Implanted

by Lauren C Teffeau

  He swings the medical cuff around and around his index finger. “These make the process extremely manageable.”

  Once the cuff’s mounted to my forearm, it automatically locates the appropriate blood vessels for dialysis, one for exit and one for reentry. Easy enough, I can do it with my eyes closed.

  He slides the cuff into his pocket. “That’s why you’re going to practice the backup method.” He opens up a side compartment, revealing individually-wrapped catheters.

  “You’re really going to make me do this?”

  He gives me a patient nod. “We need the assurance that every courier we send out into the field can take care of themselves.” He gives me a considering look. “You need the assurance too.”

  He passes me the kit, and I take it, willing myself not to dwell on the needle hidden inside the catheter’s plastic cap. If Aventine’s going to deem me unfit, I won’t let it be because I can’t conquer my aversion to blood.

  “You remember how the process works from the modules?”

  “Yes.”

  He makes a small gesture with his hand that says go ahead. But I can’t. Not just yet. I sit there, measuring the weight of the kit balanced on the tops of my thighs. It should be a small thing, and yet it feels as though I stand at the edge of a concourse, staring down into the deep, dark heart of the city, with nothing to keep me from falling.

  >>It didn’t always bother me, you know.>>

  Tahir shifts in his seat, but doesn’t say anything inane like, “I understand,” when he really doesn’t, or “You’ll get used to it,” when I’m pretty sure this is something I shouldn’t get used to.

  <
  I inhale deeply and finally look down at the kit. Tahir points to the scrubber unit. “In the field, you’ll need at least a half hour to ensure the encoded data gets out of your system, but an hour’s preferable.” He points out the small slot where the tubing’s inserted into the unit. There’s also a button I’m supposed to press at the end of the process to push bleach into the scrubber, destroying the encoded blood cells once and for all. “For now, we won’t worry about the actual scrubbing process. Just focus on locating a proper site.”

  “Why can’t I have a permanent port placed in my arm?”

  Tahir’s mouth purses, but he doesn’t accuse me of stalling. “Early on, we did that, but after a rather… unfortunate incident, we decided it put our couriers at risk if their ports were discovered.” If someone knew about the process, I guess it would be fairly easy to look for otherwise healthy individuals with ports, blowing a courier’s cover.

  From the case, he pulls out a stack of medical patches, individually wrapped. “These wound-heal patches will rapidly repair your skin and hide the damage the injections and dialysis can do over time and, in turn, protect your identity.”

  I slowly push up my left sleeve. Left for scrubbing. Right for encoded data injections.

  “Don’t be afraid to take off your gloves for this. It’s better to ensure you find the right area than guess wrong.”

  I know that. I just want that little extra layer between me and the reason I have to do this. Without the safety net of my implant and the people it connects me to, it’s harder to stem the flow of memories that makes blood so treacherous for me. But for better or worse, I’m a courier now.

  Biting my lip, I strip off my glove. My arms might still look like they did before I knew anything about Aventine, but as I press down on my flesh, the branching veins resist the pressure slightly, as though they’ve become small plastic tubes embedded in my arm.

  “An artificial fistula was created there – essentially a section of reinforced blood vessels.” Tahir hands me a catheter. “That’s what you’re aiming for.”

  In the modules, they talked about how so much of the process is keeping your hand steady and letting the needle do most of the work. Just have to slip it in and tape it into place. One-handed. Yeah, right.

  I breathe through my mouth, fighting waves of nausea as I search out the right spot. There. My hand aches with the effort of holding the needle straight and true when all I want to do is fling it across the room. I can’t look away, though, as I bring it down, pricking skin.

  It doesn’t hurt at first, not until it bites into the vein. Then, I can’t be sure if it actually hurts or it’s just my brain telling me so when all that red bubbles up in the plastic housing. Like the gorge in my throat. I’m going to lose it.

  But I’m not alone here. Tahir’s statue-still beside me, our connection alive with as much reassurance as the settings allow. I shift my focus to him, drawing on his strength – one of the advantages to emotional bleed. I orient the catheter just so and tape the unit to my forearm as I drag air back into my lungs.

  Beside me, Tahir radiates a quiet sort of pride at my work. “I know how difficult that was for you.” He gestures to my blood sloshing around in the plastic container, but I don’t dare look down. “Remember. This is a process you control from start to finish. I won’t say it’ll be any easier the next time, but it will be more manageable. You’ll look back on this moment and know you can do it again when the time comes.”

  I pull in a shuddery breath. “How often do couriers find themselves in this situation?”

  “It’s very rare. But we did have one case earlier this year. A courier got chased away from the drop-off location by competitors and found himself in a part of the Terrestrial District where we couldn’t provide logistical support. Curdle symptoms were coming on, and he needed to act.”

  “But that’s the exception, right?”

  “Most definitely. The scrubbing kit’ll usually be on hand at the drop-off location, mailed in advance of your arrival. If not there, then the location will be revealed to you following a successful data transfer. Only in rare cases will you have to perform an emergency scrubbing in the field.”

