The Unlicensed Consciousness

by Travis Borne

  “Daddy, Daddy! No, Daddy, no.” She fell beside him.

  He couldn’t see. His eyelids were melted off and his eyes were white stones. “Amy,” he spoke in a rough voice. Smoke came out of his mouth after she squeezed him tight. His hair was smoke-filled patches and his raw skin was bubbling as if he was in a microwave on high; the office shirt Jerry had recently found for him was fused with his skin.

  “It’s her,” a bot spoke quietly. They nodded to each other with new urgency. The bot reached to hold Jon’s head straight. Another bot gently tried to pull her away but she exploded, crying uncontrollably in front of him, then he muttered incoherently and coughed out dark smoke and blood. Amy lifted her head attentively, sobbing.

  The darkness was upon him, and he knew it. He felt no pain. Blinded, but happy. He knew Amy was there. She had made it. He did it. Rescue. And he knew, these were to be his final words: “Am—y. You are spec—” He coughed; more blood erupted from his mouth. One of the shocking blades did manage to stab him in the chest during the struggle; no blood drained from the wound for he had none left to bleed. “Spec—ial. Remember that, always. Am—y. I love yo—” His head fell to the side. A bot reached to check, then shook his head.

  Amy fell limp on top of Daddy Jon; her head lay on his smoking wet chest. She hugged him tightly and was not letting go. Urgency reaching its limit, the bot standing behind her had no choice but to pull her away forcefully.

  “No, Daddy. No!” She kicked and screamed, reaching to go back. A ship arrived, shadowing the area, and hovered in lower. It pressed on a few of the perimeter pines and nestled itself as low as it could. A side door opened and a ramp folded down. Carrying her, the bot leapt fifteen feet, landing perfectly on the ramp. It placed her inside and was gone for no more than a few seconds before returning to the ground empty handed.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said to the other. “I wonder how they managed to survive so long.”

  “I couldn’t say. But where there’s one, there’s bound to be more. Let’s round up these drones and check the area. They’ve likely already made a transmission, so we need to move. And get this body up, stat.”

  On the ground where Amy was hiding, remained a small black device. It had a faint yellow, and dimming light.

  9. PART II - Jim

  The clear sky radiated less orange. Over the years it had been regaining its natural blue hue, like before. Jim noticed, they all did, but nothing changed. Sipping his coffee in his top-floor apartment, he gazed at the wall containing him and everyone he knew. The wall represented a chance to live on, but for what? To him it was prison. He thought of escaping, merging with technology once again—like the exciting days of his youth—or better, climbing it for a suicide plunge. He also noticed something else. He thought about the same thing every morning, couldn’t help it.

  He looked forward to the SLAP.

  Those people down there, starting to come out of their shells, beginning the same old, same old. They could be the last humans on Earth and this the final stronghold, but that’s all they do, the same damn thing. Everyone should be happy, ecstatic, right? Grateful just to be alive, jumping for fucking joy—bah.

  The Great Wall, as many referred to it, represented this chance—and it worked. It had been constructed more than twenty years ago from scavenged metals. The partitions were made of salvaged, anything. It contained hints of the past: logos, chrome bumpers, gobs of reinforced concrete, school-bus stop-signs, all compressed incredibly into a near seamless solid. Decades of brown patina attempted to fade the clues but it was all there. Angular supports spaced fifty feet apart allowed the dam-sized barrier to stand strong at over a hundred feet tall. The gate-lacking mega structure surrounded the town and provided nearly a mile diameter of assurance—if one thing could be maintained, constantly.

  He took a sip; the cup was empty. He’d been too caught up in the usual morning hell to notice. He watched the people trudge around, back and forth, then sarcastically raised his cup to the new day. He cursed them all; an unconscious ritual, but they’d never know. It was almost time to put on the mask. And the orange morning sun peeked over the wall, highlighting his perfect blond locks.

