Implanted

by Lauren C Teffeau

  Breck. Subconsciously he must’ve picked up on my preoccupation. And now, the threat of tomorrow…

  “There. What were you thinking just then?”

  I don’t dare answer. Instead, I hold out my hand. There’s no way to misunderstand my intention. Calibration of our data receptors lurking underneath the fabric of our gloves. He stares down at my hand, frozen. Shock and anticipation rumble between us at the magnitude of the next step.

  >>OK… let’s start with something simpler.>>

  Instead of holding my hand palm out, customary for calibration, I rotate my wrist so now I reach for his hand, palm up. He takes it automatically, something we simulated hundreds of times in Partners in Crime at each save point. A tremor leaps through him and is absorbed by me, but he doesn’t pull away.

  While our gloves prevent calibration, they don’t protect me from the weight of his hand or the heat of his fingers. In the game, his firm grip told me he always had my back, no matter what we faced. Now, it’s telling me the same thing, despite the doubts reflected across his face.

  “Liv–”

  “Shh. I’m making a memory.”

  He groans and tugs his hand out of my grip. “This isn’t the time or place,” he says with a glance at the rest of the apartment complex. For the moment, we’re still alone.

  “We’re finally talking to each other, not synch chatting. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “It means more to me than to you, apparently.”

  “What?”

  “I thought I meant more to you than a drunken hook-up.”

  “You do. Calibration will prove it. That’s what you wanted.” Clumsily, I feel across our connection, searching for snippets of emotion before the limitations kick in. “What you still want.”

  Longing swamps the connection before he bottles it back up. “This was a mistake, coming here tonight.” He turns away.

  I lurch after him. “No. You don’t understand. If we don’t do this now…” We might not get another opportunity. What if the police learn of my involvement with Breck, and, instead of a routine inquiry, I end up on the other side of a jail cell? No, worse. What if Rik finds out what I did and wants nothing more to do with me?

  “What? What happens?” He faces me once more, gripping my arms. “Tell me what has you so scared.”

  I rear back. “I’m not–”

  The distinct chime of the lift heralds more party guests, and I leap away as though burned. Seconds later, a new wave of people files down the concourse. If the bash isn’t at capacity yet, it will be soon. A particularly… energetic thrash metal song starts up, rattling the walkway.

  Randall scrubs his face with his palm. “Look, you wanna get out of here?”

  I give him a hesitant nod, but… “I don’t want to fight any more tonight.”

  “Then it’s a good thing it’s tomorrow.”

  Rik refuses to synch with me, and Randall refuses to speak, as we make our way to a twenty-four-hour caffeine bar. Nighttime in this part of the Canopy has a reverent quality. Most residents have already retired for the evening. A furtive few keep to themselves as they pass by, the lush vegetation absorbing their transient sounds. As a result, our steps seem obscenely loud as we walk, the soles of our shoes slapping against the tile.

  I’m not sure why I’ve even agreed to come. But the connection’s still alive between us, a complicated, snarling tether threaded with equal parts affection and annoyance. The cool, clean Canopy air clears away my lingering drunken fog, leaving behind recriminations and an appalling self-awareness of just how foolish I’ve been.

  Randall leads me to a table by the window so we can look out, instead of at each other. Thoughtful of him, since at this point all I want to do is vanish.

  “Let’s start over. What do you say?” Randall asks with forced calm.

  “I’d like that.”

  We stare at each other in silence until I finally look away. Beyond the window, a lavish courtyard full of tropical flowers. Before we left the party, I pinged Brita. Her Do Not Disturb auto-response assured me she’d be all right. One less thing for me to worry about as I try to salvage this evening with Rik, Randall, whoever he is.

  A waiter comes and goes, leaving behind a foamy latte for me and a traditional macchiato for Randall. I stare down at my drink in surprise. He must’ve ordered remotely for us. “How did you know?”

  “I seem to recall a conversation about dairy to caffeine ratios, and your misguided belief that the bigger the better.”

