupid Jones slid his souvenir back into his pocket. Drooper peered at the now-blank screen in front of him.

“So that’s it then?” He looked closer. “They’re gone forever?”

“They we’re never really there,” said the Chairman, “you know, just in quantum memory, at least, I think, it’s very complicated, and the lab technicians keep talking about quantum this and quantum that and parallel universes, and really, it’s unreasonable to expect anyone to be able to keep up with them, you know their type, what they’re like, etc, etc…” He sighed the worldweary sigh of a man who had put up with years of state dinners, lobbyist bribes and honorary ceremonies, and was fortifying his spirit against the prospect of at least another decade of luxury and power. Chairman Mannom had already forgotten about the simulation.

But Drooper stared, and wondered what the last thing had been to run through his own mind.

The New Death

Entrepreneur Vyl

Fall sunshine arcs through the ivy over the port window set beneath the gable, falling in a clump of shadows across my feet as I watch the girl on my patio. Her two friends, one with flaxen hair and the other darker, are seated at a table, eating from a glass bowl of ripe strawberries, which are not in season. The girl I watch – my son – her every movement is beautifully and strangely transmuted from the youthful swagger I remember of his lacrosse days, before he developed his grey curls, his crows eyes and voluble cynicism. And will she, now just nineteen again, transform into a jaded old matron?

My body feels weak and I have been impotent, sans the intercession of technology or drugs, for many years. Still, her friends intrigue me, Aleesha and something else that begins with an A. I will have to angle for that name when I talk to them again. I lean on my walker and call for Anya, or rather I press the button on the degrading little eldercare bracelet hidden beneath my cufflink. Moments later, she is at the door.

“Now, would you take me downstairs.”

She does not comment on the duration of my stay in this seldom-used guest bedroom or make noise as to the purpose of my visit. We are clear with each other about my expectations for her services and their limitations, and I believe she does not care to extend them into the domain of “emotional labor”, a wretched phrase that hatched in my early adolescence. She does not say a word, but gently braces my midriff, pulls up, and then puts one of her hands beneath my legs to carry me down the stairs like a bride, while the auxiliary strength exoskeleton she wears beneath her gown whines and the oak stairs creak beneath our doubled weight. Down two more flights, she takes me to the entrance hallway and sets me before the ground floor’s walker.

“Would you like your legs, sir?” By which she means, would I like her to strip me down and fit my hips and weak, old legs into the spindly but quite expensive contraption that allows me to walk or even run as well as a man of fifty.

“No, Anya.”

I hobble with the walker through the dining room, and then out to the sun room, where I fumble with the louvered glass door until my son notices my struggle and moves to open it.

“You really should make these automatic, Dad. It’s safer for you. More convenient.”

I bat away the comment with a clubhanded gesture. “Gaudy shit,” I say. Is this still the appropriate tone to take with him in his state? We had a language once, a way of talking to each other that snarled loving obscenities, but I would never talk to Delilah, my daughter, in this way, and though his personality is the same it feels wrong to be so vulgar with him now, speaking as I am to the animate deathmask of the teenage Filipina who had given her life for his inhabitance.

My son smiles and walks beside me to the table, places a golden arm on my spine-jutting back.

His companions eye me in my hobbled, exotic state, and I make a show of slowly falling back into my extra-cushioned seat, groaning as I do.

Aleesha is Brahmin caste and speaks, of course, in crisp British English. She had just been telling everyone about the dodo bird she’d eaten in Guadaloupe.

“It didn’t taste like chicken. Almost like frog legs, or at least like pheasant, isn’t that strange? But of course the Wahabbis, they’ve declared it Abomination to eat the stuff.” The girls scoff at the narrow-mindedness of the monks. My own feelings as to the gormandizing of resurrected species both sanitary and ethical are considerably more complex, but I let it pass by, jokingly asking whether it tasted anything like wooly mammoth, a worldwide lesser-fortunate staple. Everyone laughs politely.

There’s a brief lull. I look at Aleesha in her satin summer dress covering small ripe breasts and her doe eyes look back at me, intrigued by my wrinkles. I know well enough to look past her, across the table, to the rolling twice-monthly manicured lawns and landscaped walking-gardens, to the circularly curving Atlantic coastline a mile distant, and beyond it to the grey mass of the mainland.

“where are we today?”

“Mass-a-choo-sets,”

The as-of-yet unidentified 3rdwomen says this slowly and ironically, as though it were the name of some doomed tribe of African natives and not my home state. She has a somewhat tight smile.

“Nothing good there of course, but nothing bad enough either. By tonight, captain tells us, we’ll be in Manhattan. Some of the boys are planning a little excursion. We’ll have to join them. It’s been years since I’ve been. Isn’t it just awful?” She laughs again and eats another pear-sized strawberry with pornographically enlarged achenes.

“Well Dad isn’t feeling too well, right Dad? He might want to sit this one out?”

Finally I look at Aleesha again and she looks at me and I say, “No, actually, an excursion is just what I need.”

