Idempotency

by Joshua Wright

  Once they passed through the locks and into the Sound, Simeon had decided to cruise north in order to avoid the now-visible and obvious commotion on the shores and cliffs of Discovery Park to the south. The plan would take them around the northern tip of Bainbridge Island, then down south toward Tacoma, where they would drop off Dylan, who would catch a magRail back to San Diego.

  It all sounded just fine to Dylan. Copacetic, he thought insanely. He sat on a plush couch at the front of the flat, composite, horseshoe-shaped ship, deliberately avoiding conversation, which he was unable to do once Simeon finally crept over to him.

  “Hey, Box,” Simeon spoke softly. Dylan did not acknowledge him. Simeon persisted. “Hey, so, that didn’t exactly go as I had planned it." He looked pained.

  “No shit? I watched a man die today. Man?—actually, it could have been a woman for all I know,” Dylan replied, still looking out of the window ahead of him. They were passing through a tight corridor on the western side of Vashon Island now, nearing Tacoma. Pine trees lined the shorelines, which were easily seen now as there was far less traffic in this area of the water.

  “It was a woman. A friend of ours. I’m hopeful she didn’t die. I doubt she did. She was frozen. They were attempting to capture us for arraignment. Still, I know it was traumatic. I’m sorry, Boxster. On the scale of one to fucked up, that was fucked up.”

  “Who are you guys?” Dylan asked, this time wanting a real answer.

  “I explained that already.” He sighed, then continued: “It’s not hyperbole, man. There’s a war coming, Boxster, at least if we have anything to say about it. And if it doesn’t come, then we’ve already lost.”

  “Why would the cops just fire at you guys like that—I mean, they didn’t even try to arrest you—”

  Simeon laughed his deep, guttural laugh, which died off like a skipping record from another time period, slowly coming to a halt. “Those weren’t cops, my friend. Those were corp security contractors, likely hired by NRS through some web of corporate ownership. They have the power to arrest, and that’s exactly how they do it. Believe it or not, what they did is entirely legal.”

  “I believe it not,” Dylan grunted. “Seriously, I don’t believe that’s legal. There’s no way that can be legal.”

  “Believe it. Listen, we’re almost to Tacoma, and we don’t have much time. I’m sure you have a million questions and I’m not trying to hide anything, but I just don’t have the time to explain everything to you. I’d encourage you to do some investigation, but be discreet. Be very discreet.” He emphasized his point by lowering his voice an octave. “Always assume you are being monitored. Holos, vidConfs, corpNet traffic for sure, virts even. Because they are monitoring, sniffing, constantly. They are watching you, but we’ll be watching you, too. They are watching everyone at SolipstiCorp right now. This is a fragile time for them; it’s not often NRS is out-engineered.”

  “Who? Who’s watching?” Dylan asked with a croaked voice. He had a fleeting thought that he was still hungover from the night before.

  “NRS mainly, but government forces, too. Though that’s almost synonymous at this point.”

  Dylan finally looked at Simeon. “But why? Why do they even care?”

  “Ah, we only have theories right now. We aren’t exactly certain of their endgame yet. Obviously they are testing for memory transference-stemgineering two-point-oh—and you, like your uncle, must have some genetics that interest them. It also has something to do with this new deathTrip tech you guys have engineered. And we think it has something to do with the population explosion of the lower classes.”

  “Why me? Even if I bought your crazy theories—which I don’t—how could I possibly help you guys? And why would I want to? You guys are obviously wanted criminals of some kind.”

  “That’s fair. We are wanted and anonymous. But we are not criminals. As for you . . . well, we’ve done our research, Boxster. We think we can trust you, and we believe you will do the right thing when given the choice. Now it’s time for you to do your research. You have skin in this game. NRS will get to you, you better believe it. Your life is at risk. But this is so much bigger than your life. As for how you will help: In a few months you’ll get a call from a headhunter offering you a job. It’ll pay double what you currently make. Take it. We’ll go from there.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “The job will be with NRS.”

