The Unlicensed Consciousness

by Travis Borne

  Monday.

  Testing was a well-oiled machine that she fit into like a key unlocking a long-lost treasure chest. System compatibility: 100%. Things couldn’t have gone smoother—for Amy; Myron bounced over a few speed bumps, but eventually got there. The tests were similar to the simulations she underwent years ago, minus the written exams she’d straight-A’ed, but this time it was official. Every calibration process went off without a hitch.

  Amy never guessed she’d be screened while asleep—all day long. It used a weird device that strapped blue lights to her temples. The funny thing, after the full day of tests, she felt unusually tired, a contrast to her experiences with sleep; she should be bouncing off the walls after sleeping for that long.

  Amy had sparked serious interest with head personnel involved at the JCDC for good reason. But because the town council had chosen to govern similar to the old ways, entrance to the workforce, like traditions before the war, had to wait until age 18. There was no outside force to regulate the how or why so the town council, selected and voted into office by the citizens, took it upon themselves to make laws. Amy had to wait like everyone else, no exceptions. But, she had taken some initial tests when she arrived at age nine—she was the last survivor ever brought to the town—and the results were nothing short of extraordinary. The JCDC could enlist children in the name of town security, bypassing law if needed, and had seriously thought about taking Amy early. They’d done so in the past but technical complications arose so decided not to risk it with her. She was different, perhaps the only one on Earth possessing such a gift. The operators were very curious to see how she would perform. They had waited years, and finally the time had arrived.

  Enrique Lopez, Director of the JCDC (known secretly as the Lenders Program among insiders) had the final say in her enlistment. Rico, as he was known by most—a town of first names, most no longer bothered nor had need for a last—always consulted with top scientist Ted first. Together they chose who was in and who was out, and when presented with Amy’s scores there was no doubt about it. She was in all the way.

  Extremely willing, over-anxious to start—Sunday had been a thousand years—Amy couldn’t sit still. She leapt toward the chance to do something special. The very word, special, rang throughout her brain, tugging her along. Special included anything different, intriguing, adventurous. For years she’d heard rumors about what went on in there but no one knew for sure. Even the closest rumor was likely incorrect, off by miles. But she had it planted firmly in her mind: visions of piloting a ship, flying beyond the wall to assist the rumored perimeter ships, then around the world, to space!

  Curiosity grabbed her like firm hands to shoulders, aiming her this way and that, and the gossiped availability of knowledge enticed her, almost more than Momma-Bee’s cooking. Fantastic inventions of the past, possibilities of the future, and details of the war: those specific particulars that she’d always thought, weird, why doesn’t anyone talk about things. She assumed much was unbeknownst to the commons, maybe and oddly for lack of desire to care. But she yearned for it, rather than just the minimal basics she’d been taught in school. And she believed it from brain to bones—her toothpick bones—that those special secrets would be revealed. Just the idea of any secret had her hooked for as long as she could remember. She knew exactly what she wanted to do and couldn’t wait to strap in to that flyer.

  Although, this couldn’t be further from the truth—she didn’t know anything yet: that’s what his eyes said with a mixture of anticipation and sorrow. In the company of a few others from the facility, Ted had watched her on Saturday, having a good time with her friends. He’d heard her talk about it before: flying, traveling, outer space. She invented stories about many things and he noticed how others were drawn to her; like magnets to a magnetar, and they’d eventually calmed down enough to listen, even the adults were drawn to the tale: a pilot who eventually ended up on the far side of the galaxy after outrunning a gazillion drones and diving into a wormhole.

  Tuesday.

  She rested—what a boring day it was. If Sunday was a thousand years, Tuesday was a million. She was instructed to stay in her apartment and meditate for the entire day, windows and doors shut. Devon, a worker from the facility, taught her some techniques; she hated it.

  Wednesday.

  The routine was too simple: wake at 7, breakfast at 8, to work by 9. She landed the day shift; to her dismay Myron got stuck with nights. She’d envisioned herself flying around the planet at Mach speed with the red-headed goober as copilot. Wasn’t going to happen, but at least it was time; her patience was a balloon rubbed raw and ready to pop.

