Cypulchre

by Joseph Travers MacKinnon

  “When it comes to it, erase him and wipe the drive. Hell, erase the entire Oasis construct. It’s the humane thing to do.”

  Katajima stares helplessly at Allen’s body, terrified and unbelieving. Paul pushes him out of the way and opens the query.

  —ALLEN. THIS IS PAUL. GOOD WORK, YOU IMPETUOUS CHILD. FULL DISCLOSURE: I HAVE AN APE IN THE OTHER ROOM THAT NEARLY DIED LEARNING BASIC ENGLISH, AND FIVE SERIES OF CADAVERS I STILL CAN’T FULLY EXPLAIN.

  —IMPETUOUS CHILD? THAT’D MAKE YOU THE IRRESPONSIBLE PARENT, NO?

  —…

  —DAMN.

  —‘DAMN’ IS RIGHT.

  —I JUST TAUGHT MYSELF SWARM PROGRAMMING AND ADVANCED CALCULUS. DOWNLOADED ALL THE AUDIO BOOKS THAT WERE ACCESSIBLE THROUGH OUTLAND’S DIGITAL MARKETPLACE. BECAME A RENAISSANCE MAN IN THREE MINUTES.

  Paul covers his awe-slacked jaw with one hand, and directs Katajima to a different console with the other.

  —I’M GOING TO HAVE TO RUN THE PILOT PROTOTYPE UNTIL WE CAN FIND A WAY TO FIT YOU BACK IN THIS PALE, FLABBY VESSEL.

  —WHAT?

  —WE CAN’T LOOP YOU BACK. WITHDRAWAL WOULD OVERWHELM YOUR BODY. THE PATHWAYS AREN’T THERE. IT’D SHORT YOUR MIND, AND THEN YOU’D BE SCREWED IN TWO PLACES. THE PILOT DEVICE WILL MANAGE YOUR BASIC MOTOR-FUNCTION AND ENSURE YOUR BODY’S OKAY WITHOUT ITS MASTER AND COMMANDER.

  —CAN’T LOOP?

  —NO.

  —TRY, WILL YOU?

  —KATAMJIMA’S WORKING ON IT.

  —HE DAMN-WELL BETTER. WHY DO I GET THE FEELING I’VE BEEN PAWNED IN A GAME BETWEEN YOU TWO?

  —WE WILL TRY EVERYTHING, ALLEN. IN THE MEANTIME, FIND YOUR BEARINGS. THINK RELAXED.

  —DON’T FORGET ABOUT ME.

  —YOU HAVE MY WORD.

  —SERIOUSLY, DON’T LEAVE ME IN HERE…

  —WOULDN’T THINK OF IT.

  —GOOD. WHEN YOU HAVE A SECOND, SEND ME UP A FEELER OR TWO. ALSO GIVE ME ADMIN ACCESS SO THAT I CAN THINK MYSELF UP A GODDAMN PAIR OF PANTS.

  —SURE THING, ALLEN.

  —AND PLEASE TELL ISABELLE I’LL BE HOME LATE.

  —YOUR GIRLFRIEND?

  —MY FIANCE. SHE’S MY EMERGENCY CONTACT. HER COMM-DOT’S ALSO ON MY QUIKSCREEN. WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T LET HER SEE ME THIS WAY.

  —YOU GOT IT, ALLEN.

  “Katajima, send him some positive SIMHAP and a visual anchor,” says Paul, recoiling from the query box. “He’s too far gone to worry about Stendhal Syndrome…”

  “I put him on the mouse-pleasure circuit. He hits a button, he receives the SIMHAP.”

  “Good. And make sure the anchor simulates the regular passage of time.”

  “Wouldn’t we want to slow it down or suspend it altogether?”

  “You know what?” Paul throws his hands up. “You do whatever you want. That’s all this is, anyway, right?”

  Katajima breaks eye-contact and programs a micro-drive. He silently prints it, and inserts it into the spidery mobile dangling above Allen’s head.

  Paul backs-up Allen’s medical scans and contemplates this empty sign—this rasping body kept alive by a PILOT device: it is as disconnected to the living Allen as a photograph is to the photographed.

  “Sondra?”

  “Yes, Dr. Sheffield?”

  “Forget the paddles. We’re actually going to protect his brain. Get whatever anesthetic you need to put Mr. Scheele into a coma.”

  TINGED A BROWNISH-ORANGE, Katajima’s collar rises above his head which is tucked into the arch of his stomach. “What are we going to do?”

