Implanted

by Lauren C Teffeau

  “I’m your handler,” Tahir says mildly. “Here to make your transition a smooth one.”

  I snort. “You’ve done a stellar job so far.”

  His brief wince cheers me slightly as he taps something into the touchscreen at his side. Now my implant broadcasts the identity of Gennifer Armstrong, age nineteen, from somewhere in the Understory. “This ID’ll suit our purposes for today.”

  “No credits?”

  “Issued only if you’ll have need of them on assignment.” His eyes cross momentarily, and he transmits a new message. “Next order of business is to pick how Emery Olivia Driscoll dies. I’ve sent you a selection of scenarios to choose from.”

  The message blinks red in the periphery of my vision. My stomach heaves. “A rather morose way to start the day,” I force out.

  “But the easiest way to financially assist your parents is through an insurance payout.”

  He has me there. A sequence of eye movements pulls up the different options. Slipped and fell off a concourse, knocked in front of an oncoming maglev, implant-induced stroke after a malware attack. “Really? If I have to die, I at least want it to be memorable.” One last chance to leave my mark on the world. Doesn’t Aventine owe me that much?

  He half-turns toward me. “Mundane’s more believable. Less questions that way.”

  I settle on a nasty fall and submit my choice back to Tahir. I try not to think about how my friends and family will take the news. I’m still not sure how I’m supposed to take it. Sure, the credits are nice, along with the prospect of helping my parents, but faking my own death?

  Cruel, unusual, and completely my fault.

  Automatically, I seek out Rik’s signal only to remember too late he’s gone. Just when we were beginning to explore the fragile thing between us. What will he think? Brita and my parents too… The most life-changing thing to happen to me, and I can’t even share it with them.

  “Harding said something about reconnecting with my contacts after training. When will that be?”

  Tahir’s jaw works. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

  A wave of helplessness rises up, but I push it down. I have to play by their rules. For now. “Any other major life changes Aventine’s going to force on me today?”

  The look in Tahir’s eyes shifts slightly, as though he suddenly finds me as dubious a prospect as I find him. “Nothing major, no.”

  He escorts me out of the office and onto the concourse. He wades into the crowds of morning commuters, leaving me in his wake. I’m no stranger to peak travel times, but he’s a master as he charts a course through the throngs, dodging people intent on the lifts and slipping past the slower-moving sections of traffic at walkway intersections. In comparison, my steps are clumsy, off-balance, as I trot after him. Understandable, considering the morning I’ve had.

  The commuters finally abate enough that we can walk next to each other. “I should have a handle or something, right?”

  “All couriers are given an alpha-numeric identifier.” He sounds like he’s reciting from a textbook. Couriers 101.

  “Could you be any more dehumanizing?”

  He gives me a sharp look. “It’s just how we do things.”

  “Well, do I at least get to pick my identifier?”

  “No.” Why am I not surprised? He casts about the sparsely populated concourse, then leans toward me. “You are M-37.”

  “Sure rolls off the tongue.”

  He wags his index finger at me, the white fabric of his gloves unbelievably pristine. “M for short.”

  M, close enough to Em, which is the closest thing I have to Emery. “Better.”

  The corners of his mouth curl up. “Thought you’d approve.”

  “Do you have an identifier?”

  “Just call me Tahir.”

  “Why do you get to keep your name?”

  “Because using the real name of your handler carries positive psychological associations that help us work together.” Me working with him, not the other way around. At least he’s honest.

  “You’ve wiped me out of the system, but what about people I see in passing? What if I run into someone from my old life?”

  Tahir tips his head. “It could happen, but we’ll be teaching you techniques on how not to be noticed. Besides, surely you’ve heard of the Law of Digital Recency?”

  I nod. When all information’s immediately accessible, what’s the incentive to retain it when your implant can bring up anything in fractions of a second?

  Tahir taps his temple. “Over-reliance on digital infrastructure. If you don’t exist in the infrastructure, where do you exist?”

  And technically, I don’t anymore.

  “I know what you’re thinking. How could this be? But humans are fallible. Fallible for putting all their trust into the network. Fallible for not believing what they see with their own eyes. And we at Aventine use that to our advantage.”

  My parents wouldn’t forget me, nor my friends. At least I hope not. But Tahir’s not wrong about the implants being so integral to how we see the world. I myself often rely on approaching signals to tell me who’s in my immediate vicinity, only using my eyes for backup confirmation. Usually because I’m using them to do something else with my implant.

  Tahir leads me to a large bank of lifts that’ll take us to the Understory. We file into an available elevator with a large group of passengers and join in that awkward little dance as we arrange ourselves just so to maximize the number of occupants but still preserve a precious inch of space between everyone. It can take some doing, and today is no exception – we’re just lucky it’s early enough in the day that people are predominantly ascending to the Canopy, not descending.

