Idempotency

by Joshua Wright

  “Apparently they haven’t gotten to the San Diego HSmR station yet.”

  “They haven’t," Simeon replied flatly. “That’s one of the reasons I had you come that way." He stopped abruptly and looked around quickly, whipping his long ponytail back and forth.

  “So what? Why?”

  “Someone has found a way to monetize the poor,” Simeon responded.

  “This is insane, man. You better tie this into my initial question real soon." Dylan remark was laced with sarcasm, but his interest was piqued slightly. The shot glasses arrived.

  “Getting there. First—PubSecCorp happens to be a wholly owned subsidiary of a small company you might’ve heard of known as NanoRegenSoft, otherwise known as NRS.” Simeon let this hang as if it carried extra weight. Dylan pretended it didn’t—but it did. “The same NRS that helped your great-uncle live to the spry old age of one hundred and seventy-eight. The same NRS that is interested in SolipstiCorp’s deathTrip tech.”

  Dylan pivoted to face Simeon. “I’m listening,” he replied.

  “Right, good. Listen hard here. Your great-uncle, Randy Dansby, was scrambled due to a botched backup-and-restore procedure. The reasons given publicly were that NRS was attempting a delicate and new backup procedure of his own memories. We believe this failure is why NRS is after SolipstiCorp’s tech. Their tech failed; now they want yours.”

  “Okay.” Dylan shrugged. “What makes that nefarious?”

  “We have data to suggest your uncle did not consent to those tests willingly. Rather, we have evidence that your uncle has a rare genetic marker making his mind more malleable to transference of memories. NRS forced him to take part in those tests. We also believe it wasn’t his memories being restored.” Simeon paused and took a sip of his drink. “We think you have that same genetic marker, and that they did the same test to you during your deathTrip. They tried for transference; they intentionally attempted to fail idempotency. You have other family members, of course, but the fact that you work for SolipstiCorp is a lucky break for them.”

  “No, this is impossible. They’d need people on the inside. My girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—was one of the lead developers on the project. I don’t believe it.”

  “Hiding code in a function is easier than hiding hay in a haystack,” Simeon responded. “This isn’t rocket science, Dylan.”

  “Presupposing I buy this inane line of reasoning, why would I trust you? An anticorp conspiracy theorist with no credentials whatsoever—according to corpNets, you don’t even exist.”

  “What do you know about the activist group Sons of Pseudo?”

  “Jack-shit.” Dylan picked up a new shot of something golden, slammed it down, laughed, and shook his head.

  Simeon was visibly agitated. ”Damn, Dylan, how the hell don’t you know them?”

  Dylan waved his hands in the air dramatically. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m not some activist technorati virtTripper?”

  Simeon pressed on. “Well, Sons of Pseudo—or SOP—is one of many activist groups intent on regenerating our lost middle class. However, SOP does so utilizing any technological means possible. We have some of the brightest technical minds working for us. We meet, like most anonymous activist groups, within user-generated darkVirts—usually called multiVirts.” Simeon paused, fearing he was losing his listener—and he was. “Look, I represent an entity that is more powerful than you realize. We’ve effected change for decades—look it up sometime. Dylan, our country is lost. SOP is fighting to find it and we need your help.”

  Dylan laughed. “The United States is lost? Oh no! Where did it go? We oughtta go look for it?” Dylan let the liquor take hold. He was past frustrated. In a low voice he stated firmly, “Simeon, please, get to the damn point.”

  “Almost there. Just bear with me—“

  Feeling drunk now, Dylan interrupted, “So what’s your role in SOP?“

  Simeon shook his head. “SOP is roleless and anonymous, remember?”

  “Right—whatever. What’s the point, then? What is SOP trying to do? Initiate a change of parties?”

  Simeon guffawed with a deep baritone. “Oh, Boxster, this goes way beyond politics. I’m not being dramatic when I say there is a war brewing . . .” Simeon let his words hang again, but they fell on deaf ears, as Dylan was now watching a vid of a shadow dancer on the wall in front of them.