  It had become a self-sustaining civilization. He came years after it had been built but had been told there’d once been regular supply drops from the outside, and as the early years passed they’d slowed, then quit altogether. As well deposits of survivors arrived from time to time; yet no more. Alone. He wondered daily: What’s happening outside, and are there new cities? Is anyone still alive out there? What happened to the deliveries, who were they, and why hasn’t anyone contacted us since, and most importantly—why no explanations? Is this it?

  He couldn't help it, the same immutable thoughts owned his mornings. But, most citizens of peaceful Jewel City were happy and enjoyed life in the secure town of 321 souls. Jim knew he thought too much, reminisced about his childhood and the world as it was.

  Basic knowledge, all accepted it, there remained nothing but a dead planet scarred by war beyond that wall. An uninhabitable wasteland surrounded by desert after a fifty-mile expanse of quarantine.

  Rico says flat desert makes it easier for perimeter defenses to detect and zap intruders, that it’s constantly policed thanks to our mutual connection. Ted explains it better. But we do know a few things for sure: it was the last war in human history and the book is closed. Billions perished. Nearly all plants and animals, art and ideals, religions and cultures, nearly everything went extinct.

  Life had come to this, and it wasn’t bad, really, just simple. People worked a little, talked a little, and then repeated the process over and over. Most didn’t concern themselves with worry or what they didn’t need to know.

  He was part ready for another day at work and had almost finished exchanging one mask for another. The coffee always pulled him out of it, just another cog in the routine. Jim headed inside to snag another, black and strong. He squeezed himself into the daily grind like a fat man getting into tight pants. The toil was monotonous, but as he’d come to know, necessary. Those involved in the lender program had to keep their body and mind fit to higher standards and if they failed to do so they’d be out. They could then pursue a fantastic career about the town: cook at the restaurant, physical trainer, tailor, there’s great work in the greenhouses, perhaps even a member of the town council; Jim knew he’d probably just pull weeds with his old bud. But he always thought about it and it lent him at least some appreciation for the special opportunity he had. It was just, the mornings, bah, he always started as a malcontent. His job, it really was the only reason to go on and he actually couldn’t imagine life without it—well, maybe if I could get over that fucking wall. Yeah, I can imagine that. A choppy film-projector flash of a man jumping off and splatting like a bug; the vision darted through the back of his head and fell into his stomach.

  Silence. Watching the weed pullers begin on the streets ten floors down, bag-eyed and barefooted in his pajamas, he leaned against the railing. The slightest trace of a breeze came by as the sun became yellow-orange and finished mounting the wall.

  It was a basic apartment but the highest in town; a perk of being a lender—to almost be able to see over the wall. Top lenders were granted top floors. His living area was sandwiched between large sliding glass doors. Jim spent most mornings outside on either balcony readying his mind. And he never did anymore, but if he went to the roof and jumped, high enough, he could see the top of the wall and a sliver of the wasteland beyond. But he had a great view from his balcony, which he did appreciate. From it he could observe smoke in the distance, and rarely, heard explosions or felt slight tremors. Today was quiescent but the occasional chaos was a reminder, a confirmation—things still work, and, things are the same. Jim knew, and that’s why he had to slip into his happy suit, squash his grump, and go to work with the usual fake smile.

  Last chug, the lukewarm bottom sludge—but he loved it, the kicker.

  The town was anima
ting. The routine. That dull never-changing routine. People walked, some ran. No vehicles, but there were a few bicycles. He could see it all from his apartment: the lush park straight ahead at 12 o'clock, town hall at 3 o'clock a block down Main, the bulging lender facility (JCDC as known to the townspeople) in the distance; it was housed inside the wall itself, at 2 o'clock. The large gym warehouse was planted across the street at 9:30 where the road curved along the wall toward the canal and small bridge. Behind him on the other side of the apartment building: the greenhouses, gardens, and tree farms.

