Behind her stood the International Underground Railroad Memorial, with statues of nine former slaves and a “railroad conductor” looking out toward the city of Windsor in the once nation-state of Canada, and to freedom.
Beyond the Memorial was downtown Detroit, a mix of heritage, refurbished buildings from the 21st century and the more recent transparent monoliths. Detroit Capital, the setting for apocalyptic-themed stories and sims. Abandoned even by the abandoned. At least, that was in the Before. Today, it was known as the Singapore of the West.
She always started her run here because it gave her hope.
She jogged, with downtown to her left and not a single virtual human in sight.
Uncle Jesse cleared his throat, < Ah, ma’am… >
Sky ignored him. She knew what he was up to.
< Ma’am? >
‘Do I have to?’ Sky panted.
< I can’t force ya, but you’re falling behind in your de-sense therapy. You’ve only put in two hours this week. >
Sky stopped and exhaled in frustration. ‘Does it have to be livestream?’
< Doctor’s orders, I’m afraid. The more realistic, the better. >
‘Fruitcake,’ she cursed.
< Unless you want to try the real thing? You could do with some real fresh air. I reckon you could get yourself down to the apartment lobby and back, ma’am. It sure would impress the doc. >
‘That’s not even funny. I’ll stick to virtual, if it’s all the same to you. Let’s do the livestream.’
< Yes ma’am. Buckle up. > Uncle Jesse initiated a livestream of Detroit, images formed by a collage of satellite and local cameras that streamed the city to the world.
Human forms began to appear, at first from a distance, warming her up to the experience. Still, her heartrate jumped. When Sky freescanned, she was inside someone else’s consciousness, a passive observer shielded by their mind and body. But here, as Sky Marion, as herself, she felt exposed, unprotected, a snail torn from its shell.
She knew her body’s reaction was utterly ridiculous, yet this realization did nothing to dampen the intensity.
It’s just a maya, she told herself.
But it’s live, these are images of real people, she told herself.
They’re just images, not flesh and blood, she told herself. It’s the Neuronet manipulating your brain, generating sights and sounds and smells that are not here. A controlled hallucination. Augmented reality. Livestream in your mind.
But it all looks so real…
More figures appeared, this time closer. She could make out the color of their clothes, their gaits, and then the shapes of their faces. Something inside her screamed Danger. Threat. Run. Escape.
Her heartrate monitor showed another spike.
She ran.
A jogger, crossing her path, ran right through her, like an absent-minded ghost. Sky gasped.
They can’t see you. It’s okay.
The pep talk seemed to work, or perhaps it was just that she was running now and the emotional pain had taken a backseat to the physical.
Her accelerating breaths and the familiar rhythm of her footfalls accompanied the ringing of cycles that dominated the streets. From above she heard the low hiss of transparent railpods, transporting citizens to and fro, zip-zipping across a lattice of near-invisible rails that webbed the city.
The infospace was busy; most citizens had active mayas, and many had made them public. Some folks chatted to friends and loved ones with their mayas, while others watched various media. Some public profiles advertised their name, age, and their relationship status. Business ads filled the rest of the infospace and, if you took their maya bait, they would open their virtual stores in an instant.
A jogger sped past her, checking over his shoulder every few seconds; he was being chased by a virtual tiger (a common jogging sim to aid motivation).
The remaining citizens must have had their mayas on private because Sky could see the telltale signs of maya distraction; talking to oneself, and eyes flitting about at nothing.
It’s real-time but it’s not real, she kept telling herself. They can’t see me. They can’t see me.
With her lungs searing just the way she liked, she passed through a public billboard maya playing an old community-service announcement: ‘Artificial telepathy is unnatural and breeds neuroviruses. Protect yourself and the network,’ intoned the narrator. Sky could not help but feel that the ad was meant for her.
A military hopper flew overhead. News mayas told her that all transport in and out of the city had been halted since early this morning—the mayor said it was just a drill. Sky knew it was no drill; they must still be searching for the telepath.