  Point Defiance, the northern tip of land near Tacoma, was speeding up toward them now; a just visible marina was their target. In the back of the boat a heated discussion was taking place where the other passengers huddled. They seemed to be debating where to head next. Jay-san was the dissenting opinion, and Nimbus was starting to get frustrated by his lack of buy-in. The twins were busy hacking away at their BUIs, while Grepman looked out the window, clearly shaken by his earlier mistake.

  Simeon brushed back some rebel strands of hair that had come loose from his ponytail during the commotion and were now blowing in the wind, excited about their brief freedom. He reached into his front pants pocket, then looked back at Dylan. “One more thing. This memCube”—he handed Dylan a cube of memory, one centimeter in size—“contains your entire SolipstiCorp deathTrip. You don’t have to believe me, but this is our only copy. It also contains the data we received on your uncle.”

  Dylan shook his head slowly. He looked back at Simeon, expressionless. “Seriously, who are you guys?” he asked.

  The flames on Simeon’s arm swayed with the rocking of the boat, and an aurora passed over the devoid pupils of his ocular implants. “We’re no one, Boxster, and we’re hoping you will be no one with us.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Coglin stood next to a grand curved window overlooking Lake Washington. The clouds had parted and a ray of sunbeams glistened on the choppy surface a hundred meters below. As he did every week, Coglin was giving a small pep talk to his staff to close NanoRegenSoft’s weekly executive business review. Around the table sat a dozen executives representing all departments of NRS. Several of them were holograms broadcast from international locations.

  Coglin loved these moments; all eyes and ears were chiefly on him alone. This was the moment he could impart his vision upon his flock. As a younger man, he had done this routinely through media outlets; now, as an older man, he imparted his wisdom on fewer people, but he ensured those few were powerful leaders in their own right. It had taken him decades to understand that leadership was exponentially more powerful when wielded through a small, organized hierarchy instead of a flat throng of followers.

  “Team, we stand on the precipice of a vision that began decades past. As you know, when I first recruited Korak as the second NRS team member, I sold him on a three-phase vision—a trinity, if you will.” A few light-hearted chuckles floated around the table. “Phase one was to hire the best and out-innovate our competitors. Most of you were hired during phase one. Phase two saw extreme customer growth; we needed people to rely on our products and to build capital. God willing, we outperformed every phase-two goal we ever set. Now, with the purchase of SolipstiCorp’s technology licenses and the fantastic progress on the build-out of our new low-income care facilities, we’re about to embark on phase three: Healing the poor from the disease that is poverty, and creating more customers at the same time. A sacred cycle.”

  Coglin drew a raspy breath and held out his arms. “Ladies, gentleman, this is the moment we have all been working toward. In your lives, these—” he struggled for the right word “—divine opportunities might only come along once, twice if you’re lucky. Don’t let this one pass you by. Everyone needs to be fully bought in and 100 percent on board.”

  Coglin grinned and clasped his hands together. “All right. Let’s get to work!”

  As the NRS executive team began to stand and funnel out of the large room, Coglin motioned to Kane to stay behind. Kane nodded as Coglin walked over and sat in the chair next to him.

  “Kane, I have it on good authori
ty that our candidate for transference, Dylan Dansby, has been contacted by SOP. I don’t know if he’s working with them directly, but my source has told me they are trying to persuade him of their vision. We need to watch this carefully. I’m going to offer him a job at NRS.”

  Kane appeared shocked. “A job, Reverend? Here, at NRS?”

  Coglin nodded. “Yes. I want to keep him as close to us as we can. This could be a coup for us, Kane. As if Dylan working for SolipstiCorp wasn’t enough of a blessing, now this news—it plays into our hands even more.”

  Kane shook his head in wonder. “Well, the Lord truly works in magical ways, Reverend.”

  “That he does, Kane, that he does. I’m going to have Korak vet Dylan for a position in sales. I’ll also inform Korak about my suspicions of SOP.”

  Coglin drew a new breath, and continued on, “One more thing: Where are we at with finding SOPs new location?”