  I slowly nod. “Can I take this out of me now?” I manage to gesture to the port in my arm without looking at it.

  “I’m afraid not,” Tahir says, gently. “Since you went to all the trouble to put it there, we might as well make use of it and draw your first pint so we can start building up your blood supply.”

  With the constant wear and tear of dialysis, having extra blood on hand will help with anemia and other potential complications. It makes sense, but I still groan.

  “Just when I think I’m starting to like you, Tahir, you go and ruin it.”

  Chapter Eight

  There are a million reasons to keep my head down and follow the rules Aventine’s laid out for me. Good reasons, sensible reasons, reasons that’ll pay off handsomely in the end, so I’ve been told. But I’ve tried telling all that to my heart, and it refuses to listen.

  I find myself huddled up in my quarters between never-ending training sessions, remotely accessing the arcade’s network, piggybacking off enough signal relays to hopefully disguise the ghost account I’ve just set up to get a message to Rik. Not Randall. That would be too obvious, too easily tracked by Aventine.

  The arcade’s better. Not only is there a certain symbolism to it, but there’s also so much spam and malware, what’s one more account in the digital sludge traveling through the arcade’s veins? Anonymity through obscurity.

  ||| Rik, you told me once you didn’t care how it happened, so long as we kept talking after Partners in Crime ended. Even though I’m officially dead, the Liv you know is alive and well. It’s hard to explain, but if anyone deserves the whole story, it’s you. |||

  The doorbell to my quarters rings. I start guiltily. With a hard blink, I trash the message and log out of the fake account. Did Aventine figure out what I was doing and send someone to put a stop to it? But thankfully it’s not Tahir; his signal places him somewhere on the third floor.

  Biting my lip, I get up to answer.

  “Hello, M.” My neighbor D gives me a wink and wipes away my paranoia. “Tahir finally gave you a break?” He peers around me and finds my untouched lunch on the kitchen coun
ter. “Why don’t you come down to the mess instead of staying holed up in your room? I’ll introduce you around.”

  These past few days, I’ve subsisted on the bland meals Finola’s been keeping my fridge stocked with. I’ve seen other couriers in passing, but I’ve either been training with Tahir or sidelined by the curdle. “Come on,” he says. “It’ll be fun.”

  Any relief at not getting caught reaching out to Rik fades almost instantly at D’s earnest face. I’m not free. It’s unfair to even consider shackling Rik to Aventine just because I’m not strong enough to give him up. He’s probably moved on already; I’m the one who can’t. When will I learn? This whole situation’s like a bruise I keep pressing down on, convinced this time it won’t hurt.

  But it always hurts, even if it’s only the memory of pain.

  D patiently waits for my answer. Ten years is a long time to go it alone. Might as well see who else is imprisoned with me here. I follow him into the hall. “What do I call you?” I’ve already forgotten the numeric part of his identifier.

  He snorts. “Yeah, the code names leave much to be desired. So we’ve taken to giving each other nicknames based off our letter designations. Officially, I’m D-19, but you can call me Dash,” he says. “Everyone’s curious to meet you. It’s not fair Tahir’s been keeping you too busy to make formal introductions.”

  “I’m not that interesting, believe me.”

  Dash chuckles. “Maybe not. But you’re a new face around here, which is almost as good.”

  In the half-empty dining hall, Dash leads me to a table of couriers. Two men and a woman, all in their late twenties. “I present to you our newest arrival, M,” Dash announces. He gestures to the taller of the two men, pale with sandy brown hair and blue eyes. “That’s Bandit.”

  The woman, with curly black hair and olive skin, gives me a warm smile. “I’m Cache. Nice to meet you.” Her voice has a pleasant burr to it.

  That leaves… “Fleet, at your service,” the last guy says with a smirk. Dark brown skin with neatly cropped hair and a deceptively lean frame. Crossing his hands behind his head, he tilts back in his seat, exuding a carefree sort of confidence. “What do you think so far?”

  “Ask me again after I get used to all the lies and manipulation that’s apparently Aventine’s MO.”

  Bandit and Dash exchange a look and erupt into laughter. Dash finally calms down enough to say, “Well, now we know why Tahir’s been in such a good mood this week.”

  I give them a bewildered look. “What do you mean?”

  “Tahir likes his couriers with an independent streak, that’s all,” Bandit explains.

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  Dash shrugs. “He just plays things close to the chest. Think it comes from his time in law enforcement.”

  “Really?” I file that away for later.

  “Yep. Detective of some kind. He doesn’t talk about it much.”

  That probably explains why I’m so transparent to him, even before we calibrated.

  Cache catches my eye. “Didn’t enjoy the curdle, I take it.”

  “Among other things,” I reply. “So, uh, all of you like working here?”

  Nods all around. I watch their friendly, relaxed faces carefully. Did they buy into Aventine’s recruitment pitch or were they blackmailed into signing up, like me? Or maybe they’ve been here so long the distinction doesn’t matter anymore. The work is fascinating, but can that make up for all the restrictions Aventine places on us? My emotional barometer’s been fluctuating so wildly since coming here; one day I’m hungry to learn more courier secrets, the next I’m full of caustic remarks and desperation. Like today and my message to Rik, written for all the wrong reasons.