  “That was years ago.”

  He shrugs and takes a sip of his drink, all nonchalance.

  “What else do you think you know about me?”

  “Only what you told me. What I could figure out on my own.”

  “Like?”

  He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Like… you probably attend the College of New Worth. Some of the partygoers were proudly chanting the school motto when I arrived.”

  “Graduating next week, actually.”

  “Congrats. I graduated from there three years ago.”

  I grimace. “Tonight must’ve seemed so… immature to you.”

  He hides his grin behind the rim of his cup. “You make me sound like an old man.”

  “I just meant…”

  His amusement skips across the line. “No one said this would be easy.”

  “I just didn’t expect it to be so awkward now that I know who you really are.”

  “You’ve always known who I am on the inside. Think of it like this: it’s the same signal, but now there’s even better resolution.” And the fidelity can only improve once we calibrate. At some point between now and when we met earlier, his reserve has melted away. He stares at me with such openness I’m afraid to look into his eyes, to see what I’ll find there.

  “New subject?” he asks. I nod gratefully. “All right, let’s see. I grew up in the Understory. What about you?”

  “The Terrestrial District.” I hold my breath, waiting for the recoil, the disgust that most people have for the lower levels, but it doesn’t come.

  “That must have been hard.” At my disbelieving stare, he ducks his head. “I know, because I live down there now.” A College of New Worth graduate, now with dirt underneath his feet? “I work for Vector Agronomy,” he adds.

  That explains it. Some companies like Vector, no matter how prestigious, need to set up shop down there because of economies of scale or the access to certain resources the lower levels provide. “You’re the ones rehabilitating the land beyond the dome?”

  “That’s right. We’re responsible for monitoring the soil and the plants,” Randall says.

  “Have you, you know, been outside?” I ask, genuinely curious. After all, he’s helping us work towards Emergence. When the glass dome finally comes down, and we can return to the land we left behind.

  Randall chuckles. Probably gets that question all the time. “Yep. In fact, I just got back from a planting trip.”

  My eyes widen. “What’s it like?” Everything in the Canopy’s meant to evoke the outdoors, the nature we took for granted for so long. But compared to the real thing?

  “Different, but in a good way. You can see so much…” He shrugs. “And the air is sweeter than the Canopy’s.”

  “Is it true what they say? That Emergence is finally here?”

  When humanity first took refuge in the domed cities spread throughout North America and the rest of the world, no one was certain when we’d be able to return to the land. Scientific models disagreed on how long it would take for the harm done to the climate by global warming, warfare, and pollution to settle out. While we wait, each city has the responsibility of cleaning up the surrounding region. But there’s no denying the green beyond the dome that’s grown in intensity each year.

  “Well, technically I’m not allowed to say one way or the other.”

  I nearly laugh at his shift into formality, so at odds with our usual irreverent banter. “Oh, come on. I heard th
ere’s supposed to be an announcement in a few days.”

  Every couple of months, the city uploads a new vid to the network documenting the rehabilitation of the land. Disconnects do most of the work, but scientists and engineers like Randall guide their efforts. You can always tell when a new video hits the network because performance slows down dramatically as everyone scrambles to take a look.

  But network chatter says this announcement will be different. To think my generation could be the one to step beyond the glass… I’ve always dreamed of being outside.

  He gives the bar an uncomfortable glance, then leans in, like he’s about to impart a secret. “All I can tell you is the land wants balance as much as we do. The rest’s politics.”

  “I’ve toyed with the idea of doing something like that. You know, doing my part to reclaim our future outside,” I say, echoing the narrative that’s been drilled into us since birth. “But…”

  “But?”

  “Data curation seemed more sensible. There’ll always be demand for people who can make sense of the explosion of digital information created every second.”