  The doors close, shuttering the sunlight. A few minutes later, the lift dumps us onto a bustling plaza. Natural light filters down to the Understory, amplified by mirrors, but it can’t match the intensity of the Canopy even with the sunlight simulators worked into walls and ceilings to provide supplemental illumination. It’s not so bad though. When I was a kid and my parents first took me up to the Understory, it was so bright I thought we had to be in the Canopy. I know better now, but for a lot of people the Understory is good enough. Good enough restaurants, good enough apartments, good enough light.

  At least it’s not the perpetual twilight of the Terrestrial District.

  Pushing along the crowded concourse, Tahir leads the way toward Fountain Center. There, the wider spacing between buildings makes it the brightest part of the Understory. I smell the fountain before I see it. Sculpted trees and pastoral woodland creatures linked together by water fanning out in arcing bends of light.

  “Wait here for ten minutes,” Tahir announces, then he pings my implant. Reluctantly, I let him through. <
  >>But how–>>

  <
  First test? Meaning there’ll be more of them? This just gets better and better.

  <
  But without an accurate map? Or a workable address? >>Should I do it with my eyes closed and my hands tied behind my back as well?>>

  <
  Tahir disconnects from me, and I swear aloud, earning a glare from a mom with two kids in tow. Don’t know why she cares – their glassy-eyed stares tell me they’re way more invested in whatever they’re doing with t
heir implants than with me.

  How to find a place that doesn’t exist? I start with a basic search, unsurprised there are no results for Aventine Security. I suppose I could review every business on this level and compare it against its physical location, but that would take forever. There has to be a better way.

  I perch myself on the rim of the fountain. People fade as I pull up my map of the area. Buildings are prepopulated with business and tenant names. Nothing jumps out until I reach an old pre-dome building located a few rings out from Fountain Center.

  My grandparents remembered being outside and their sweltering childhoods in Texas – they were part of the generation that built the domed cities and consolidated society inside them until the time when it’s safe for the glass to come back down. The building in question was originally part of the Fort Worth metro area, constructed in the late twentieth century, and somehow survived the terrifying windstorms that plagued the region. It needed all sorts of special permits to then convert it into a multipurpose Understory tower.

  But there isn’t anything the network can tell me about the current tenants on the floors that extend into the Understory. Strange. Suspicious even. But only noticeable if you are actively looking for it. Did Aventine erase itself from the public registry like they did me so it wouldn’t show up in search results? There’s only one way to find out as my ten minutes elapse.

  My stomach protests as I stand. When I get there, they better feed me.

  Abandoning the fountain, I file down another walkway. The multipurpose tower’s revealed after the next turn with its concrete façade pitted and stained by exposure to the elements before being enclosed. Unsurprisingly, there’s no signage telling me this is the place. Everyone else unthinkingly walks past as if the building didn’t exist. Seems to be a trend with Aventine. I slowly approach and run my hands along the exterior. Grit sloughs onto my gloves.

  I ping Tahir. >>I’m here, I think.>>

  <
  >>Are you always so encouraging on a courier’s first day?>>

  <
  I do as he says, memorizing the sunlight dappling the concourse, the lingering humidity from Fountain Center, the feeling of being at the city’s heart as countless people pass through the Understory on their way to… somewhere.

  In the Canopy, it’s easy to forget all the people living on the lower levels. Here, the weight of humanity’s everywhere, above and below, energizing in its own way compared to the crushing bulk it becomes in the Terrestrial District.

  <
  Scanning the wall, I almost miss the metal door painted the same color as the old concrete. >>Got it.>> With one last look at the Understory, I step toward it, and it whooshes open, revealing a small vestibule. Cameras and body scanners embedded in the wall come to life as the door shuts behind me. Aventine really doesn’t leave much to chance.

  Seconds crawl past, long enough for a cold sweat to break out between my shoulder blades. It’s a relief when the interior door flashes green and finally slides open. Tahir stands there with his arms spread wide. “Welcome, M-37, to your new home.”

  He whisks me through Aventine headquarters, pointing out the common areas – gym, training rooms, and the medical bay – all on the main floor. “On the second floor are Aventine staff apartments, while the third is administrative offices and meeting rooms.” He flashes me a smile. “We even have recreation suites you’re welcome to make use of in your free time.”

  “Free time? How civilized.”

  Tahir doesn’t take the bait as he escorts me to the medical bay, consisting of a small pharmacy, examination rooms, a surgical suite, and lots and lots of lab space. He bypasses the glassed-in laboratories where two mousy techs work and comes to a stop in an examination room that screams hospital.

  “M-37? So nice to meet you,” a woman says, coming in behind us. Her reddish-brown hair is pulled into a low knot and freckles smatter her nose. “I’m Dr Finola, hematology specialist and Aventine’s in-house physician.” A med tech wheels in a cart full of surgical tools. A mockup of a human head has a mask of lace-like circuitry.

