Implanted

by Lauren C Teffeau

I take a careful sniff. Raspberry? “What is it?”

  She waves her hand vaguely, the lights sparking against her nails. “No idea. But don’t let that stop you.” It’s fizzy with an alcoholic tang. “Atta girl. Come on.”

  Brita tugs me deeper into the luxurious apartment her parents secured for her freshman year. She’s practically Canopy royalty since her father runs New Worth News, the biggest infotainment company in the city. “Eleni, love your dress! Asher, thought you swore off parties after last time.” She leans in. “What’s wrong? I can’t find your signal.”

  Even though I’m pretty sure I wasn’t followed, I’m not taking any chances. With my signal still dark, I’m only receiving the highest priority notifications. My un-enhanced presence is all I can offer her tonight. “I was feeling overwhelmed. Needed to upgrade anyway,” I fib.

  Thankfully, that in itself isn’t so strange. Every so often, you have to go dark to install the latest release or to troubleshoot config settings. I’ve had my share of malware and privacy glitches too. Everyone on the New Worth network has at some point. It’s part of the reason why a person’s implant has so many different settings to accommodate a wide range of interactions and manage the potential abuses that can result. But for most, the inconvenience that viruses and occasional reformattings pose are worth the connectivity and convenience.

  Brita takes my arm again, this time heading for the stairs. On the way, she waves to a cute underclassman. He bobbles his drink, spilling it down the front of his shirt, as he tries to wave back. When we reach the second floor, still giggling, she pulls me into her bedroom and shuts the door. “I’ve been pinging you for the last hour.”

  Only one thing would be that important. “Did he go for it?” I ask. She’s been desperate to convince her father she’d be perfect as a junior correspondent for New Worth News.

  She shakes her head.

  “Oh no. I’m sorry.”

  Her shoulders droop slightly. “Don’t be. We both knew it was a long shot.”

  “But still. I know how much this meant to you.” She lives and breathes the news feeds. Keeping her away from New Worth News is just cruel. But her status-conscious father’s never forgiven her for being a bit of a handful growing up, nearly getting kicked out of high school. Since then, she’s worked hard to turn things around. Perfect grades, glowing recommendations from her journalism professors. I guess that wasn’t enough.

  Her flawless, pale face wavers, then turns defiant. “And if not, his loss, right? I can go work for any of good ole Dad’s competitors. I’ve already started brainstorming new pitches. Here, what do you think?”

  She shuts her eyes briefly and rolls back her shoulders on a deep breath. She told me once the trick to believable reporting is to look into the camera like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Her mouth parts, her hazel eyes sparkling-wide. “It’s hard to believe there are people out there who don’t want neural implants. Who are these so-called Disconnects shunning the connectivity that keeps the city running? And what are they hiding from?” Her focus returns to me. “Well? What do you think?”

  “It sounds great. I just never realized there were actually people out there who relish being disconnected.” You can’t pass through the lower levels without running into your fair share of people who don’t have the neural implants that make life worth living. Lots of people simply can’t afford the tech. That doesn’t mean they wouldn’t jump at the chance to get it – not when it would make things so much easier on them.

  To be disconnected in New Worth means having a digital handicap that follows you everywhere and affects everything.

  “Well, that’s just it,” Brita says eagerly. “Some of them have given up hope of being able to get implants and have found ways to justify not having them to make them feel better about missing out on such an integral part of society. But some people really believe it. Those are the people I want to focus on. See how they tick, you know?”

  “Your dad’s bound to be jealous when he sees it on another channel, too.”

  “Let’s hope. Anyway. Enough about me.” She gives me a critical once-over. With a mischievous smile, she goes to her vanity, rummaging through her makeup.

  Now I’m in for it. “Brit, this isn’t necessary.”

  “House rules.” She looks up from a compact with the same blue-green bioluminescent glow that rims her eyes and flares out toward her temples, then discards it for a peach and purple one. “Besides, I need something to cheer me up. Now hold still.”