  “No luck so far. We are, however, tracking a new recruit by the name of Sindhu. We know she’s searching for them. She’s not even being cautious about it, and we’re pretty sure they’d love to get her on board. She’s brilliant, supposedly. Very active in open-source darkVirts. We’re following her trail closely.”

  “Good, good. Keep me updated, Kane. You’re doing a fantastic job—but bear in mind that fantastic just barely meets my expectations.”

  As NRS executives poured out of the expansive meeting room and into a lobby area, Dr. Kya Okafor pushed hurriedly past a few colleagues to tap Korak Searle on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, Reverend Searle?”

  Searle twirled around. He had been deep in thought, but his face warmed at the sight of Kya.

  “Dr. Okafor, right? Our new chief scientist, correct?” Searle asked, knowing the answer.

  “Yes, yes, that’s right. I don’t know if you remember this, but I used to attend your sermons at that large Protestant church on the Lower East Side when I was doing my undergrad at NYU.”

  “Ah, second pew from the back, on the far left—my far left, that is. Am I right?”

  “That’s amazing you remember that!” she fawned. “I really admire you. Your sermons were so inspiring. They got me through some very challenging times in my life. I didn’t mention this to Reverend Coglin during the negotiations of my hire, but I wouldn’t have agreed to come on board if you weren’t here. I trust your judgment and stewardship so much.”

  “Oh, well, thank you Dr. Okafor.“

  “Please—it’s Kya.”

  “Thanks, Kya, you’re far too kind. I sin just like everyone else. Hey, so I have to run to another meeting, but how about we catch up over lunch sometime? I’d love to better understand your background. I’ve heard fantastic things about your work in cognitive neuroscience—it sounds truly innovative. Of course, it also sounds like gibberish to me, but I’m told it’s impressive.” Searle’s self-deprecating sense of humor belied his intense eyes.

  “That’s kind of you to say, though I have to admit, lately I’ve been” —she hesitated—“wondering about some of the recent decisions I’ve been forced to make.”

  A small huddle of people from across the hall motioned to Searle as Kya spoke. Distracted, Searle responded, “Oh, well, that’s very interesting. I look forward to discussing your successes more when we grab lunch. Talk soon, Kya.”

  Without waiting for a response, Searle pivoted and marched away to a more pressing discussion.

  Kya frowned. To herself she said, “That would be fantastic. I’ll look forward to it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Several weeks passed before Dylan even considered doing any sort of investigation into Simeon’s claims. He told himself he was being cautious, but the reality was that he didn’t have the gumption quite yet to admit to himself the severity of his situation. Upon returning to work he had turned inward, avoiding crowded rooms and frivolous conversations. Every word he said seemed to pass through a new filter in his mind; a filter than scanned every word he said for a level of safety. Dylan’s colleagues noticed the change—Frank, especially—but he told his co-workers that he was simply under the weather. Three weeks later, this was turning into a lengthy cold.

  As for Kristina, he had avoided her entirely. She had sent him a friendly text message apologizing for her outburst and assuring him she would try to understand. He had responded in kind, but that was it. They had bumped into each other a few times in the hallways, and each time Dylan’s heart jumped out of his chest just like that day on the bluff with SOP. But their conversations had been short, remaining above the surface. They had yet to speak at length or depth. Yet.

  On the first Monday that he returned to the office, his heart had nearly beat through his brown tweed jacket. He half expected Frank to call him Boxster when he walked into their Monday morning staff meeting. After a few anxiety-riddled hours, however, he began to calm down, asserting correctly that nothing measurable had changed in the office. A few days passed and he began to fret about when he would be contacted again. He checked his office for obvious video- or audio-surveillance devices, but he stopped after a few minutes, admitting to himself that he had no idea what those devices would even look like. After a few weeks had passed, he began to humorously question his sanity: Had the events of that weekend in the Pacific Northwest even truly transpired? Were hallucinogenic episodes a side effect to his failed deathTrip?