  “You mean, what are you going to do?”

  Katajima looks genuinely betrayed. “Sure.”

  “Nothing…Unless you’ve figured out soul-transmigration.” A desperate laugh escapes him. “Either way, you’re going to have to bury somebody.”

  Katajima slumps forward, and traipses over to one of Allen’s medical monitors. “For the love of God…”

  “Why do you keep saying that?”

  “Huh?”

  “You keep saying that over and over like it’ll help.”

  “I have you to blame, Paul. Remember the translation app you synched to my Monocle?”

  “No.”

  “The program that helped me with my English, also provided me with a number of linguistic ticks. ‘For the love of God’ was a teachable-phrase that just stuck with me. This is the first it has irked you; I know for a fact you have heard me say it before.”

  “I’ve just realized how goddamned annoying it is.”

  “Yes, well; like I said: it has become something of a tick…I also enjoy using ‘tarnation.’”

  Paul nods, indifferent and tired.

  “Paul, there must be something. Some way…”

  Clicking his tongue, Paul stands up. “Save his data. There’s no way you’ll get your hands on the kind of memory that’s necessary in the time that he has left, if he had any to begin with—even with Winchester’s juice. If you’re feeling really compassionate, you can populate the Oasis construct with as many carnal delights as you’re able to script before he’s looped in without an origin or a brain to center him.”

  “How long can he survive in there?”

  “Well, if you don’t know, I imagine your only recourse is to ask God…or the Devil.”

  Chapter 4: RAPTURE

  >TEN_YEARS_LATER

  “Hey Paul.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “It has been a while since we last spoke.”

  “This is a restricted line.”

  “Allen Scheele died last night.”

  “Katajima?”

  “Something inside the CLOUD disabled his PILOT, thereby suffocating his paralyzed body. Winchester believes it was a hacktivist trying to make a name for herself, or at the very least, a political statement. There are other rumours circulating…In any event, he is gone.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Paul, I am sorry. It is really important that we not blame ourselves...”

  “Jesus, it’s four-thirty.”

  “You heard what I said?”

  “Allen. Allen Scheele’s dead. Again.”

  “Yes. And it is not your fault.”

  “That I’ve already convinced myself of. Although, I don’t imagine there are many others who share my certainty.”

  “One perhaps, but she is a criminal. If it is any consolation…”

  “He was interred for a decade in Outland Labs, resigned to digital death in a sand castle of his own making. Trust me, it won’t be.”

  “If you recall, it was your idea to unplug him.”

  “Ten years ago, maybe.”

  “Well, he followed a different trajectory to the same result.”

  “The lot of you are insane...Outland’s a mad house.”

  “Paul, that is certifiably untrue.”

  “Well, if he’s off to hell, at least it’s a better one...”

  “We tried to broadcast him.”

  “Oh?”

  “CLOUD’s not the end of the world, you know.”

  “Shouta, no one said anything about it ending the world. It does all the good we’d hoped it would do, revolutionizing psychological therapies, diplomacy, and whatever else.”

  “Spoken like a proud father.”

  “Was Chronos proud?”

  “Your mythology is lost on me as always.”

  “If the CLOUD is ending anything, it’s the age of the individual. Our insidious spawn—this noosphere—is a dehumanized nirvana. It’s other people, perdition, oblivion. It’s no damn good.”

  “You have certainly not lost your knack for the melodramatic. I doubt that all those with Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, dementia, and Autism would share your views. Even your sweet Pythia benefitted, no?”

  “Not from the CLOUD…What is this? Did you call to lecture me?”

  “Paul…”

  “I’m terming the hail. Goodbye.”

  “Funeral’s Friday.”

  “…”

  “At St.
Monica’s in the city. Winchester has cleared me to send his Dragonfly to pick you up as well as temporarily suspend your restraining order. You might even be able to visit Rachel and the girls...Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Dragonfly can be at your retreat at nine-thirty Wednesday morning, granted you temporarily turn off your air defenses.”

  “Air defenses?”

  “You are enough coy to run an algae pond. The carrier-pigeon drone that my assistant sent your way with word of Allen’s passing notified me of your rockets just seconds before being vaporized.”

  “Ha! I suppose that’s why I missed the memo.”

  “…”

  “I don’t know, Shouta. I’ve got shit to do.”