  I groan but dutifully set my drink on the floor and sit on the edge of her bed as she gets to work. She knows enough to go slowly, that sudden movements will scare me away. I’m jumpier than usual, especially after what happened earlier. Starting with my eyelids, her steady strokes of the makeup brush calm me enough to unclench my hands.

  Something flashes red in the periphery of my vision, and I start. Brita swears as I pull up the priority message. From an actual police detective. Uh oh.

  ||| Your signal was logged at the 100 block of the Bower at 16:13 this afternoon. We need you to provide a statement as to your whereabouts and anything you may have seen. We have taken the liberty of scheduling an appointment for you first thing tomorrow morning. ||| Then the address for the Specialist Investigation Division in the Upper Understory.

  Breck, the brick in my hand, all that blood… Shit. I thought I’d done enough to mask my signal. That’s why I used a kiosk instead of my implant to call the police. I also memorized a map of all the cameras that I knew of in the area, but I could have missed some. If they put two and two together, my days in the Canopy could be numbered. Even if I’m not formally charged, a criminal complaint would risk everything I’ve achieved. Graduation’s next week, and after that, work at a prestigious curation firm. They would never hire an employee with the barest hint of impropriety. We take a pledge to be objective in all our decisions related to the preservation, disposal, and discoverability of data.

  Deep breaths. Maybe it’s just a routine follow-up. But I’m numb with the possibilities as Brita finishes up. “There.” She puts the compact away, and I rescue my drink from the floor. She rests her hands on her hips as she inspects her handiwork.

  In the vanity mirror, the peach and purple whorls make my light brown skin glow. My lavender tunic matches perfectly. I never could’ve pulled this look together without her help. Would Brita have bothered if she knew what I was doing in the Terrestrial District earlier today?

  My conscience rears its head. “You’ve always been so generous to me. Why?”

  Her surprised gaze snaps to mine in the mirror. “What do you mean? We’re friends.”

  “Yes, but you’re… you, and I’m just some upstart from the Terrestrial District tracking dirt through the Canopy.” In the mirror, she’s tall where I’m short, elegant in cool, jewel tones where I’m playing pretend in contrasting warm colors. “Admit it, that’s what you thought when you first saw me.”

  “Yes, but when you opened your mouth and took down that obnoxious TA in freshman year, I decided then and there I’d love you forever.”

  “Did not.”

  She crosses her arms, pretends to consider it. “Well, maybe it was after we were paired up on that lab final.” She watches me, slightly puzzled. “Hey, what’s with the memory lane tonight, anyway?”

  I shrug and paste a sheepish smile on my face. “Sorry. It’s just an end of an era, that’s all.”

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere. I mean, I’ll be working my way up through the ranks at some second-rate infotainment firm, assuming Daddy hasn’t blacklisted me, and you’ll be sifting through decades of digital refuse.”

  “You make data curation sound so glamorous.”

  “You picked it. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is we’ll still have each other up here,” she says, tapping her temple. “Blink buddies for life. So stop acting like graduation’s the end of the world. You’ll make me weepy. And if you ruin my makeup, I’ll never forgive you.
”

  I hold up my hands. “I take it all back.”

  And truly, I wish I could. I thought I could eliminate someone like Breck Warner from the world and face no repercussions. All the scenarios I logged at the arcade made me feel invincible, above the law even. And now my appointment tomorrow with the New Worth police department could jeopardize my future in the upper levels.

  And not just mine. My family. My friends. Brita, standing before me. I’d be dragging her down with me through association. She gives me a brilliant smile, which only deepens my guilt. “Glad that’s settled. Come on, we should get back downstairs,” she says, and tows me back to the main floor.

  The first cocktail was to appease Brita; the second, my nerves. With our drinks refilled, we take up position in front of the living room holoblinds. Our classmates churn around us. Many of them are graduating seniors like us, along with a number of underclassmen. A heady energy’s in the air, but I can’t tap into it tonight, not with the uncertainty of tomorrow now hanging over my head.