  “I’ve never seen such a view of the town,” she said, talking to herself again. “The ninth floor—wow. Everything looks so small down there.” She’d been in her new building for five days and stood at the window, awaiting breakfast. Town hall had only three floors; hers was the tallest building in town by far. But it was quiet inside, and plain: no decorations, pictures, nothing, and only those who worked at the JCDC were allowed in. The other tenants, whom she’d guessed she might be working with soon, smiled but didn’t talk much, and not about work, they weren’t allowed to. Her room was clean but simple and furnished with the bare basics: a small bed, a three-foot-diameter metal round table that was a little wobbly, two mismatched chairs, a large wall-locker she could use as a dresser, and one free-standing lamp. The unadorned empty space echoed her voice, but she liked the studio layout, especially the elevation. She heard them mention it had been Jim’s previous partner’s, and only the apartments on the building’s ends had two balconies and an elongated space, and, that they’d been holding it for her for months. Food was provided, even laundry was taken care of; there wasn’t much to do and she was restless. She’d been reading a bit, even played a puzzle game that she checked out from the archives.

  “I’m so happy today is the day,” she said, trying again to disrupt a silence with the power to stop time. She took a seat at her table. The file; she pulled it toward herself again. His name was Jim and he would be her mentor. She didn’t know much about him besides what she already read a thousand times. He was in his thirties and had been in the program for over a decade. His status was labeled expert and he had a high creative intelligence score. Many other specifics had been blacked out. She’d seen him around town a few times but not recently, a strong-looking man with thick blond hair combed back as straight as his wavy locks would concede. He was clean cut with a straight nose, strong chin, and vivid blue eyes. “Nice to look at, that’s for sure.”

  Her attention was diverted by footsteps in the hall, and her vaporizer pit rumbled, again. “It’s just too quiet here,” she said, waiting for it while trying to control the nonstop flow of energy to her jiggling legs. She actually wanted to scream it. She thought of Bertha’s: the busy top-floor living area of the restaurant, bickering and laughter spilling from the day room, and Bertha’s unpredictable roars. She had to get used to everything being done for her, and this silence.

  DING. “Finally!” The anticipated sound meant food; she loved hearing it. The dumbwaiter door slid open. Breakfast.

  “That’s it? Vegetable juice—looks like turnip and tomato. Yuck. Only three? I could eat six of these little burritos.” There was a bowl of red dipping sauce, and six strawberries. She glanced at the check card. “That’ll be three strawberries and six burritos!” She would have filled it out right then but saw what was underneath.

  It was folded like a tent and a peach-colored finger slept within. “The pill. Holy cow! How am I supposed to—” Then she remembered what that man—Ron was his name—had said. “They said it was big, but…”

  She swallowed the meal and then, after thirty seconds…he said to leave it in her mouth for that long and it would get slimy. It did, and it was smelly sweet. Tastes like—a vision flicked her mind: ice cream, the cave, something she hadn’t remembered in a long time. And she closed her eyes and relaxed, and just like he said, it went righ
t down like a petrified over-sized maggot—gross! And she realized, I have to get a hold of my imagination, but what else can I relate it to? Jeez! Heading toward her bed, Amy noticed her belly started getting warm right away.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d put them on. The blue one-piece uniform—she chose it over the pants-shirt version because it looked simple, that and she had another idea—was probably the most comfortable outfit she’d ever had. It looked quite professional but felt light and flexible, soft like velvet, and she used it in place of her jammies every night since. Still thinking about another three burritos—maybe another six actually—she pinned on the logo. Four colors of wavy lines coming out of a head. What does this have to do with piloting a ship?

  8:20 a.m.

  The level-one door flung open. The sun was rising, burning away purples and reds on the other side, bluer than ever in the middle, and the crumbled moon sat on the wall. Center street, a duo in green uniforms were at war with weeds that battled the cracked pavement as if steroids came in nightly rains. The older dude had curly blond hair, fluffy like a lion—protruding chest hair to match; the other had just landed the job, a friend from her graduating class, who had always kept to himself; it was his third day.

