The Dreams of the Black Butterfly

by Mark James Barrett

  “Physical advertising. I’ve never … I mean, that is you isn’t it?”

  “Yes of course.”

  She came across and stood over him. “I could be no other; your I-Kno isn’t fitted yet.”

  She held her hand in front of his face and he looked up at her. She nodded. Daniel bent forward and kissed her palm. His reflection flashed in the polished skin. She tasted of gingerbread. Keeping her eyes on his bulging groin, she backed away slowly and sat down.

  “Now then, proteomic healthcare; we have some exciting new cover.”

  On the fifth morning, Daniel woke to find a basic Pantone suit hanging from the wall. As he put it on, he became a little apprehensive. His room made some reassurances and he sat down as the Harmoniser reacted to his mood and soothed it.

  “When will my I-Kno receiver be fitted?”

  “Dr Gene-Mart will supervise fitting herself this morning.”

  He had experienced dead air only once before. Craving peace, he had disconnected from the Neural Web with an old, steel dinner fork. That agonising memory and the moments following had been saved for him by the hospital, probably to deter him from disconnecting again. He had had only four minutes of remembered disconnection, lying on the floor of his home, still gripping the bloodied fork, waiting for the ambulance his house had called. But beneath the searing pain, he had glimpsed something. Simple thoughts had bloomed in the new, vast silence: clean, precise ideas that settled behind his tear-blurred vision like a flurry of snowflakes. He sensed that they were revelatory, but despite his best efforts, could not recall their content.

  Daniel fingered the shunt behind his ear that would take the I-Kno receptor. The hard drive was in there already: a delicate web of gold coils interfacing with his cerebrum, waiting to flicker and sing once he was reconnected. He had thought – hoped – that the profundities might return before that happened. Why hadn’t they? For four days now, he had waited for some kind of epiphany, but had felt nothing but the old, dull rage building and then falling - as the Harmoniser reacted - like waves falling on some terribly isolated beach. Something fundamental had changed during regeneration. Despite the silence, despite the emptiness, nothing but anger grew in his mind now.

  After fitting and testing his I-Kno, Dr Gene-Mart accompanied him to the exit. Despite throttled bandwidth for the first twelve hours after reconnection, he still felt a truck of data smashing into his senses. His inbox began to fill rapidly with sensitive traffic and he struggled to prioritise responses to the requests/offers/messages as he walked. His mind constructed a holding pattern as flashes of images burned his retina lenses, tastes jumped on his tongue and music echoed down the corridors of his psyche.

  He accessed Dr Gene-Mart’s ‘open’ files. She was fourteen years old and already a qualified Nano-Medic and a Memory Augmentation Surgeon. But reading between the data, Daniel could see she came from a flawed gene pool.

  What’s it like being yet another Gene-Mart? He thought as they reached the exit.

  It’s perfectly fine, Mr Schema. Some of us do not have the fortune of having gold chip sponsors.

  How long did it take to get that tint?

  Five years.

  Bravo! That’s impressive for your age and now you are desperately saving for a silver license.

  I’m working on it.

  Good luck! They won’t authorise that for another ten years, if ever. It’s not just about the credit you know? Silvers are rare for a reason. Most people just don’t pass the Genome test.

  Dr Gene-Mart left him at the hospital doors and Daniel reluctantly paged a taxi.

  Taxi for Daniel Schema due to arrive at door – He leaned back – twelve of Eternal Hospital at thirteen hundred hours … It will arrive in two minutes, Mr Schema.

  The doors opened. His cab did not arrive. Daniel mailed a complaint as he pondered what to do. The sensible thing would be to ask for re-entry to the hospital while he waited for another cab. He stood there undecided and some premium ads, alerted to his presence on the street, jostled for his attention.

  Hey, Daniel, ever been to Teotihuacán in 1495 (recreation) during the feast for the Sun God? I know you haven’t. Moonlight on the water, all that sex, all that blood and perhaps a chance find while you’re there … the Mexican black butterfly (as imagined) ... What might you read on her wings?