  Competition for jobs across New Worth is fierce since there are so many of us trapped under glass, even with limits on how much automation each industry can have. One way to succeed in a city full of constraints – spatial, social, and economic – is to get a degree in an in-demand field like data curation. It takes a precise set of skills to determine what’s important and what’s not, measuring current usage against future needs.

  “Tell me about it. At Vector we have metadata for our metadata. But…” He trails off with a shake of his head.

  “What?”

  He hesitates, then says, “It’s just not what I would’ve expected. Curation, I mean.”

  “Why not?”

  “The job feels a bit stifling compared to who you are up here,” he says, tapping his temple. “That’s all.”

  I shrug. “It’s not exciting, but the steady work means I’ll be able to help my parents move out of the Terrestrial District one day.” That’s all that matters.

  Three AM flashes in the periphery of my vision. I can’t quite stifle my groan. Or the rebounding of my anxiety which thankfully stayed out of the way during our conversation.

  “Time to go?” Randall asks.

  “I’m afraid so, if I’m going to have any hope of accomplishing anything tomorrow. Today. You know what I’m trying to say.”

  I walk him to the train station in a strangely companionable silence. A maglev bound for the Terrestrial District hovers over the guideway as Randall files through the security gate. Our connection’s placid for the moment, but I know we’re both disappointed in our own ways by the evening. “I didn’t mean to mess things up between us,” I call after him from the other side.

  “You didn’t.”

  “But…”

  His mouth quirks. “Baby steps. Next time will be easier.”

  Next time. >>I’ll hold you to that.>> I’m rewarded with a smile, our connection humming between us. Despite making a fool of myself earlier, I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

  “Rik–”

  The maglev doors flash and chime. All aboard. Startled, Randall steps back just before they slide shut. <
  >>Nothing that can’t wait.>> I hope.

  I watch his face through the window, looking for that instant when my thought reaches him. He smiles, and a bit of that resulting warmth filters through. A tangle of emotions, too scattered to settle on any one for more than a second, haunts our connection as the train goes gliding off into the night.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, the crippling sensation of being watched deepens with every checkpoint I pass on my way to my appointment. A slight prickle on the back of my neck that morphs into stifling self-consciousness as my signal’s tracked throughout New Worth.

  When I first ascended to the Canopy, the sight of all the checkpoints mounted everywhere was a relief. Nothing would go unnoticed up here, and such transparency meant safety, something that was never guaranteed in the lower levels. But today everything sets me on edge. The checkpoints, the crowds congregating around the lifts, and whatever it is that’s waiting for me at the Specialist Investigation Department in the Understory.

  A few minutes ahead of schedule I reach the designated office suite, located in one of the corporate plazas scattered throughout the Understory. Sandwiched between an accounting firm and an ad agency, the office is gloomy with heavy plaster columns flanking tinted glass doors. Inside, a bright atrium decorated with air plants greets me. Water tinkling in a nearby fountain interrupts the otherwise hushed atmosphere.

  Not quite what I was expecting. No criminals waiting their turn for processing or uniformed police officers pacing the floor. A mid-forties white man in a suit gets up from the receptionist’s desk. “Emery Olivia Driscoll?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Right this way.” He gives me a bland smile as he leads me through a set of double doors and down the lifeless hallway. The receptionist stops me with a hand on my arm at the entrance to a small conference room. The physical contact makes me want to bolt. I have to force back my initial impulse to tear my arm away. Too many years of protecting the data receptors embedded in my hands from incidental or unwanted contact from others. Besides, we’re both wearing gloves. And based on his benign bordering on haughty expression, I’m pretty sure calibration’s the last thing on his mind.

  “This is an implant-free room,” he says. “Do you understand?”

  They’re not kidding around if they want to prevent me from synching with anyone. The instantaneous sharing of thought-text is the one thing exempt from the transparency laws mandating that the majority of digital information can be monitored for security purposes. A necessary evil of living in such a constrained environment. Thought-text, by its very nature, is temporary, lasting only long enough for the recipient to acknowledge it. An imperfect compromise to keep citizens’ lives private. But I guess privacy has no place in a police inquiry.

