The Unlicensed Consciousness

by Travis Borne

  The city was in panic mode and emergency sirens arrived, adding to the noise.

  Amy surprised Jim, did she ever! She worked the street and multi-level sidewalks to his rear. Jim stayed near the whole time, back facing her, blasting people with the power stick as they darted out of the casino. Not hampered with the usual post fatigue, he kept on. He took out three within the first minute of their onslaught, including the little old lady who had just won the jackpot. She’d almost made it to the street when he got her in the back. And he didn’t know why he hesitated, almost letting her pass. He had never hesitated—ever. The white-haired woman, cleaving her chips, was more agile and faster than he expected but dropped to her knees with a lifeless wide-eyed expression. She became the proud winner of a see-through gut hole. Innards spewed and she landed face first in the slimy noodles. And her chips went flying everywhere, loads of them spinning and whirling. The gaze of others in the distance widened—fuck the old bag, we want the chips; as if he heard their thoughts—until he lifted the shotgun with one arm, pumping it in midair.

  A security guard was sneaking to chain the casino doors. He’d managed to get the doors closed while Jim was working the old lady. Amy looked right, seeing the big winner plop, then about-faced Jim. The security guard timorously fumbled with the chains as Jim slowly walked toward.

  Too slow, Amy thought, and she eyed the bench: the black bag.

  “How about this one?” During her momentary in-awe inspection it went off. The M-16 sprayed at least a dozen rounds into the sky. “Whoa. Sensitive trigger.” She knew it was ready to use. The automatic had a large extended magazine of ammo, and there were several extra in the bag so she reached in and grabbed one for each front pocket. She also grabbed a couple grenades, clipping them on the front of her flower-patched jean shorts. The magazines stuffing her pockets arched backwards, protruding like a couple of Wild West revolvers.

  She turned around, recharged, and let loose at arriving police cars, sending them into hydrants. She tossed a grenade—forgetting to pull the pin—so she took aim and shot it. Officers ditched, cars exploded. She took out emergency responders and remaining bystanders in a relentless spray of bullets.

  And Jim made his way back to the bag and reached inside. He’d tried blasting the casino doors but the glass took more than he had—bulletproof. He pulled out a pair of AM15’s, mimicking Amy’s lead. Each behemoth had a top-feeding, rotating magazine—275 rounds per. He walked over to his partner.

  The gun-metal death dealers let loose as he squeezed the hair triggers harder than need be. Standing side by side, then back to back, they showered downtown Future City with lead, taking out people close and afar, high and below, rotating. As citizens dwindled Jim let off the automatic trigger and began to use one in a more targeted manner, clipping people on the far sides of the street. Amy glimpsed the pile of onlookers who found a sense of safety behind the casino doors Jim had failed to breach. She shouldered her weapon and unclipped her last grenade. This time remembering to pull the pin, she sneakily held it for a five-count then lobbed it over. The row of glass-barricaded onlookers ate the surprise in a bloody flash, and the front of the casino, its magnificent entrance, came crashing down.

  The remaining officers fled in retreat for their lives as Jim detonated each of the vehicles one by one. Unbiased, he fired at rescue workers, crawling prostitutes, and gawking teens, returning them all back to energy. The feed sucked it all in, he could feel it; he could feel the drag coming now, the slumbering dullness of mind and muscle.

  The scene quickly became devoid of people once again, only fires and destruction remained. Jim tossed his guns in awe of the carnage. He knew why they had to do it—it wasn’t real, nor any person they’d killed, but…

  This is fucking insane! Jim thought. He lost count but knew there must’ve been at least fifty kills, by his hands alone. Amy was panting, but caught her breath quickly. To his surprise, so did he. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Later, far from ground zero…

  She cleaned herself in its water. The fountain was beautiful; it mesmerized her. Sitting on its marble-edged wall, Amy watched the show; just where she wanted to be. Only twenty feet over was the bench where she’d first seen Jessie. “Let’s go sit over there, come on.” Jim lugged himself over and they fell onto the bench facing the fountains. She turned to him seriously. “Jim, what happens if we get arrested, or shot here? Can we die?”

  A part he’d yet to explain, but knew was coming. “Unexpected awakenings could happen, caused by sudden shock or anxiety. This is not a good thing. It disrupts the system, which could make the day a total loss. It’s very important we inform the director for all logouts. The system must be prepared for an awakening and only he can do it. They’re always watching, anticipating. For sudden logouts some of the output can be saved, but a calm logout is best. If you ever feel like you’re getting sucked out, it’s almost too late anyway.”

  “But we can’t actually get hurt?” Amy asked. “Have you ever—” This being what she really wanted to know.