  Brita elbows me in the ribs. “Stop brooding, Em. This is supposed to be a celebration.”

  I manage to muster up a smile. “Sorry. Don’t mean to.”

  “Well, try harder. Forget who you are, Emery Driscoll. Tonight be who you want to be – no constraints. God knows New Worth has enough of them already.”

  I raise my drink to her in mock toast and take a sip, relishing the languid warmth flowing through me. Desperate for anything that’ll take the edge off the paranoia that’s cropped up in the wake of the detective’s inquiry.

  The music cranks higher, and there’s no more talking. Brita tugs me towards the dance circle that soon takes over the main floor of the apartment. The heated press of so many bodies competes with the arctic A/C on full blast. Kaleidoscopic color and sound burrow under my skin. My blood demands I move, delirious with the need to be a part of the collective throng, the beat pulsing everywhere in time to my heart, this moment in time that will never come again.

  I tell myself it doesn’t matter what they ask me in the interview tomorrow. Then I reach the bottom of my drink and know that’s a lie.

  All my doubts and renewed fear bubble up, cresting like a wave, propelling me into the next song. If I don’t dance, I’ll drown in the anxiety of tomorrow. There is only tonight. Faces of friends and strangers flash by, any nuance to the music reduced to the bassline that buzzes in my chest. I may burn up from the inside out. I dance until I can scarcely breathe. Stumbling, I push past two girls as I make my retreat to the hallway.

  Clumsy, shaking, barely able to see, my eyes are still adjusting to the strobing lights. The tears don’t help either. Damn.

  The bathroom’s miraculously empty, and I lock the door behind me. Then I do what I promised myself I wouldn’t.

  Rik answers swiftly to my summons. I try not to think about what that means at this time of night. Thinking at a time like this can only be bad. <
  >>Don’t say it.>> Usually, I keep this part of myself from him, the irresponsible, emotionally needy part that can only threaten the delicate balance we’ve struck. Brita’s always told me I’m foolish for holding myself back from him. Maybe she’s right. In any case, no matter how many people she’s crammed in here, there’s only one person I want to spend my last night of freedom with. >>Starlight Lofts, level 4 of the Canopy.>>

  Shock, anticipation, confusion. All of it whirls dizzily between us as the party rages beyond the door.

  <
  I stare at myself in the mirror. It takes a few seconds for my reflection to stop spinning long enough to focus on my face. I take a deep, centering breath. Straighten the drape of my lavender tunic. Inspect the makeup Brita helped me with one last time. Thankfully she also ensured I didn’t make a complete mess of my thick hair.

  I’m the best possible version of myself. That’s what matters, right? No matter what happens tomorrow.

  >>Can you get there? Here, I mean?>>

  <
  I squeeze my eyes shut, desperate to ignore the roiling sensation cascading through my body. >>You wanted to meet, didn’t you? Then come find me.>>

  Chapter Three

  Even though I know Rik’s mind almost as well as my own, it doesn’t mean I’ll recognize him in the flesh.

  When Partners in Crime ended and we decided to stay in contact with one another, I insisted we refrain from sharing too many personal details. No names, places, specifics. All of it verboten between us as a way to protect us from each other. Now, I wish I hadn’t been so adamant about the rules that shielded me from the full force of his identity. Clues litter our game discussion logs here and there like bugs in old code.

  But I know nothing about him. Not really. Not nearly enough to make this work.

  I don’t even know what he looks like. Each person who passes by me in the living room is considered in my mental calculations. Too old, too feminine, too attached to someone else. As I keep trying to fit the partygoers into my conception of Rik, I worry the edge of my evening gloves.

  At that perilous moment where I debate refilling my glass again to keep my nerves at bay, Rik pings my implant. <
  He’s right. My proximity map blazes with the concentration of implant signals in the apartment complex, making finding one akin to a needle in a haystack that’s been set on fire. >>Marco…>>

  <
  >>Doesn’t matter. Marco…>>

  He sighs. <
  >>Meet me at the garden overlook.>> And then I cut the connection again.