  “Most of the time, sure,” Fleet says. “Though if I get caught up in a Disconnect demonstration on a job, I’ll need to have a talk with management.” He points to the ceiling.

  Cache gives him a sharp look full of sisterly concern. “You said it wasn’t that bad.”

  “It wasn’t, but it could’ve been.”

  With a quick eyecast command, I find what he’s talking about on the feeds. A demonstration in the Terrestrial District that turned violent, putting a couple of bystanders in the hospital.

  Disconnects have always been the minority in New Worth, running in the background, but I didn’t realize just how dissatisfied they’ve become. Because they’ve shunned the implant technology linking the city together, they’re often eyed with suspicion. There’ve been clashes over the years, pitting them against the rest of the connected population, but growing up in the Terrestrial District I’ve interacted with enough of them to realize they’re just people. Disgruntled perhaps, with limited options for ascending, but that’s all. Not the pariahs people who’ve only lived in upper levels see them as.

  “What were they protesting?” I ask.

  “Who knows?” Dash shakes his head. “Not enough jobs, not enough housing–”

  “Pretty sure they’d complain about anything that’s not subsidized hardware so they can catch up to the rest of us,” Fleet adds with a flick to his temple.

  Brita had been so certain there was more to the Disconnects than jealousy of the connectivity they can’t have. Hopefully she’ll get her chance to do her exposé the way she wants to one day.

  Dash’s eyes cross with an eyecast command. “Wait just a minute. Kat says New Worth News just released the latest on Emergence… Wow. What a game changer.”

  A hush falls over the room as everyone retreats into their implants. I access the network, and, sure enough, New Worth News claims they have the scoop in advance of the city’s announcement. “Are you kidding me?” I exclaim a few seconds later.

  Cache looks thoughtful. Bandit gives Fleet’s forearm a squeeze, and they exchange a grin at the news.

  Emergence really is here. That’s why Rik got so close-mouthed when I asked him about it directly. Pushing back the twinge of pain related to all things Rik, I dig into the story.

  According to the latest research, life outside the dome’s finally possible. Well, it’s been possible for a while, but only in small doses. Without food, shelter, a way to filter the air, and an uncontaminated source of water, though, it wouldn’t be a very long life. But now, the scientists tasked with rehabilitating the land are saying it’s time to start planning for the infrastructure that will support the staged reintroduction of New Worth citizens to the homes they left behind, in keeping with initiatives underway at other domed cities.

  As a result, the government has announced construction’s underway for Vesa, a new housing development located outside the city. I scroll past images of five squat buildings arranged around a picture-perfect lake, the land beyond reclaimed with lush trees and vibrant green undergrowth. Must’ve been leaked to the media in advance of the announcement. I can’t believe it. What’s more, there’s to be a lottery to be the first people in generations to live outside the dome. I minimize the rest for later.

  I’ve always wanted to see outside, but my excitement dims. “I suppose we’re ineligible for the lottery thanks to Aventine.”

  Dash shrugs. “Yes, but do you really want to go out there? Vesa’s still an experiment, and experiments can go wrong. I’ll wait until it’s officially declared safe, thank you very much.”

  “We’re going to change things up this afternoon,” Tahir says, grinning as he ushers me toward the exit. With a pang, I realize I haven’t passed through this door since my arrival at headquarters almost a week ago.

  A week since I was forced to sever my connections with my friends and family. A week since I talked with Rik. A week to get used to the idea that Emery Olivia Driscoll’s better off dead.

  The last few days spent cloistered at HQ, I had almost managed to push that out of my mind thanks to the relentless barrage of experience modules. But to walk the concourses of New Worth again as a stranger? Knowing they’re out there, grieving the old me? I have to draw on every scrap of strength I have left as the Understory
settles over me, familiar and foreign at the same time.

  Tahir said I’d be a different person when I passed back through the doors, and he’s not wrong. He glances back at me. The connection’s muted between us, but I have the distinct impression he’s eager to get started. That makes one of us. “We’re going to sit in on an actual courier job.”

  I perk up slightly at that as Tahir leads me away from Fountain Center, down a tight connecting walkway. Stragglers from the morning rush scurry past. The walkway opens onto a larger concourse with a bank of lifts a few shopfronts away. We queue up, the line taking us past a small cafe, which must be doing all right given its proximity to the elevators. Rent’s often higher the closer a building is to the lifts. That holds true even in the Terrestrial District, where upward mobility’s too often more myth than reality.

  He taps his temple. <
  He sends me an image of a fractal built on a series of interconnecting crosses. <
  >>Huh. I never realized that.>> My eyes cross slightly as I look out over the concourse so I don’t get too caught up on the details. Now that he mentions it, there is a pattern to the branching walkways. At the College of New Worth, I was trained in dozens of different ways of organizing and visualizing data, and yet I’ve been blind to what’s right in front of me.

  <
  >>Like waiting to pull up my implant’s map instead of making a reasonable guess where to go?>