  “No, it won’t hurt you, at least not physically, but I’ve seen people with resulting mental problems. We had one guy named Lion, a real bad ass and one of our best. He got himself killed, a DC snuck up on him—a surprise ambush—blew each of his limbs off one by one then slowly cut his throat. He felt it. You will, just like it’s real—the bad part—but your actual body won’t be affected. Lion was messed up after that. He had anxiety attacks, constant feelings of dread, bad thoughts and uneasiness. It really screwed him up.”

  “What happened to him? Is he still—”

  “No, his mind was shot. We couldn’t get output from him after that day. His fear always took over and—”

  “What?”

  “He got the chair,” Jim said, “pulls weeds from the streets now. I’m sure you’ve seen him. You can’t miss that curly blond wig. His chest hair sticks out of his shirt and he’s skinnier now, does mornings on Main.”

  Amy nodded. She waved to him all the time, had even seen him on her first day. He was nice, kept to himself mostly and was very quiet—looked like he never slept.

  “I’ve been through almost every death scenario you can imagine,” Jim continued. The fountain exploded behind them with a new song. “I’ve been killed countless times. But, I’ve learned to control my anxiety and fear. And, you get good at it, really good. They don’t get me anymore, haven’t in a long time. But if they were to—I’d have to finish the map in pain, or ask the director to log out and take the loss. Oh, and no, they’ve never been able to catch me for an arrest,” he joked.

  Amy laughed nervously. She was glad to be with such a pro—at least that gave her some comfort, but she didn’t want to get shot or chopped up. She shrugged her head to herself, re-thinking about Lion.

  What they had done left the both of them slouched on the bench—stoned-like. They watched a few DCs scurry about. There weren’t many left, and Amy thought it odd they seemed to lose attention for Jim and her. She noticed if she paid them no attention, even in chaotic moments, they could lose focus on her as well. She made a mental note.

  “After all that action the system soaks up the consciousness from our minds,” Jim said, slouched, letting the show amuse his turbid mind. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? We can relax for a few hours and if up to it, have another release before day’s end. You probably feel drained right now, foggy-minded, but that’s normal. You’ll feel better soon.”

  After a while they got up and walked around a little. They went around the fountain then attended a magic show, even had a midnight lunch. DCs spawned quickly. More, and faster than Jim guessed they could. He knew it was all Amy now because after a day like that his mind couldn’t manufacture a mouse. He went along with it. She told him she wanted to see what she could do. She was very interested in her new job. Every aspect of it intrigued her.

  The area around the fountains was once again bustling with tourists. A new black bag appeared on the ground near
the bench they’d rested on and Amy was ready, full of energy and clear-minded once again. Jim was still a bit tired but he surprised even himself. They glanced to each other and spoke synchronously, “Let’s do this!”

  51. Shocking Rationalizations

  He’d been working with her for over a week, and was convinced. She must have something to do with it. Jim was immersed in a flood of dreams every night since, and recalling them well; at least a quarter of those were lucid (within, he was aware it was a dream). Exploring his mind, he learned much about himself. He’d never dreamed as an adult and as tortuous as some were, he liked it.

  Leaning on the railing of his balcony, overlooking the west side for a change, Jim regarded the gardens and greenhouses, the colorful multi-fruited trees, especially the hybrid coffee bushes. He took a moment to appreciate the hard work the botanists and farmers put in to make everything so bountiful. He saw Kim, and couldn’t help but watch her for a while. And there were her new assistants, far below, up early as usual. The skies were clear of distant smoke and he watched the morning light obscure the remaining stars.

  He felt fine, like he’d bounced off a slight malaise; better now, but different all the same. And brushed with a newfound glint of optimism, he thought about what he would like to do in life, perhaps create something. What? He didn’t know, but the new urge was there.

  After his two-minute shower cut off, he donned a towel and dried off. He wiped the mirror and started to comb his hair as usual, then noticed something different and brought his face near the glass. His eyes—they weren’t as bright. The intense blue had faded to a dull, salty-ocean color. A quick shock poked at him but rational thought quickly extirpated it. How could—it must be a fluke, maybe something I ate, too much coffee, better cut back. His mind juggled possible answers, any one of which filled the gap just fine. And with the reasoning, a crutch of comfort, he resumed his morning habits.

  He ran the comb through his hair. Now, it was obvious. He leaned in closer once again—his hair was thinner. He took notice of himself with heightened awareness, and, slowly reached to the top and tugged lightly. Out came a tuft! The shock was more than a poke this time, it stabbed him and sent chills echoing throughout his body. He’d never thought much about his physical health, for good reason: there’d never been a reason to! His genes had been cleansed and his DNA optimized at a young age. He, like most, was always the picture of health. But now, he was really worried. This wasn’t a dream and he even pinched himself to make sure. He tried other reality checks he’d learned from Amy over coffee a few days ago: pushing a finger through his palm, look away then back to see if text changes, the time, likewise does it change. He even flipped the light switch several times. To his dismay, it worked for each flick. Nope—this was real.