  The town was waking; two others in a uniform the same color as hers headed right, toward town.

  “Whelp, here I go,” she said and skipped across the street, taking the winding nature path through the park. “Morning, guys!” she said to the green-suits, skipping by quickly. They returned a wave and a good-morning-Amy. The older man responded slower, as if he hadn’t slept well.

  11. A Trippy Walk

  Amy knew she was early so halfway there didn’t hesitate to slow down and look around. Things pop, she thought, everything’s defined and clear, and pretty. She reached the halfway point and her head floated on her shoulders as if the top of her neck was a pinpoint. Taking a focused look at everything, she felt taller, longer, and skinnier. The colors of the pines were exploding porcupines, and the old willow tree, it looked alive again with sharp contrasting browns, as though an artist had painted scratch marks. And the flowers: beautiful tomato reds, sunflower yellows, and delicious purples—oh the purples! But she noticed her mind was contrary to this, her thoughts were fuzzy like over-erased and smeared pencil art. It has to be that pill. It’s messin’ with my brain.

  Upon arriving at the facility, its base bulging from the southeast wall like a half-buried pregnant woman, she gazed upward. The wall shadowed the morning sun and made her feel teeny-weenie. She’d felt tall and thin, now, short and stubby. Yes, it must be the pill. She remembered an old book: her eleventh favorite of all time. The rabbit hole is swallowing me, and she remembered the peach-colored camper sliding down her throat. She thought of herself swallowing it again, and the world swallowing her. It was weird but not terrifying, just dreamy like standing at the edge of a nightmare looking in. She felt a shiver at the sheer immensity of the facility before her, and the tall shadows blanketing her, then continued toward the outer wrought-iron gate.

  “Good morning, Amy,” the gate guard greeted with a smile. His words set her at ease and her feet back on Earth.

  His name tag had two letters: E and d. Ed. She knew him. His logo was that of security guard: an arms-on-hips silhouette wearing a peaked cap with five stars above it. From the restaurant, as kids joke around he was, Jolly Cheeks. He was older, always jolly, and never minded the names. He could reach 5 foot 6 before pie and was borderline fat. The older ones usually had last names. Bertha called him by it, just Barton. He loved to eat her homemade pies, especially the chicken pot-; the Doc’s told him he had to stay away from the sweet ones.

  “Good morning back at you. I’m here for my first day.”

  “Yes, I know, we’ve been expecting you,” he stated merrily with red cheeks that looked like he had gone for the sweet dish. “Welcome, it’s a pleasure to have you aboard. And I hope you have a great first day.” Inside his booth, he turned a crank and the twelve-foot-tall wrought-iron gate creaked aside.

  “By the way, Mr. Jolly, how did you know I was coming?” Amy asked, stopping halfway through the gate.

  “Well, your clearance is much higher than mine, Amy, but, we hear things.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “And from what I heard, they’ve been waiting for this day for a long time. Rumor is, you’re special, or something.”

  “Ah,” Amy grinned, her eyes rolling up. She’d heard that nonsense before. Ed closed the gate behind her.

  She continued inside the perimeter, looking about. A short walk led her through a row of newly planted trees that partially hid the lower face of the facility from passersby. A huge metal barrier met her next: thirty feet wide and at least fifteen feet tall. Across its center, etched into the metal: JEWEL CITY DEFENSE CENTER. It was open, just enough for people to enter through a slice on the left. A giant man passed her by. She’d seen him in the park numerous times. He always carried a girl on his shoulder.

  She followed. The interior opened into a huge cavity larger than the gym warehouse. And the floor was cement like the gym’s, but stained in many places. Besides a few building materials and a broken-down light-blue pickup truck on the right, it was empty. On the left yet another massive door; it was sealed. SAFE ROOM was etched above. Aside that, farther in, was a fifteen-foot horizontal window with bars and a regular-sized door. She could see it was an office for security, and labeled so. A man spotted her and exited. As if caught in a tractor beam, she kept following the large man with the girl on his shoulder, who soon disappeared through a door across the bay.