  Heading inside, he thought about tomorrow. Mentally tired from a draining work week, he didn’t so much want it, but needed it. So Jim looked forward to his day off for this reason. Thursday was his scheduled gym day, which took up much of the morning; Sunday he had a full day off. Lenders were assigned an exercise day—all townspeople were required to exercise as well. Activities mandated, varied from person to person based on several factors. Jim maintained fitness well and knew the ropes. He possessed a solid chest, powerful arms, and was overall strong in comparison to others; he didn't require the assistance of personal trainers. Keeping the body fit was essential for the type of work lenders performed; to maximize efficiency—crucial for the mind. They hadn’t a need for strength or endurance to complete physical tasks, rather the opposite, to thwart weakness or illness due to prolonged physical inactivity. Jim thought briefly about his upcoming workout. He looked forward to it, a break from brain-drain as he called it, and went back inside, closing the glass slider behind him.

  It was just about 8 a.m. and breakfast would be up soon. His meal, like dinner and lunch if he was there for it, would arrive aboard the dumbwaiter, sent up from the kitchen. It arrived with a ding, always on time.

  DING. The hated noise interrupted the silence of his bland apartment. He jerked it out and threw it haphazardly onto the table then sat down to eat. Tenants—all lenders in this building—could submit desired meals by returning a check card on the dumbwaiter, or let the kitchen decide. Jim always let the kitchen choose so it would add at least a sliver of surprise to his life. De-fucking-licious, he thought.

  The Jewel of the Desert made use of myriad genetically modified foods that could flourish in nearly any climate or soil. There was also the one marvel of modern tech: a single food synthesizer, aka the Meat Master 5000, and it resided in the kitchen of his building. It could generate synthetic meats and refine protein sources from various wood and plant sources. It made simulated bacon, pepperoni, beef, chicken, pork, and many exotic imitations. Today, Wednesday, breakfast happened to be scrambled eggs, two bean and cheese tacos with salsa, and turnip juice with a few strawberries, including, as always, the lender’s-only, special vitamin. The finger-sized pill contained minerals and nutrients that served to stimulate a specific aspect of mental activity desired in his line of work. It also did other things, hence its size and slow dissolving nature. Jim hard-swallowed the over-sized abomination along with some of his slimy eggs then poured a third cup of coffee.

  I have the job everyone wants, why should I want anything more? His mind tossed and turned as he ate. He left the lights off, still dark inside, curtains closed. Maybe it’s just—grass is greener. Same thing as the years pass—the job—that and not being able to—go places, trapped, stuck within this wall—damn fucking wall. If it hadn’t happened, I’d probably be in space, traveling. Anywhere, but at least out there. Same old, same old. Same thoughts in my brain. Good tacos, though. Salsa is hotter than usual, go Kim—she is a rare bird—tasty fresh. Mornings, though—they really drive me into the mud. At least I’m starting to feel it now. He pulled the file over and took another look at the photo. Her name was Amy and she’d recently turned eighteen years old.

  Looking down at the cute and very skinny girl, suddenly his mind wobbled. Déjà vu. He’d half gotten up but sat to take another look. And he stared at the picture as if it spoke to him. Something beckoned him—this, today—something, there’s, something... But he couldn’t pinpoint the odd feeling. For a second, he felt as though he was looking at himself from the ceiling. It was weird, like he’d been, split into two. He shook it off by jerking his head violently and the sensation quickly abated. After taking a long minute to rationalize the feeling into oblivion, he left to get ready.

  A shower, then he donned his work clothes. They were custom made for lenders. Just as other specialty trades had their own color and style, he had a narrow choice: a jumpsuit version, or the cargo-style jogging pants with navy-blue shirt; he chose the latter. The small facility logo was pinned near the neck: a human silhouette, standing tall, arms raised, four wavy lines rising up from the head: red, yellow, green, purple. He ran the comb through his mega-thick blond hair. Pausing in front of the mirror—he liked how he looked but didn’t obsess about it like some others he knew—he stood up straight, tightened his chest, turned to the side, flexed a bicep, then took in a deep breath; feeling much better now, his morning eye bags abated and the coffee—and vitamin—were kicking in hard. Gonna be an interesting day, he thought. Been waiting a long time for this one.