  My gaze locks onto the tools. Another layer to be stripped away by Aventine, and it’s only my first day. “It’s not enough for you to take my identity, you want to cut me up, too?”

  Tahir shakes his head. “We’re only going to have some enhancements made. For starters, we need to strengthen the blood vessels in your arms.”

  I swallow hard. I had almost forgotten that crucial detail.

  He gestures to my eyes and the line of my cheek, making one half of a parenthesis with his hand. “You’ll also be outfitted with a retina simulator and facial projector.”

  The gear on the dummy. They want to surgically modify me? My hands go to my face, every part where it ought to be, warm and solid and mine. An involuntary shudder rolls through my frame. “I thought you said people won’t remember me?”

  “That doesn’t mean we don’t have to help them along,” Finola says gently.

  “But I like the way I look,” I say to Tahir. “You never said–”

  “Relax, M. Your face will stay the same. We’re only changing the digital perception of you, not the physical.” He raises an index finger. “When you pass through checkpoints or encounter other security measures, the modifications will activate, creating the illusion you are who your implant says you are at any point in time.”

  He places a hand on my shoulder. He means to be comforting, but it just highlights how wrong everything is. “You will still exist as you, but digitally, you’ll be a ghost. Transient and ever-changing.”

  Dead… barely a step up from being a Disconnect.

  “Will it hurt?” I hate how small my voice sounds.

  “Of course not. We’re regimented, I grant you. But we’re not cruel. Remember that.”

  Before he can say anything else, Finola lifts my chin and peers at me in such a way it’s like she’s trying to analyze me from the inside out. Maybe she is. Who knows what mods she’s added to her ocular boost?

  She says something to the tech, who jots the medical-speak down on her touchscreen. “It’ll be over before you know it,” she says with a wink.

  I don’t have the energy to tell her that, for me, it’s just beginning.

  “M? How do you feel?” Tahir hovers over me as I blink back drugged sleep, my arms weighing down the bedsheet draped over my body.

  “The anesthesia should be wearing off,” the med tech says from the other side of the bed, eyes on the digital readout on her touchscreen. “The procedure went beautifully.”

  My hands go to my face. Tahir holds up a mirror for me. Brown eyes, brown hair, brown skin. All normal. I can’t even see where they sliced into my face. Everything’s smooth and unblemished. Maybe they threw in a facial for free while they were at it.

  Dr Finola bustles back into the room and pushes up the sleeve of my right arm. I jump. She gives me a smile. “Sorry, cold hands. But I work better without gloves.” She takes a subdermal scanner from the table and runs it along my newly exposed forearm. Grunting to herself, she moves on to the left arm.

  Tahir peers over her shoulder. “Well?”

  Dr Finola straightens. “The fistula looks good.” At my questioning look, she continues, “While you were under, we reinforced the blood vessels in your arms.” She gives my right wrist a squeeze. “Data goes in, and travels through your body on a closed circuit until,” she squeezes my left wrist, “it’s time for the data to come out.”

  She lets go and takes a step back. “Aventine employs a proprietary hemocryption process wh
ere data’s encoded onto the protein strands of your immune cells in your bloodstream. When you get an assignment, encoded blood’s injected into your body. When you arrive at the drop-off location, your blood needs to be scrubbed – essentially a type of dialysis where the encoded cells are separated out from the rest of your blood.”

  My cheeks grow hot, the rest of me feels numb as though I’ve been paralyzed from the waist down.

  Tahir clears his throat. “We keep a strict accounting of people who have a very rare HLA type – a set of genes that encode proteins on cells responsible for regulating the immune system.” He sends me a reference file that’s way too technical for me to parse at the moment. “The proprietary hemocryption process Aventine employs for data encoding is geared to a specific HLA type that you and the other couriers have. In other words, you are immune, unaffected by the encoded blood, where people with different HLA types would become sick, with something akin to anaphylactic shock, if injected. But don’t worry, M. We’ll cover all the specifics over the course of your training.”

  He thinks that simply learning more about the process will settle whatever anxiety he sees reflected on my face, but he’s wrong.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Dr Finola says. “We need to administer a booster.”

  “As in a shot?” I ask in a small voice.

  She nods and opens up a refrigerator unit that has been built into the cabinet. Inside, a dark red vial awaits. “Vitamins, primarily, along with vaccinations to most diseases. Since you’ll be operating throughout the city, you’ll be exposed to exponentially more microbes than you normally encounter, and this’ll help combat that.” She gestures to my arm. “If I may?”

  Holding my breath, I brandish my arm so she can fit a medical cuff to it. With the press of a button, a small sensor within the cuff locates a vein while the doc lines up the booster to the cuff’s needle slot. When the cuff chimes, I squeeze my eyes shut as she depresses the plunger, doing my best to hold still and keep my breaths even.

  “There. All done,” she says briskly, as she puts the equipment away.