  The receptionist doesn’t let go of me until I say, “Yes, I do.”

  As I cross the threshold, my implant’s snuffed out like a candle. Usually, Rik and I keep our connection open but minimized, so he’s always there, reassuringly, in the back of my mind. Any other day, I’d be pinging Brita with a joke or something from the feeds, and vice versa. As I’m cut off from my implant’s network-dependent functions, even passive features like calendar notifications, proximity alerts, and simple messaging are silenced.

  It’s a complete mental amputation that immediately gives me a headache.

  The receptionist follows me into the room as I take a seat at the conference table. The sooner I know what they want from me the better. Do they know about Breck, or is all this an exercise in formality? And just where is the detective that contacted me?

  The man from yesterday and his musclebound friend enter the room. I nearly leap out of my chair as my skittishness goes into overdrive. “What the hell is this?”

  The receptionist raises a hand for calm. “Forgive me for underestimating you, Miss Driscoll. Normally these conversations aren’t quite so protracted.”

  “I take it you’re no secretary.” I glance over the room. “And the message? This was all a scheme to get me alone.” I should have crossreferenced the address with the network to ensure I was headed to the real Specialist Investigation Department instead of this… ambush. But how could I have known the message didn’t come from the police in the first place? My stomach drops. Just who are these people?

  He gives me a self-satisfied smile as he takes a seat on the edge of the table. “Please, allow me to introduce myself. My name’s Thomas Harding.” He gestures to the first man from yesterday. “You’ve already met my colleague, Tahir Ahmed. And this is Diego Martinez.” He must mean the muscle.

  “How nice. Can I leave now?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Harding says. Diego adjusts his stance, rea
dy for me if I try to bolt. I reluctantly settle into my seat. “In fact,” Harding continues, “we’re here to offer you a job with Aventine Security.”

  Me? My petite stature’s not particularly threatening, as I well know. There’s no way I’d cut it as a security guard. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  He acts as though I didn’t say anything. “So you can be trained as a courier.”

  “All this, so I can deliver packages and pizzas? No thanks.”

  Harding spreads his hands, a placating gesture belied by the uncompromising cut of his gloves. “Nothing so commonplace, I assure you. You won’t simply be carrying information on behalf of Aventine,” he replies. “You’ll be carrying it inside you. In your bloodstream.”

  A wave of nausea rises up. My hands clench, squeezing the seams out of my gloves, as I force myself to keep breathing.

  He smiles, but nothing about it puts me at ease. “You see, you carry a very rare trait in your DNA that allows you to hold encrypted data in your blood cells. Given the digital transparency laws…” He lifts his shoulder, an elegant gesture. “We have a number of government and corporate clients who want a more secure way to transfer data than across the New Worth network. That’s why we’re only interested in the best of the best, so to speak. That’s why we want you.”

  He watches me expectantly as I process this truly bizarre turn of events. “Seems a bit extreme. The network’s not that bad,” I finally say.

  In the beginning, the network and the implants connecting us were the only things holding the city together. People had given up their homes and independence and in some cases much, much more to come to New Worth – built on the battered foundations of Fort Worth, Texas, after a series of violent tornadoes ripped through the region – and the instant connectivity and the camaraderie that came with it was a relief in a time of so much uncertainty. Sure, the network’s not perfect, but the city wouldn’t be what it is now without it.

  “Where to start?” Harding leans forward, hands on his knees. “New Worth has millions of users in a highly concentrated area and endless ways to connect, customize, and create new content. Taming the network’s growth has become virtually impossible – too much of the city’s infrastructure relies on it. Which has made data security increasingly difficult. We had to come up with a new way of doing things. The government and business sectors were sinking so much money and manpower into chasing down bugs and backdoors and staying on top of new advances, actual work ground to a halt.” He smiles, looking rather pleased with himself. “We had to go back to basics. With a twist, of course.”