  … Revitalise your passion for hate with us, Mr Schema. Celebrities, friends, parents – Allow us to allow you to kill them (subject to authorisation from individuals concerned) in a dazzling array of methods with our top of the range clones which respond – unlike our competitors’ – authentically …

  … your own real child, guaranteed success with his or her future exactly mapped down to each hour of each day (or introduced spontaneity under your guidance) and with a life expectancy of five years, so you can move on with YOUR life free of stress, but with all the fond memories of love that they gave …

  His tint was beginning to attract a lot of attention. The bandwidth was noisy and chaotic. Spam might have flooded his inbox but his throttled bandwidth spared him. His I-Kno authorised small charitable donations befitting his status and bounced any pleas from individuals. Fifty yards down the road, an old Crawlos ad-mobile harassed a crass Leopardtint, while her children chased the nano-cereals that it spat out into their hands.

  Two minutes came and went. Sellers licensed to the area were flooding in now. One was an affiliate of his major life sponsor, Continents Remembered. Daniel was reminded by the virtual of his obligations; he was contractually obliged to take home an African pet. He chose a 4-foot vanilla giraffe. It was a smell he could bear more than most and while he waited for the taxi, the ad told him about his new acquisition.

  … Top of the range, enhanced skills in bestiality … All regular features included, house trained and able to speak 5,000 words in English and Japanese. Faeces odour to be chosen before delivery …

  Coconut, he thought.

  Vanilla and coconut are good choices, sir.

  The taxi was six minutes late. There followed a minute of low-level litigation between himself, the hospital (who were nothing but apologetic) and the taxi firm.

  As he was getting into the car, the square across the road jumped into light and a 60-foot, platinum-skinned Mahatma Gandhi began to walk as crowds jostled around him.

  Schema International has always been at the forefront of neural development. Now their latest upgrade may allow you to read a person’s intentions even when they are censoring or – wait for it! – offline!

  A dark-skinned man brandishing a gun pushed out of the crowd to confront Gandhi, but the yogi already had a pistol pulled from his robes and trained on his would-be assassin. He shot the man and then addressed the body.

  God forgive you, Nathuram Godse. Gandhi looked up. If only I had been connected to the Neural Web back in ’48, I might have continued my great work – a large black butterfly alighted on his left shoulder and he smiled at it – and had a meeting of minds. Upgrade now! It might just save you the cost of regeneration. Praise is to God and Schema International.

  It was the first time Daniel had experienced his father’s latest ad on the street. It brought him more unwanted attention. He was inundated with enquiries about the new upgrade as people in the vicinity became aware of his Brandname. He redirected them to the Schema site umbrella, via, of course, his own personal Brandsite and the blog he had updated when his I-Kno had been reconnected that morning.

  On a whim, he asked the taxi to drop him on the high street so he could take a short walk to his house. It was a cool afternoon and his suit heated slightly to compensate, turning a particular-branded yellow hue to discourage any offline street thugs: he was too connected to victimise. To his left, the road was clogged with slow-moving traffic. On his right, through the impenetrable line of Ragebush that separated his street from Downtown,
he could hear the occasional holler and whoop of some of its citizens as they tried to impress the advertisers. Reluctantly, he contacted his mother.

  Why didn’t you come to see me, Mother?

  I did. I watched you grow for a while; it was quite moving. Your father says he thought I might cry solo at one point … didn’t you, darling? I’m just telling Daniel that you said that I nearly solo cried yesterday evening.

  His dad grunted a thought in the background.

  Yes, Mother, but I meant in person, not online.

  Why, that’s crazy, Daniel. That Gene-Mart girl has kept us up to date.

  I don’t like her; she’s a never-be and since when did you speak to anyone below a silver tint?