  “If you change your mind, I strongly advise you to take Winchester up on his offer. He would be relieved to ease your way to common ground. After all, the Hyperloop sky-transit system is awfully dreadful, and I am told you have developed something of an antipathetic following in the wake of your creation’s coming-of-age. Driving is similarly perilous with the checkpoints and the risk of a run-in with escaped PIT rats. The Dragonfly and the extra day are really your best option, and I, personally, would appreciate having some time to speak to you before the funeral.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “For the love of God, take care of yourself, Paul. Notify me if you change your mind, especially regarding the proposed ride. I know it would make me feel a lot better. Oh, one more thing, I meant to call about it earlier: Winchester has voiced concern over your NEXUS chip being wonky. Worried about you breaching the terms of the settlement. You should probably look into it.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Well, goodnight. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  “Hold up—”

  “Yeah?”

  “When did you say Allen died?”

  “Says here it was last night…Not much later than ten Pacific. Why? Why do you ask?”

  “What did you do with his off-board memory? His memex drive?”

  “Looped his memex to Outland archives, and wiped the drive twice-over. It was a standard procedure. What is up? Paul?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  Chapter 5: STRANGER IN MY OWN SKIN

  THE VINYL FLOOR, compulsively polished, reflects the greens, yellows, and reds, from the lower shelves. It squeaks at Paul’s tanker boots as he makes his way up the aisle to the UtilMart clerk station.

  He pauses below a silent hologram radiating Commander Cromwell’s dispatch from the southern RIM. The headline reads, “The inter-partition violence between Outland Defense Forces and PIT gangs has worsened, spilling this time into eastern Burbank and the North-Hollywood CBLOCKS.” The projection orients to Paul’s line of sight, pulling the visualized riots sideways.

  A band of pulsing pomegranate text signs the play-by-play: “Thirteen dead, hundreds wounded. No arrests have been made so far. Outland Security has teamed up with the LAPD and NORTHCOM to identify and apprehend the agitators. Outland Corp. is offering an award of sixteen-months airtime and/or reinstallation in exchange for any viable leads regarding the identity or whereabouts of the assailants. Chief Constable Scott has warned that ‘anyone harboring or sheltering a dissident will similarly be desynchronized and rained out, and those without implants will be tagged for Federal re-processing.’ Among those wanted for questioning, Dr. O—” Paul swats his hand at the notice. The riotous-pomegranate swirl disappears. At least they’ve kept their revolution south of the mountains.

  UtilMart is crowded with basic shit RIM ticks and part-time CLOUD flyers need to get by: brown and white-striped ration-putty cartridges for 3D-printed InstaMeals (chicken, beef, veggie, or fish); booze and drugs; augmentations and cosmetics; and air-time gift certificates.

  Pacing down the ultra-lit aisle, Paul stumbles upon his intended purchase. He runs his finger along a row of SIK-branded medication bottles filed neatly on an aluminium rack.

  “Ol’ faithful,” he mouths to himself, grabbing a turquoise bottle. Anti-psychotics.

  Paul probably should have always been taking these triangular anti-psychotics. Might have been the difference between Allen living or dying. Prior to his scandalous ejection from Outland and exile to the wastes on the southern tip of the Mojave, Paul deluded himself into thinking he’d a pretty good handle on his mind.

  Mood chips and chem-rehab weren’t alternatives he would ever consider, even now. Part of his interest when first building the CLOUD was precisely that: to resolve negative thinking, nightmares, PTSD, cognitive malignancies, and mental illness, through influence and mental bridging.

  Paul’s lab assistant, Oni, had undoubtedly glimpsed his madness, at least once or twice, but the hierarchy binding them bade her defer worry, assume caution, and practice understanding. Katajima, Rachel, Pythia, and Angela, on the other hand, never saw an episode full-on. If there was something weird about Paul, something insidious or imbalanced, they’d written it off as a quirk of an intelligent, eclectic personality. Paul had hoped that he’d cure himself before they realized that he was unfit to cure others.

  Paul makes sure he’s taken the right bottle—because sometimes they change the colours or the branding, and you’ve got to be sure. “Close enough,” he mouths silently, heading over to pay.

  Behind two competing advertorial holograms (i.e. “holoverts”), a short, stout man with a mesh-back hat crammed full of sunken Mayan features stands motionless. His arms are both crooked at ninety degrees, framing the e-ledger with dehydrated fingers. In southern California, stocked with automatic kiosks and virtual salesmen, UtilMart’s human clerk is as anachronistic and irremediable as Paul, pleasure-seeking in the non-physical world while his body operates on auto-pilot without him.