Several hours later, Anya is helping me onto the helicopter, and I’m seating myself beside Aleesha in a loveseat facing a bulletproof bay window. There is whirring and liftoff. I watch the fleet of two-dozen perfectly circular green disk islands recede as we are enveloped by a dark miasmatic haze. Yellow and amber lights pulse dully in the fog, seeming to fill the air like fireflies beneath and above us. As we draw nearer, monolithic pollution-grey structures show more clearly, as do the tiered bridge-streets between them. In some areas the zoning allows for the buildup of full streets and plazas between the monoliths, although they denied those lower down sunlight even back when the sun still showed. We all watch the grey little people in their protective outerwear and gas masks, some of which ostend to fashionability, (cat faces and whatnot) but most of which are purely functional as they plod the miserable streets.

We fly in closer. From this distance individual figures are more distinct, and I can see them cringing at our incursion. My daughter, Unidentified A, Aleesha and I all use the the helicopter’s camera optics to zoom in on various figures, poking at the glass windows to enlarge the image.

We weave around in this hazy, close-distanced world of yellow light and smog and little people for some time, until, following the lead helicopter, we descend.

“Oh look,” Aleesha says, excited as a little girl. She taps on the glass, and I see several stories of one building are on fire.

“Would you look at that….” she says, and places my hand on her inner thigh. Some men are attempting to pry the door to the building open, but then several more – security - begin beating them with sticks. One man takes a blow to the head, falls over and does not move again as blood trickles from his ear, and a mob forms. It would have overwhelmed the guards had not reinforcements arrived and formed a perimeter around the door. After beating countless of the poor louts unconscious or dead, the armored figures stood backlit by flames as they began chanting some kind of crowd control incantation we could not rightly discern amidst the chaos. Slowly, I allow my hand to creep upward.

“Isn’t it terrible?” I hear Other A aspirate. Her window is magnified to show a bruised underclass transwoman fleeing the scene, one who could not afford full cerebral and limbic transferral and thus invited the disdain of Other A, who herself had a custom body imported from Denmark, who at only seventy became infatuated with femininity as lived experience. For my son, the body of a woman is just an excursion, to be inhabited and enjoyed for some time, but ultimately abandoned. For Other A, it is a foreign territory to be dominated. One is a heterosexual man who decided to become a woman for awhile, the other is a heterosexual man in a woman’s body, and neither can seriously countenance the idea of anyone who would do as they did out of some sense of spiritual necessity.

Aleesha pulls at my cufflink to get my attention.

“Look!” she says ironically, “just like you.”

The fire is rising steadily through the building, pushing trapped tenants to the windows. As we circle the building, I can see that the defense force surrounds the building and the crowd is mostly gone. I do not know what petty squabble could have inspired such a mess, or why the locals try to stop it, when it is so clearly a hopeless. If, for whatever reason, they have to burn, then it is their fate to burn. I see flaming bodies fall from heat-exploded windows. She magnifies the screen to show an old man in filthy pajamas gesticulating wildly from a balcony as he screams and reveals his lack of teeth.

“just like you,” She says again, huskier, and moves my hand up to where I feel her warmth and her mucus.

Back home we say our goodbyes, and Aleesha and I exchange contact information. I promise to visit her island this night or the next. Other A compliments me on my beautiful home, gives me a hug, says goodbye. I call for Anya and she steps out the front door with my walker.

“Just a moment Anya,” my son says with a feminine dismissal. Anya goes back inside.

“Yes, Harold?”

“Dad, I told you I want to be called Angel now.”

“But—you are still Harold, yes?”

“Yes but it ruins the experience. I didn’t spend millions finding a body without C/331 polyps or some other engineered birth defect your friends put in their water just so you can ruin it for me.”

I was taken aback. My friends?

“You know perfectly well, Angel, those were my coworkers and not my friends. Their whole Berkeley set. They spit on me, on the Ivies! But I never gave them a word of it. I was courteous, yes, but—”

“And when are you going to get a new body?”

And so he takes it back to this again, his favorite scab to scratch at.

“That’s not something you have any right to ask me about. I didn’t ask you, you didn’t ask me, it’s a private matter and it’s unbecoming of you to speak to your father like this.”

“But Dad, you’re so old. If you have a heart attack or something you could die and you wouldn’t have first pick. They might even have to use Anya! D’ya know how many neurons you lose when your brain shuts down? Do you know how many stem cells it’ll cost to get them all back up and running? It’s ridiculous!”

As my son speaks he works his way into a feminine hysteria. I feel I am arguing with a sixteen year old Delilah.

“I have my body chosen, Angel, if you must know.”

“You’re just like Delilah, you know that? She comes back as a child to please that—well you know. And you keep yours. For what? For pleasure. It’s disgusting.”

“I will hear no more of this, Angel,”

And with that I call Anya and tell her to put the walker in the car. I will be visiting Aleesha earlier than expected.

Afterword

My thanks to the authors: Supamalaman (@supamalaman), Orion Lehoczky Escobar (@lehoczkyescobar), Alex W, Puck (@puhcko), DCMH, and Entrepreneur Vyl (@EntrepreneurVyl) for their brilliant work, and for contributing to this project - without you, there would be no Gradient Descent. Also, a huge thanks to Kyl (@okexactly) for his artwork and cover design. Lastly, thank you, the reader, for picking up this weird collection of science fiction from a bunch of pseudonymous writers on the internet. Gradient Descent is intended to be a growing, changing thing, and we are always accepting new submissions. If you’re interested in being a part of Gradient Descent, go to https://nadezhdu.github.io/cyb-ant/ to learn more, or email us at graddesc@protonmail.com.

—Оставь Надежду