  He finished up by sitting on the toilet and wrapping the cord around his arm; lasts longer with a full belly. He gave his vein the SLAP then injected himself. Instant happy—the best thing about Amanda had been her connection to Kim—and—well I better not think about that right now. He headed out with his thermos.

  Stepping into the morning sun felt nice as usual, warm on the face. Euphoria and a speck of vainglory completed his mask. He turned his head up at the yellow light. After a few steps down Main, the vitamin, coffee, and Kim’s poison made him a new man. He gained focus, alertness. It always mixed well.

  It was a fifteen-minute walk through the town to his workplace at the base of the wall. Feeling better with every step, he waved at many an acquaintance while strutting along his normal route on the sidewalk, bypassing the more direct but winding nature stroll through the park. He preferred cityscape, even if it was quaint, and he was well regarded in town. Most knew him—thought they did—and respected him—and he no longer displayed any of his inner feelings, those of the bitter, hateful grouch.

  10. Amy

  Saturday, 11 a.m.

  The graduation ceremony consisted of eight students; the entire class passed. Much of the town joined together to celebrate and many pitched in with gifts. Some brought breads or donated ration cards, there were tools given for various occupations, clothes were a popular contribution, and most likable, pizza courtesy of Julio and his family. They ran the outdoor Pizza Box next to the park. He and his wife carried the pies into the schoolhouse and Amy was the first to devour the most.

  No summer break or college; graduates went straight to work to support the town one way or another. Most available jobs were basic: shoemaker, street sweeper, general maintenance, tailor, security, even teacher to name a few—although teaching positions would soon become unnecessary. Learning continued but optionally; generally meaning read old books or make an inquiry. Few did. Skilled trades were learned as an apprentice and most stuck with what they’d been doled; some were lucky enough to have a request granted.

  Amy didn’t need to request, or shift a gust of air thinking about it; her position had been chosen nearly a decade prior. She landed herself a career working at the JCDC (Jewel City Defense Center) and was to begin as an operations assistant. She hadn’t a clue what the job entailed but knew she didn’t want to be peeling potatoes next to Bertha, cleaning windows, or yanking on weeds. This was the coolest job available and only a select few were granted access to it: the bulge in the wall. This year around, two made it.

  He sat right next to her, stuffing his face. He’d eaten as much as she but his belly showed as if a gnome was inside blowing up a balloon.

  “You’re expanding, Myron,” she said, exaggerating wide eyes toward his belly. Others agreed, laughing. His short stature stimulated the wisecrack.

  Myron raised his orange brow then tightly lowered it twice as much
, but chuckled after cooking up his comeback to still-has-worms. “And…you’re not. Uh. Better eat more, faster, faster. You look like a…starved clown.”

  She did. She was thin enough, and ate fast enough, and had tomato sauce quadrupling the size of her lips. She just shrugged her shoulders then grabbed another slice. Myron still looked funnier, she thought, chewing. The sauce covered his lips, and his bright orange hair—well, I don’t want to be mean.

  Compared to his especially, her belly was as flat as the lower arch of her back, as if the pizza fell into a vaporizer pit after sliding down the tube. But they all had their quirks and goofed around on the last day they’d be together as a class. There was a surplus of pizza, tomato-stained smiles, then a pizza fight.

  The three of them—Amy’s two closest friends: Myron, who’d also passed the entrance tests, barely, and Terri; she missed the chance by one test point—wished they could remain glued together, inseparable like they’d always been. Terri was upset but landed a technical position in the botany department working directly under Kim Mills. She, like many, loved super-smart Kim and her frown was easily flipped.

  However, all frowning took a leap from the wall that Saturday afternoon—the best of days. After the casual celebration everyone went home and Sunday was a welcome day off—for some.

  To quell the ants in her pants and escape the silence of her new apartment, Amy skipped out to her foster mom’s, namely Bertha’s Place. She spent Sunday enjoying the company of her foster family, plus Myron and Terri came over. Bertha’s was the largest of the few restaurants in town and had one of the rare working screens. They watched some old movies, savored country cookin’, and goofed off. Sunday was nice, long, but nice.