  Simeon continued. “In the last election alone, each major candidate—affiliated party aside—was funded 99.98 percent by corporate contributions. There is no individual voter anymore. Corps are doing the voting.”

  Dylan slammed his drink down on the dynamic advertisement for a new fall line of sports coats. “Okay, I’m done. Thanks for the social-science lesson, but I’ve had as much as I can take. The world isn’t fair, I get it; poor people are screwed and corps are soulless. Simeon, this argument has been going on for centuries now. It sucks, it really does, but it is what it is. As for you, I’m fairly certain you learned about Sabrina from a broken NDA and the rest of your story is conspiracy hogwash. Frankly, the main reason I’m meeting with you is to try and find out which of our loyal employees broke their NDA so we can fire their ass. You, unfortunately, are proving to be one step away from completely useless, if not completely bonkers. On the plus side, at least you bought my drinks tonight. So thanks for that." Dylan gave a salute, stood up, and began to walk away.

  Showing no desperation, Simeon whispered loudly, “I have reason to believe NRS wants your tech for nefarious purposes."

  Without turning, Dylan shouted, “I don’t have time for conspiracy theories, Simeon.”

  Utilizing his full bass-filled voice, Simeon rejoined, “I have your entire holoVid, Dylan, and I’ll release it on the darkNets if I have to. First-person perspective. All 587,482 hours. That’s just over thirty-five years. I have it all, Boxster.”

  Dylan stopped. He shook his head, turned around and shouted, “Prove it.”

  Simeon waved a hand in front of his face, and his eyes turned into a fiery undulation of oranges and reds. He waved his hands more, poking at images only he could see through his ocImps.

  A buzz sounded in Dylan’s ear; he clicked on his BUI while raising his hands, then made a motion to enlarge the notification that had just arrived. A holoVid began to play in Dylan’s BUI. It was a 3-D holo shot from a first-person perspective. A man was making love to a woman. She smiled up at him, looking into his eyes, grabbing his head with her hands. Sweat beaded on her brow. She bit her lower lip. The man looked up at a mirror attached to the wall in front of him. The reflection was not that of Dylan, but Dylan knew this man as well as he knew himself.

  Dylan clicked off his BUI and, lips pursed, marched back toward Simeon. Three full steps later he flung his fist at Simeon’s face, but it only glanced an ear as Simeon quickly ducked. Dylan lunged, but Simeon had gathered his wits and threw himself at Dylan’s midsection. He quickly used his sizable girth to drop Dylan to the ground, and in one motion he flipped Dylan over onto his stomach and wrapped Dylan’s arms behind his back. Dylan squinted and coughed, then swallowed hard. He opened his eyes and turned his head slightly to look over his shoulder at Simeon and saw flames wildly prancing up and around Simeon’s arm. Similar flames were dancing around Simeon’s pupils, which remained as black as a widow at night—it looked as if each eye were a small solar eclipse upon which sun flares were exacting some ungodly vengeance.

  Simeon apologized. “Dammit, I’m sorry, Boxster. I should have gone with the wedding vid. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Fuck you! What the hell is wrong with you? I am going to sue your ass so far that I’ll reach your fucking mouth and pull out your fucking dipshit tongue back through your fucking anus.”

  Simeon laughed. “Dude, that’s sick and it doesn’t even make sense. I’m not letting you up until you relax.”

  Dylan struggled, slacked, then panted, “Fine.”

  Simeon relaxed his grip and Dylan immediately rolled over and tried to t
ake another swing with his freed left hand. Simeon grabbed the fist on its way up and promptly placed it back against the ground. At this point a small crowd had started to mill around the wrestling pair.

  A security guard walked up just as Dylan had taken the second swing. The guard was a burly, tan-skinned man who seemed overly excited to have something to do. He grabbed the pair and made them stand. After a lengthy stare-down, the security guard berated them with several stern and hollow threats about banning them from the casino. But the security guard had been notified in his right ear that both customers had considerable funds and that their blood-alcohol levels were—while past the legal limit—low enough such that they could still gamble in a profitable manner. Dylan relaxed noticeably as soon as the guard had arrived, yet remained mute.