The memory of the old man in the exoskeleton returned to her without her consent. She was determined to get him out of her mind. She focused on her footfalls, on the scent of blossoming crabapple trees which took her back to the spring fairs and picnics of childhood.
She came to a park with a touchball field. Once again, the memory of the hunched brainbender tugged at her. Sky decided to ramp up the entertainment level on the sim.
< Any requests? > Uncle Jesse asked.
‘Anything, just get my mind off the brainbender.’
The surprise came in the form a Sikh nihang warrior. He appeared out of nowhere, clad in blue with a conical turban and a long, sharp beard. He held a curved talwar sword in one hand and a circular shield in the other.
Sky materialized her own weapon: an urumi—a flexible three-blade, part sword and part whip—and a shield of her own. She wasted no time in striking the first blow.
The tap-tap-clang of swords against shields echoed across the touchball field like a drumbeat. The sparring partners circled each other, searching for a way in, striking and blocking. Sky kept her urumi spinning in wide circles, waiting for an opportunity.
Her opponent threw his circular chakram. It sliced her thigh, and deep. She cried out as she collapsed. She realized she had forgotten to switch off the pain option.
She gripped her leg. It burned in the best way possible. A release. Happiness.
Sky’s mother appeared next to the warrior, with a perplexed look on her face.
I must have forgotten to lock the door, Sky thought.
She turned off the sim. The Sikh warrior and the environment disappeared, and she was back in her barren office. Her mother stood in the doorway. On the bright side, Sky thought, at least her mother hadn’t caught her in the middle of an erotic sim, again.
‘I thought you were going to get some rest,’ her mother said, shaking her head with a half-smile. ‘At least you’re keeping fit.’ She motioned to the living room. ‘You’ve got a visitor,’ she said, with a wink.
The word visitor had sent a stunbolt through Sky’s heart, leaving her frazzled. She patted down her shapeless never-expecting-visitors lounge pants. She made her way to the living room, shielding her eyes from the morning sunlight streaming through the window wall.
< Ma’am, your cortisol levels are heading north. Deep breathin’, remember? >
‘Like that’s ever helped,’ she retorted.
She passed her mother’s bedroom. Winona had clothes strewn across her bed, perhaps a result of spring cleaning. A public portal maya filled the bedroom’s wall with a live-stream from a bustling Bangkok market. As Sky passed, the bedroom door began to close, probably on her mother’s thorder. Before it shut, Winona gestured to the front door with a smile and whispered a supportive, ‘You can do it.’
Sky thordered a maya with footage of the exterior hallway. As she suspected, the visitor was Programming Officer Okiro Mohammed-Levi. She undid her double bun and freed her rich brunette hair, running her fingers through it, letting the fringe fall across part of her face.
< You’re fidgeting, ma’am. >
She caught a thumb rubbing against the skin of her middle finger. An old habit.
I’m confident. I’m capable, Sky thought as she approached the door. I’m welcoming. I’m
personable. I’m perfectly socially healthy…
She thordered the door open—just a slither—and was greeted not by a silhouette, but by those honeyed eyes, wide and receptive, big enough for her to fall into. His short-sleeved shirt bulged around his arms.
‘That was quick,’ she said, muttering the words. She reminded herself to warm up her vocals next time.
‘They bumped up your appointment to the front of the queue. I told you the system is looking out for you.’ He said something else, too, but the pounding of blood in her ears garbled the sound. She had the urge to run again. She thordered the door closed.
Her breath returned to her.
‘Not bad,’ he said, his voice muffled by the door. ‘That was longer than last time. I’d say you’re improving.’
Rather than have to speak to Okiro face-to-face, Sky lay down on the floor. She knew from experience that she could speak through the needle-thin space beneath the door and be heard by someone on the other side. This form of communication, though unusual, was not uncommon… for Sky Marion at least.
The security feed showed Okiro lowering himself to the floor, accustomed as he was to the process. ‘How are you feeling? I mean, aside from the usual.’ His voice came from underneath the door, accompanied by the smell of fruit… freshly squeezed orange? She welcomed it.