  I battle my way outside, my eardrums grateful for the reprieve. The cool night air’s a shock after the cramped interior. The garden overlook’s a few doors down. Brita lives in one of the most exclusive housing complexes in the Upper Canopy, topped only by the Echelon, which the real elite of New Worth calls home. Each unit has a private balcony off the second floor with railings curved like bleached, bisected ribcages, making it feel like you’re standing in the belly of some long-extinct creature.

  I lean against the overlook’s railing, staring into the cluster of trees spangled with spotlights. I can do this. Even though I jump every time the door opens as more partygoers come and go. The door to Brita’s quarters opens again, and it takes everything I have to not whirl around and see who it is.

  Approaching footsteps, then a heartbeat of silence. No turning back now.

  “Hello, Liv.”

  My ribs ache from holding my breath as I let the sound roll over me. My implant did a surprisingly good job of mimicking his real voice. Not too deep, with appealing mellowness.

  Reluctantly, I let go of the railing and face Rik. He’s a couple of years older, tall like his avatar in Partners in Crime, with the same black hair and brown eyes. But otherwise the real-life expression of the same elements is completely different. Who knew so much personality could be captured in eyebrows and cheekbones? Or a glance unmediated by the arcade? I’m eternally grateful I’ve kept our connection minimized so he can’t know what I’m thinking right now as anxiety settles in my already nauseous stomach.

  “Uh, hi. Glad you made it.” My brain crashes. I have no idea what to say. I force myself to smile. “You are Rik, right?”

  He nods. “My full name is Randall Iverson-Kemp. RIK for short. It also sounds less pretentious that way,” he says with a wry smile.

  “I’m Emery Driscoll. You know, in the flesh?” Could I sound any more ridiculous? We’ve been friends for years, and yet I’ve suddenly turned into a blithering mess.

  He cocks his head. “So why did you choose Liv as your handle?”

  “My middle name’s Olivia.” And when I created my profile for Partners in Crime all those years ago, I wanted to be anyone but me. I thought I was so clever, creating an alter ego to hide behind. And now that the big reveal is here, all I want to do is run away.
<
br />   “Emery.” The way he says my name – as though trying it on for size and finding it a perfect fit – raises goose bumps on my arms. “Do you live here?”

  “Ah, no. My friend Brita does.”

  “I remember you mentioning her once or twice.”

  For a moment, we simply stare at one another. “Second thoughts?” I ask, to break the tension.

  Randall’s dark brown eyes widen in alarm. “No.” He says it quickly, then frowns. “But your implant…”

  “Oh. Right.”

  With an eyecast command, I restore our connection. Randall inhales sharply beside me. When he first appeared, I acknowledged to myself he was attractive in an abstract way – a data point to be filed away for later – but now I feel it, as every conversation we’ve had via our implants is irrevocably mapped to his face, the cadence of his voice, the look in his eyes as he watches me process, well, everything.

  Feedback from our connection converges with the overwhelming sense of recklessness that has defined the evening. No constraints. The possibilities make me flush, something I’ve tried so hard not to indulge until tonight. But the dark look on Randall’s face brings me back to reality.

  “Why are you frowning?”

  He forces his gaze away from me. “This isn’t how I wanted to do this.”

  “What’s so wrong? You’re here, with me, and…”

  “And you’re drunk.”

  “It’s a party, Rik. You know about those.” I tap my temple. >>I know you do.>> An awful thought occurs to me. “Or maybe it’s me.”

  “Liv–”

  My nightmare come to life. “Now that you’ve seen my face, our connection doesn’t mean anything to you anymore?”

  “No, that’s not it at all.”

  I throw up my hands. “Then what’s the problem?”

  “All I know is you were dead set against meeting before tonight. What changed?”

  “A little liquid courage.”

  “Bullshit. Something’s been off with you all day. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to fight, but…”