  Simeon pleaded with the guard, “Seriously, Sir, we’ll stop. I apologize. We’re old friends and this is really no big deal. Just family stuff.” The guard raised his eyebrows questioningly and Simeon leaned in and whispered into the burly man’s ear, “I slept with his sister. You wouldn’t guess it by looking at him, but she’s fucking hot.”

  The guard chuckled. “Look, you two get outside for a bit, get some fresh air, throw some punches on the lawn if you gotta. Come back in thirty minutes with cooler heads, and we’ll overlook this.”

  The guard nodded at them and began to shoo away the crowd. Dylan instinctively headed toward the exit. Simeon wasn’t sure if he was intending to leave or if he was simply walking aimlessly. Either way, the pair walked at the same pace, Dylan leading by about two meters.

  When they reached the large entrance tunnel, Dylan stopped abruptly and turned around. He put his hand up and Simeon halted, still a few meters away from him. Dylan asked calmly, “How did you get it?”

  “We have our methods. I told you, a war is coming. We—SOP—don’t have a side, we’re just trying to make the sides equal,” Simeon replied.

  “What’s your endgame? Is this some kind of corporate extortion? SolipstiCorp has patents, you know. A team of lawyers," Dylan prodded helplessly. He began to walk again.

  “Yeah, I know. Boxster, you’re not thinking big enough.” Simeon smiled. “You don’t get it—we don’t want your tech. Well, maybe if it were open and free—but that’s a different issue altogether. What we want is to find out why NRS wants your tech.”

  “Let’s assume that’s true for a second. Why the hell should I help you? Who cares if NRS wants our tech—they should want it! That’s more money for me, a higher stock price for my options, a bigger quarterly bonus. Apparently a pretty big one, too, if NRS is as interested as you say." Dylan’s pace quickened.

  “Dylan, you should care, because they made it personal. They screwed up your uncle, and maybe even you. From your reaction back there, I’d say you haven’t exactly regained idempotency from your deathTrip. Come with me up to Seattle tomorrow. Let me show you a few things. One day is all it will take.”

  “You’re lying," Dylan replied, not breaking stride. They had reached the end of the tunnel, and he was now walking toward the Porsche.

  “I’ll sign a disclosure right now. Look, I’m sending over my encrypted public TaxID now." Simeon was waving his left hand in the air; he could have been miming for all Dylan knew. Simeon continued: “One day, that’s all I ask. If we were out to get you, why would I go to this trouble? There are better ways to extort money from corporations. Trust me, I know all of them.”

  Dylan could see his car now, past rows of large, boxy transports. He lengthened his strides now that he had a visible purpose. Several different options tossed themselves around his head. He was emotional, angry, and drunk, and making a serious decision was the last thing he wanted to do in his present state.

  “What do you want to show me in Seattle?” Dylan asked.

  “People. The other half—which now adds up to far greater than half, by the way. Also, I’ll introduce you to my friends—my team, SOP.” Simeon raised his hands and added, “Also, I’ll explain exactly how we got your holoVid, and the evidence we have on your uncle.”

  “Oh, great—I get to meet your friends. That’s super exciting,” Dylan retorted.

  As they reached the Porsche, the driver’s-side door flung itself open as it detected the driver’s presence. Dylan stood in front of the car, resting his arms on the roof of the short automobile. “The other half—what the hell does that mean?” He shook his head and sighed. “I’ll give you one hour in Seattle. And you damn well better explain the holoVid and my uncle. Then I’m headed back to San Diego, and either way you can expect to talk to our lawyers.”

  Simeon smiled and laughed his bass-filled laugh. “Excellent—we’ll leave at ten tomorrow morning. I’ll find you.”