  After the fourth week passed, Dylan tried a new trick: Suppress all recollection of the events altogether. He attempted to go back to his fun-loving, gregarious self, a raucous routine that saw him work hard and play hard. A twelve-hour workday followed by dinner and drinks with clients or colleagues, commencing with a quick recap of the world news before rinsing and repeating.

  Damn the news, he thought. It was quite possible Dylan could have suppressed the events had it not been for the news. The news seemed different to him now—prophylactic, synthetic, and manufactured on a massive scale. Whether he was reading a corp-sponsored article, or watching one of the hundreds of different corp-produced newscasts, they just seemed to lack a certain trait: veracity.

  The relative few number of stories that focused on class issues were all from the perspective of assistance. None focused on the core issue of the problem; most didn’t even recognize a problem to begin with. The majority of reports seemed to indicate that the polar class system had been inevitable, a by-product of a growing economy coupled with technology that might soon allow potions of the population—those who could afford it—to live indefinitely. Experts in the field of sociology would ramble incoherently about the need to properly integrate the lowCasters into the socioeconomic structure. Other pundits—who were usually corp-financed—brazenly lobbied for a formal abrogation of the middle class. They argued that society should engineer their future around two polar classes, rather than attempt the futile effort of rebirthing a long-lost middle class. Their vision included two disparate currencies and economies; there simply wasn’t enough money to support a middle class if everyone were to live forever, the argument went.

  Damn the news; for there were only scant, extremist mentions of aging lowCasters who were using age-lengthening drugs as black-market currency. No mention of the abhorrently disfigured aging population suffering from mental and ghastly physical issues due to the lack of skin- or brain-regeneration drugs.

  There was certainly no mention of an anonymous group fighting the good fight.

  Damn the news.

  On a particularly muggy early December day in San Diego, Dylan decided to take the stairs down a floor to the area of the office where the developers worked. The decorum of the office was particularly and deliberately chaotic, and the developers liked it that way. There were no cubicles, no offices, just a bunch of various-sized chairs and couches strewn haphazardly around the room. The room was sparse, as most devs chose to work out of their homes (they resided all over the world), but they did make it a point to get together once a month as a group, in person. The general thought among
modern human-resource psychs was to enforce mandatory physical human interaction. Some companies went so far as to require holographic hugs and handshakes on a monthly basis.

  There were only a half-dozen or so developers working in the office on this day, but Dylan was certain Kristina would be there. Kristina was one of the top developers SolipstiCorp had on the payroll, and they were lucky that she was local. Many companies had tried to poach her, but SolipstiCorp had signed her to a strict noncompete. And anyway, she seemed satisfied; after all, she was almost always in the office.

  Dylan spotted her as soon as he entered the room. Kristina was sitting in a far corner. She had both outside walls at 100 percent opacity. The sun was nowhere to be found. Her small, sinewy body was draped over her cubed foam chair, her arms stretched out. Her simple brown hair was shaped in a bowl cut. A tight, short-sleeved shirt merged unnoticed into similar colored pants, accentuating her twiglike figure. She picked at the floor with her hands, apparently hard at work through her BUI, though it almost appeared that she was picking lint off the carpet.

  “Hi Kristina, how—how are . . . things?” She started as Dylan spoke, and his confidence popped. “Ugh—I’m sorry, this is awkward. I need some advice—some help. Can we go get coffee?”

  “Now?” He nodded. “Well, I was just . . .” She fidgeted with the small BUI device on her ear, waved her hands in front of her face, then replied, “Yeah, okay, let’s go.”

  Kristina was only slightly confused when they reached the lobby and walked past the coffee shop. She became more perplexed as Dylan ignored one of the many coffee shops just outside of their office building, insisting instead on going to a new favorite coffee joint by way of his transport. Kristina was entirely suspicious when she found out that this favorite coffee shop was on public land ten minutes north of downtown. And she was positively anxious as they walked a half block among lowCasters to reach the coffee shop that Dylan insisted had the best Americano in town. But Kristina placated Dylan’s wishes out of concern for the man she still loved.