  Well, one makes exceptions. She’s been very helpful. Anyway, you know it’s not safe to travel physical right now and what they are charging generally for re-cycled air–

  I’m on the streets now.

  What on earth for? Farnwood! He says he’s on the street! … Your father asks where?

  One hundred yards north of my house.

  One hundred? What are you breathing? Who is the supplier over there at the moment, Farnwood?

  Mother, it doesn’t matter. I can afford the air. Street danger is exaggerated as far as I can see–

  Haven’t you done enough? Do you realise how you have damaged us?

  Well, I wouldn’t know. The file of the incident is unavailable to me until I get home, due to–

  Your father thinks that you won’t have had that memory retained under the restrictions of your life cover.

  That’s what I was about to communicate.

  Daniel didn’t notice the man until he bumped into him. The stranger shoved a piece of paper into his hand and moved on. Daniel’s I-Kno alarmed because it couldn’t ID him. He turned to watch the small figure hurry away, unable to tell what colour he was: brown maybe, or copper.

  I suppose, on the plus side, we were very lucky that the safety field on the escalator was faulty, because of the settlement we received. Your father was wise to spend the extra on those insurance policies for you, but this cannot happen again, is that understood?

  Daniel unfolded the piece of paper carefully. He looked around. The street was empty. I’ll see you soon, he thought distractedly and disconnected. He read the handwritten note:

  Stop the suicide attempts. You’re attracting attention. They will be suspicious of the memory folds. I’m working on a solution. Meet soon.

  Yours, a friend.

  Memory folds? Gene-Mart had mentioned them hadn’t she? Daniel fingered the small pouch at the bottom of the page, feeling the shape of the two small pumps inside. There was a tiny scrawl indicating when to administer them. Who was the stranger? An employee? Or a trick set by his parents? When had all this started? The questions spun away from him before he could think of answers and then gave birth to more. He put his head between his hands. The Harmoniser kicked in and his breathing eased a little. In the haze of cloud above him, weather copters buzzed erratically, like Hunneybeez nearing the end of battery life. After a few moments consideration, he emptied one of the pumps into the crook of his elbow.

  The house brightened slightly as he entered and after a few moments interpreting his mood, it began to adjust. The great, open floor space sprouted tiny green tongues of grass. Virtual walls appeared in unfathomable positions and gentle curving angles. Some flushed into a soft tangerine glow while others fell into mocha and biscuit. A subtle infrasonic beat pulsed through him to the strains of a beautifully played oboe. He flicked off his shoes, sat down, opened a carton of hot saké-food and closed his eyes as the grass grew between his toes. His housemate, Natalie, drifted out from the one dark corner of the large room. She was singing ‘Lives of our days’. She wore only a translucent, white, linen smock. Daniel opened one eye at her voice and watched, enraptured, as she poured out her heart to him.

  How have you been? Nothing changes back here. And days are filling with tears, when I am here without you.

  I wonder if I am a spy of some sort, he thought.

  The music stopped. Why do you wonder this? Natalie asked.

  Sorry, I was thinking uncensored.

  I’m your best friend. If you can’t tell me then … She opened her arms like crucifixion and he wanted her again.

  They said I had memory folds previously.

  Natalie began pacing up and down casually, arms behind her back. She switched back to oral. “Somex: memory-hiding drug allegedly used in high espionage. Two administrations are required: the first immediately after the event one wishes to hide; the second, at a later date, acts as a catalyst for the first, by degrading the real memory and folding a fake one over it, thus hiding it, even from the subject themselves.”

  “Yes, something like that.”

  Natalie stopped and licked her heavy lips. “Do you have something to tell me Daniel?” She squatted in front of him, dewy-eyed with concern. “This is not helping our relationship. You seem to have a lot of censored thoughts at the moment.”

  “I know and I want to make it up to you. Like you say: quid pro quo.” It was Natalie’s favourite saying. “I’ll buy that African vacation you’ve been recommending.”