  “You do that,” Dylan replied with a frown. He got in the car and slammed the door. Simeon yelled something else, but Dylan ignored it and pressed a button to turn on the car. He put the stick in reverse, grabbed the steering wheel, and pushed the gas pedal—hard. Nothing happened. A second later the car responded, “Mr. Dansby, your blood-alcohol level has been determined to be over the legal limit for this jurisdiction. If you would like to use the autoTransport features of this retrofitted antique Porsche Boxster, simply state your desired destination.”

  “Screw this,” Dylan replied drunkenly, then pounded the steering wheel with his head.

  “There is a corporation named ‘Screw This’ located in Reno, Nevada. Is this your desired destination?”

  And with that, Dylan’s smile returned, albeit briefly.

  Chapter Ten

  The knocking of the bass was so deafening that Sindhu wondered if the DJ was attempting to reach into the heavens and get the attention of someone specific, but heaven wasn’t taking solicitors on this night. And chances were no one at the party in question would have been let through the heavenly gates, let alone allowed to step foot into the same zip code. The crowd that gathered at the decibelityFactory was of the deviant variety, and considering the cost of entry, it was fair to assume—as Sindhu correctly had—that all partygoers had the means to live extended lives. It wasn’t so much that the crowd hoped or intended to live forever; rather, they simply expected it.

  The decibelityFactory was a club that resided in one of the oldest buildings in the SoMa district of San Francisco. The owners were savvy marketers, and this was not their first rodeo. After the SoMa district had been leveled in 1906, new buildings had sprouted up, providing low-rent warehouses for low-end shipping goods, and low-rent rooms for low-end shipping men. The decibelityFactory building had been simply a three-story warehouse, nothing more, nothing less. Before the turn of the millennium, the SoMa area had fallen into decay, and the city enacted several plans to invigorate the area. It worked insomuch that gentrification pushed out the poor and ushered in the hip technocrats who couldn’t have been more excited to work in the cozy confines of an anachronistic, early-1900s warehouse. Irony was a requirement for successful tech startups in those days; thus, fledgling Internet companies flocked to the area and it quickly became a hub of innovation.

  But decades have a way of shifting populations, not unlike tides and tributaries, so when technology began to shift outside of San Francisco (and America, for that matter), so too did the wealthy from SoMa. And back in flowed the poor. The area likely would have turned into a full-fledged slum had it not been for the largesse of an anonymous donor who bought and donated a portion of land to the city with the agreement that the city would attempt to spur high-tech investment in the area through various tax and leasing breaks. Unending guesses were made as to the donor’s identity, but nothing was ever proven. Claims were especially rampant on the darkNets, with the usual guesses swirling around the Internet magnates of the early part of the century. Occasionally, someone on the darkNet would claim to have made the donation (and to have been an heir to a Jobs or a Bezos), but these claims were always refuted in time.

  Toward the end of the twenty-first century, the donation of the land, coupled with int
rigue over the identity of the donor, caused the tide to shift once more, and several high-end corps began leasing (for pennies above free) building space once again in the SoMa area. They hoped to spur tech innovation by creating a cool place for the brightest underground minds to congregate in realWorld. The corps would hire the best and brightest and attempt to start up difficult-to-trace subsidiaries, most of which worked in areas of technology that skirted the lines of legality. But this was San Francisco, and anything went on the left coast.

  Sensing the burgeoning, refound excitement in the area, a pair of opportunistic club owners leased the building that would become the decibelityFactory ten years prior. The club quickly gained an infamous, underground status thanks to the club owners’ ability to harness the innately ironical aspects of the area. They played up the location’s history, stating it was once the office of several legendary tech startups, when in fact, it had never housed anything more glamorous than a warehouse for light fixtures and a fast-food sandwich shop. Further, the owners made it very difficult to get onto the door list, requiring at least two invites from folks with darkNet social endorsements of at least a thousand followers.

  No matter—people flocked. The throwback decor included antique virtual-reality video games (including clunky headsets and gloves), lasers, glowing holoSticks aplenty, early-twenty-first-century houseBots (which delivered the drinks with curt manners and creepy smiles), and outdated projection screens brightening each wall, playing repetitive tech flatMovies from the turn of the twenty-first century.