‘Overworked,’ she replied.
‘Tell me about it. The scanners are tagging anyone who even thinks about telepathy. I’ve got a month’s worth of programming to do by the end of the week.’
‘Have they found him? The brainbender?’
‘I haven’t heard anything. The city’s still in lockdown,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t worry, he can’t hide forever. It’s not like the old days.’ Then he changed the subject, ‘Have you made any attempts to go outside?’
‘You mean in reality?’
He laughed. ‘Would you like to try?’
She said nothing.
‘The more improvement you show, the less programming they’ll order,’ he said. ‘Shall we?’
‘Now?’
‘Sure.’
‘Not unless this is a sim or Detroit has been depopulated.’
He laughed again. ‘You are my definitely my favorite client.’ She heard him fumble with something. There was a click and a whine. ‘I guess we might as well get this over with. Are you ready?’
‘I don’t feel like another migraine.’
‘There’s not much I can do. You’re booked for anti-trauma plus your usual. You know the drill.’
‘I don’t see the point,’ she protested. ‘Why would another session help? I can’t even step out the front door. The therapy’s not working.’
He sighed. ‘I have never had a client who did not respond… in time… eventually.’
‘Anyone as bad as me?’ she asked.
A pause. ‘None quite so determined to prove me wrong.’
Finally, he admits it. I’m a hopeless case.
‘Sky, it’s a joke,’ he said, as if he had picked up on her demeanor through the door. ‘You’re too hard on yourself. Some ’36ers can’t even dress themselves. They haven’t shown anywhere near the improvement you have over the years. You’ve worked your way up to become a scanner reviewer, a position that many able-minded can only dream of achieving. You’re helping the world in ways few can aspire to. The therapy’s working. Cut yourself some slack, okay?’
He had a knack for being able to cheer her up. Somehow he knew which buttons to push.
Sky thordered the door open just enough to put her hand through. She felt the headband land in her palm. She tugged at it, but it wouldn’t move; Okiro had not let it go yet. They were connected by a headband. It was as close as she would ever get, she thought. She was disappointed when he released his grip.
Sky shut the door and slid the silver band across her forehead. It began to hum.
A maya of her brain appeared. Electrochemical signals zipped along neural pathways like manic fireflies, altering neurals and brain DNA. The headband rumbled, her jaw tightened.
‘The anti-trauma is complete,’ Okiro said. His voice seemed distant. ‘Now just for your usual.’
Her head grew heavy until it felt like a mass of granite. The hovering brain showed the freshly carved networks in fluorescent red. The drilling sensation peaked, then receded, leaving a headache in its wake.
‘All done,’ said Officer Mohammed-Levi with the toned arms and honey eyes and a voice now like a jackhammer.
She ripped off the headband, thordered the door open, and tossed the band into the corridor. She left the door partially open, but not enough for him to see her.
She sat against the door, knees to her chin, hands around her head. The headache was not the worst part; that was just physical. It was the other feeling she dreaded most; that feeling of being someone in between, not the old Sky anymore, and not the new Sky who would appear once the programming had integrated. Until then, she was a stranger in the mirror. Stuck in someone else’s body. In someone else’s mind. She banged the back of her head against the door and it gave her some relief.
‘And they say the brain can’t feel pain,’ Sky said.
‘Technically it doesn’t, but everything around it does. I hear they’re close to developing a pain-free programming band.’
‘They’ve been saying that for years.’ Sky banged her head against the door again.
‘Hey,’ he said, as if struck with a brilliant idea, ‘How about we test out those fresh neurals? Feel like a sea moss smoothie? Good nutrition and a little exercise can help integrate the programming and ease the migraine. There’s a place a few blocks down, they do the real thing, fresh and unprinted. Ten minutes max, I swear.’
His words made her feel a mixture of excitement and fear… mostly the latter. The drumming inside her head did not help. She wanted to say something, but she was unable to form a cogent reply.