  “You won’t regret it, Daniel; it’s incredibly authentic, just as it would have been fifty years ago. I’ll book it immediately.”

  Daniel smiled. Every time he ordered an experience of or above a certain value, he got a voucher towards a session with one of the Natalie clones. He had accumulated eighteen vouchers during the past two years, but was still twelve short of the target. For fifteen he could have a day with Jennifer Lopez or a week with Orlando Bloom, but as yet he had resisted the temptation. Daniel reached out to his housemate’s face and his hand passed right through it.

  “What is all this spy nonsense about?” she asked.

  Daniel stood up. May I have selfish minutes please?

  Natalie looked hurt, as she always did at what had recently become a much more frequent request. She sang the chorus. “I wanna see your blue eyes, hold you so tight, I’m counting every second until tonight. I want–”

  “So am I.”

  The music stopped again. Then why the request for selfishness? You’ve just got back. I don’t understand you anymore. I mean, why did you have your clones put down? The opportunities they could have taken up in your absence.

  I didn’t trust them.

  Do you realise how ridiculous that last statement was?

  I don’t feel myself.

  What does that mean?

  I just want five minutes please, and then I’ll tell you my secret.

  She rose like gossamer and turned away. Okay, Daniel, you’re the boss. You never let me forget that do you? She walked back into the darkness.

  Daniel scanned the archive footage of his suicide. It appeared he had taken an opportunity given to him by a faulty escalator in the foyer of The Perpetual Evening Retirement Home: the building in which his grandfather rested. The CCTV images were from a distance. They showed the escalator stopping and the people on it waiting for assistance. A few moments later, a figure, just discernibly Daniel, could be seen climbing over to test that the safety field had also failed and then freefalling 100 feet to the foyer floor. In a stroke of luck, the voiceover said, the man landed feet first and there had been minimal damage to his brain, leaving investigating officers with vital recent memories, which would help them understand the nature of the claim.

  Daniel went to the seamless curve of glass that formed the walls of his house. It had begun to rain; the weather men had been successful. He switched off the umbrella and the rain pattered noisily all around him. The organic glass absorbed it immediately, slaking the thirst of the house and leaving his view uninterrupted. He had four minutes before Natalie was back. He didn’t want to tell her
his secret, but he knew he would.

  Some 200 yards distant, he could see his nearest neighbour’s house glowing faintly through the algae-filled walls. Daniel had an idea.

  Hi, Levi, I wondered if I might be able to come over.

  Come over?

  Yes, I know it’s unusual. I have just got out of hospital. I need someone to talk to. Ten minutes should suffice.

  I’ll come to you virtually in–

  No, I need skintime. My doctor advised me, but I haven’t had time to arrange it.

  I don’t believe that skintime stuff. You’ve everything you need right there, Schema.

  I’ll pay you double and I won’t ask again.

  The man was quiet for a moment. I really don’t need this stress. Contact my lawyer.

  Daniel instructed his virtual lawyer to contact Levi’s. An agreement was drawn up in just under two minutes: triple credit for five minutes’ skintime.

  Daniel injected the second pump the stranger had given him and took an unused knife from his storage container. It had already stopped raining. He paused at the perimeter of his neighbours grounds, waiting for entry. He could see Levi, his silhouette anyway, and he wondered for a moment if the man had changed his mind. Finally, the shield came down and Daniel broke into a run, wielding the knife theatrically in the air above him and screaming as he accelerated across the immaculate lawns.

  “I’m going to kill you, Levi!”

  There was a tiny movement as a hidden turret near the summit of the dwelling turned in his direction and he closed his eyes instinctively. A second later, a snub-nosed high-explosive shell hit him in the chest and vaporised him.

  Levi turned his property’s protective field back on and dashed outside. A fine, pink mist was just settling and it peppered him with tiny points of scarlet. He surveyed the mess and addressed the foot, which still stood upright in front of him, a shin bone poking like a shattered twig from the bottom of a white trouser leg.