  The security officer intercepted her before she could enter. “Hi, Amy. You’re headed the right way.” He gestured an arm toward to the door. “Welcome.”

  His name tag said Jose Limon and Amy barely recognized him; blue-suits and many of the security personnel had always seemed to keep to themselves. Jose was around forty or so, Spanish with light skin. He reminded her of a cloaked crusader on a white horse—minus the mask—her twenty-third favorite book. She couldn’t recall the name—because of that pill, it’s blurring my thoughts. He was smiling bigger than seemed possible, with super-clean large teeth that looked big, then small again. Maybe he wants my autograph, she thought, giggling to herself, not scared by the dream-like sensation. She felt so relaxed and just fell away from him and headed toward the door as if her legs were mushy and treading in a barrel of warm water.

  Above the entrance was more etching: Lending Facility. Perpendicular past the door was an arcing hallway: left or right. A handwritten paper was taped to the wall: obvious instructions for noobs. The arrow pointed to the right and under it was crappy handwriting, written with a green marker: Amy and Myron. Lenders, this way. Again, she remembered the word from the file. And she remembered what she’d been told explicitly: not to talk with anyone about anything. Lenders…what is it? She repeated the word in her mind. LENDERS. She could see the letters coming apart and rolling down a green grassy hill.

  And she floated inside, hardly able to discern her legs from that of warm air. She felt like an apparition.

  12. Facility Tour

  She followed the hallway and arrived at a choice. The route to her left continued normally and a sign read: TECHS. The direction to the right paralleled it, a dimly lit tunnel with colors reflecting onto the walls, and its sign read: LENDERS. There was another handwritten note: AMY AND MYRON, THIS WAY.

  “What in the world?” she said aloud, then glanced back after hearing voices. Two others were coming her way. One had blond hair—Jim, she thought—and the other was tall and slender, a black man in a white lab coat. She recognized him from testing.

  She continued on, still wanting to be early, first if possible, with her head high as if she’d been there before and knew what she was doing. A few steps into the tunnel revealed moving round pads. They came from below the floor and emerged uncurled. Those broken-down escalators. The thought arrived quickly. My Daddy Jon with me, exploring that old mall.
I’m really little and everything looks huge. She felt herself there once again and the memory continued with flashes like choppy scenes from antique film projector.

  We’re climbing the broken escalator. Daddy helps me up. Jerry calls out from the top, “Lots of supplies up here. Wait, Jon, I’ll throw a rope.” It’s rickety and I can see inside, the parts, gears and belts, how it works. I’m intrigued by it and imagine it working, with me on it, riding up with a big smile. A broken step—I trip and almost... Daddy!

  She shook it off. I feel like—like I’m—dreaming. The leisurely ride took her deeper inside and the calming lights became brighter, and she could hear a low-frequency hum. Something about all of this, she thought. It’s—making me… Feeling a presence near, she glanced behind and noticed a man several pads back leaning against railing; she could only see his silhouette. She turned, bedazzled, wondering what would be next around the bend. The colors became beautiful and flowing and every hue matched the beat. It all worked together. The rhythm of the hum had transformed into a gentle song; a soothing vibration traveled up her arms from the rail and into her legs from the pads.

  Light ahead. The ride was short but felt long. Exiting, she saw a screen mounted above that read, WELCOME NEW LENDERS, in scrolling text; behind the letters was a serene ocean paradise. I’ve never seen a screen like that, she thought. Below the title was a status meter which simply denoted, GREEN, and aside that read, ACTIVE LENDERS: 16. The town doesn’t have any of this technology, nothing even comparable. She noticed her mood had changed; she felt like a carefree breeze but her thoughts still felt different, fuzzy and unfocused. She hopped from the pad as it curled into the floor then entered the door on her left, which opened as she approached.