‘Maybe next time, then,’ Okiro said. ‘Take care, Ms. Marion. Don’t let them work you too hard.’ She heard him pack his things. His footsteps faded and then disappeared as another hopper hissed somewhere overhead.
Sky was alone again, in the middle of nowhere. Her first instinct was to rid herself of the emptiness and do some freescanning, to lose herself in others’ lives. Then she noticed the sweet musky scent of her mother, those arms around her, the softness of the woman’s shoulder, the worn but gentle hand caressing Sky’s hair.
‘What a pair we make,’ her mother said. A kiss on the forehead. A chuckle. The comforting rise and fall of her bosom.
There they both sat, against the crook of the door, until Uncle Jesse’s neurosedative kicked in.
3:4
Okiro made his way across the lobby of Sky’s apartment complex and out into the atrium.
‘You’re late.’ It was his colleague, Trinh, waiting outside with Foster, the elder of the two, who was flicking through case files in the team’s private network.
‘I had a tough client,’ Okiro explained. ‘She’s not exactly a fan of self-improvement.’
Foster grunted. ‘Who is? If it were that easy, we wouldn’t need programming.’
‘Who’s the client?’ Trinh asked. Okiro flicked her Sky’s file.
‘Reeeeeeal tough client,’ Trinh purred, staring at Sky’s image. ‘One of our case reviewers, eh?’ Trinh shot a suspicious look at Okiro. ‘What’s her infraction? Naughty thoughts?’
He grinned. ‘If I play my cards right.’
Foster peeled himself from his work to glance at Sky’s file. ‘Hacked in ’36? How bad is she?’
‘Sky prefers her own company,’ Okiro said.
‘Man, I had a ’36er years ago,’ Foster pulled at his beard. ‘He thought he was a homing pigeon; he’d take a poop and sit on it, hoping it would hatch.’
Trinh screwed up her face in disgust. Foster appeared satisfied with the reaction.
‘Let’s go,’ Okiro told them, ‘Or we’ll never finish today’s workload.’ He made for the archway t
hat led to the street. ‘What’s on the menu for the next block?’
Foster trailed after him. ‘A few nano-aggressions, one paedophilic rumination, two near-intentions to jay-walk, some general anti-socials, and the other ninety per cent…’
‘… Let me guess, thinking about telepaths?’
‘No points for mind-reading there,’ Foster shook his head, then his face took on a concerned expression. He craned his head up to the half-moon with its artificial ring of asteroids acting like a barrier between the sunlit and shadowed halves. ‘We should never have let them get a foothold on our Moon.’
Trinh rolled her eyes. ‘Relax. What can telepaths do now? We’re secure.’
‘If you were part of my generation, you’d be just as jittery,’ Foster replied.
‘Nah,’ said Trinh. ‘We’d be retired.’
Foster responded with a thin-lipped smile. ‘Enjoy it while you can, funny-girl. When causing emotional discomfort becomes an infraction, you’ll be the one complaining of a ramming headache.’
Trinh shrugged. ‘Not as bad as you’ll have when they add sexually fantasizing about another without consent.’
Foster swatted the air, dismissing her. Trinh cackled, apparently satisfied with herself.
An alarm interrupted her.
A case file appeared before them and a voice announced, ‘Emergency. Suicidal ideation detected. High probability of execution.’
Okiro’s brow furrowed so much that it obscured his vision. ‘Suicide?’
‘You mean like killing plants?’ Trinh asked.
‘That’s herbicide,’ Foster said, his eyes fixed on the alert. ‘Suicide’s where a person takes their own life.’
Trinh shook her head. ‘Why would someone want to kill themselves?’
Okiro poured over the data. ‘I don’t get it; no prior infractions, no precursor thoughts, no warning at all. And out of nowhere the patient gets full-blown suicidal? Scanners, are you sure it’s suicide?’
The maya spoke: ‘Intention to commit suicide confirmed.’
‘Maybe it’s a glitch?’ Trinh said, hopeful.
Neurotopia Page 3