  “Morning, Roddy,” Paul grumbles, reflexively, placing the bottle on the counter.

  Roddy’s eyes meet Paul’s, but there is no connection—no soulful recognition. Paul coyly checks over his shoulder, and wrinkles his forehead, looking at Roddy’s insinuated point of focus: a water-damaged wall, gummed up by religious literature. ‘BEWARE THE MARK OF THE BEAST’ bleeds over a hack-artist’s rendition of a cognitive-implant in the imprecise ink of yesteryear.

  Paul waves his hands in front of Roddy’s face. Smiling through impatience, he shouts his name. The aproned effigy doesn’t flinch. “Ah, never figured you for an evap,” Paul deplores. Paul thinks “evap” is his clever term for someone who’s synchronized to the CLOUD, although it is used commonly throughout California.

  A wave of sentience floods Roddy’s face, and his cheek-muscles twitch alive. “Sorry, Paul,” he whispers in a crackly monotone, adjusting his hat. A few greasy locks fall free. “How’re those girls of yours?”

  Paul tilts his head with a smile, unexpectedly pleased with the familiarity. “Ah, you know,” as much as I do, anyway, “just keep getting bigger and bigger,” Paul’s shaky voice evens on the wake of nostalgia. “What’s new with you?”

  Grating his coarsely-bearded throat, Roddy surveys the room. He finally plots his eyes on the counter, refusing to share Paul’s gaze. “Was just watching the game.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s the score?”

  “The score?”

  Paul laughs. “Yeah, who’s winning? Flames and Richmond Capitals’re playing today, right?”

  Scarlet spills across the clerk’s cheeks. “Oh. Let me check.” He swipes a new page onto his e-ledger and intuits his query.

  Paul glimpses the inverted score: 0-0. It hasn’t even started yet. This oily automaton was probably basking in one of the CLOUD’s more nefarious SIMPHAP pleasure forums.

  Roddy’s finger hesitates above the score.

  “It’s okay. Forget about it,” Paul says, offering Roddy an out, and pushing the SIK bottle forward.

  “Cool. Did I link your receipt?”

  “Haven’t paid yet, friend. Just these and,” Paul scans the shelves of hermetically-sealed cannaberette packs behind the clerk, registeri
ng his brand peripherally—the red, pinstriped prism: “a pack of Walruses.”

  Paul’d been addicted to cigarettes before the InsurWide Ban. Not so much the nicotine they promised or the multiplicity of diseases they threatened him with, but rather the simple act of spitting smoke. When social convention became law, he switched over to a heavy-handed heavily-taxed indica. The Walruses offer him the same draconic recreation as cigs, plus they help with the SIK-pill-induced nausea.

  “Paying with credit or airtime?” Roddy inquires, handing over a pack of cannaberettes.

  “Credit, thanks.” Paul runs his wrist over the e-ledger and it beeps, consummating the transaction. “Keep your eyes peeled for RIM ticks.” Paul points to the hologram. “There’s smoke on the horizon.”

  Roddy deflates with a tinny laugh. “Yeah! I’ll do that.”

  Paul smiles, awkwardly, and turns to leave, pocketing the SIK bottle.

  The ledger fires a projection showing an imbalance, emphasized by two long beeps.

  “Sorry, Paul,” says Roddy.

  UtilMart’s front door bars-over.

  “Huh?” asks Paul, breaking-down into an awkward pose.

  “I can’t sell you the SIK.”

  Paul edges over, wincing at the ledger. “That can’t be right.”

  “I’ll lose my license.”

  “Yeah? I’ll lose a lot more. I have a prescription…” He angrily yanks the SIK out of his pocket and jostles it onto the counter.

  “Well, says here your prescription is void.”

  “Sure that’s me?” Paul tries to decrypt the backward statements projected above the counter.

  Roddy recoils, discomforted by forced intimacy over his ledger. “Please refrain—”

  Paul recognizes his overreach, and steps back. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.” Roddy recomposes himself. “Any chance your insurers got wise to your habits?”

  “No,” he draws-out in a sigh. Paul’s head sinks between his shoulders. “I disabled the bowl app. Haven’t got a PILOT or an implant…”

  Roddy nods suggestively to Paul’s Walruses.

  “They’ve no way of knowing.”

  “You might not be synched-up, Paul, but a friend of yours, possibly?”