  52. Wall Climb

  Arriving at work he noticed Amy was already there, typical; she was always early. She was in the broadcast room, conversing with Ron. He was teaching her a few things about the systems.

  “Hi, Jim.” She waved, as spunky as ever.

  “Morning, everyone,” Jim said lowly. “Um, is Ted around?”

  “He should be here any minute, probably in his quarters,” Ron replied, “says he’s got some very interesting news for us.” Ted was the only person with quarters inside the broadcast room; a vital part of the team, he needed to be nearby, and conveniently, a borderline insomniac, he hardly slept.

  “Is everything okay, Jim? You look a little pale,” Amy said. She worked with him so often, where they always looked the same, but now, there was something noticeable, a change. She’d been taught about self-perception and how it transferred into the maps, usually a week or so behind. The system, having its own intelligence, would pick and choose which characteristics to retain and project, and which—like Amy’s arm—to change or alter. Today she noticed his face was more porous, his skin lacked its normal radiant glow. And instead of popping like his blazingly young and usual self, he actually looked closer to his age.

  “I’m fine, Amy. Be back in a bit, gonna go talk to Ted.” He left abruptly, which struck both Amy and Ron a little odd. Others arrived and he passed them by without regard.

  Ron shrugged it off and continued where he’d left off, “And here is the stability-to-output ratio of other lenders after multiple kills, you can see it drops significantly after…”

  But Amy couldn’t help but turn to watch Jim. She felt concern; his demeanor appeared worrisome and anxious.

  After exiting his quarters, and as diligent as always, while adjusting his special tie, Ted headed straight to his panel behind the HAT. Jim rushed to catch him midway. Ted carried a portable screen and had dressed up, slightly, adding an Albert Einstein tongue-out tie in addition to his usual white lab coat and collared shirt. The broadcast room was filling as many top lenders were arriving for the briefing. Shift three had vowed to stay a bit longer if necessary.

  “Hey, Jim, big day,” Ted said. “Is everything okay? You look a little—” He cut himself off and paused. A verification of what was happening hit him like a spotlight. He took notice of Jim’s hair. The true reality of the situation, it was the first physical confirmation to meet the data head on.

  “Ted, can I talk with you for a minute?” Jim said, totally disregarding his flamboyant special-occasion tie.

  “Jim, I think you should come over here,” Ted said. He put a comforting hand on Jim’s shoulder. “I have some important information to tell everyone, and I think it might be exactly the answers you want right now.” Ted nodded humbly and pressed a smile as if to say, come on, let’s go, everything will be just fine, and he patted Jim’s shoulder.

  “Okay, Ted. I’ll be right over.” Jim unhappily pulled away. “Just going to grab myself a drink from the fridge. Feel like I…like I need some sugar or something.”

  After Jim returned, all top lenders and staff were gathered near the HAT. He took a spot next to Amy. Ron and Devon stood next to each other, then Ted. Jessie stood in front of George who covertly, grabbed her ass. Alex Pennington stood behind Trixie. He wore his usual pressed black suit, barely faded, complete with handmade wooden bow-tie. Alex was the only lender who dressed up daily—said he could only perform optimally if he wore his suit, so an exception was made—all other lenders arrived in the blue uniform. Standing tall at 6 foot 2, Alex was slim and trim; he maintained an impeccable appearance. And his longtime partner, Trixie Wells, was as casual as could be, his opposite, but they got along well. Four other lenders were present, including Abell, who stood holding Lia in a seated cradle position atop his interlocked fingers. Eight were currently asleep, lending, and the twins, taking over operations, were prepping to log in four more.

  Of Spanish descent and close to Jim’s 5 foot 11, not much older yet more slender, Rico arrived in his usual, relaxed attire: open brown vest with extra pockets, white T-shirt, and faded overly patched jeans fraying over red and black shoes. His skin was naturally golden and he had thick neatly combed black hair, parted on the side; the front waved across his short forehead, tipping his thick eyebrows. He made his way over to address the crew.

  “Hola, everyone,” Rico said. “It’s great to see so many of us together at once. I asked that our top lenders be present, and thanks to those who came in on their day off. Earlier, I spoke with Ted and he told me we did not have to remain in the broadcast room for this, so, if everyone would like—I know Amy would as she has been bugging me—” He turned to her and smiled. “—we’re going to have our talk on the top of the wall.” All smiled at the idea, such a rare chance—some had never been.

  But Jim forced his smile, as Amy looked up to him excitedly. He still felt unnerved by his morning discovery and couldn’t seem to clear his mind; he kept seeing his face in the mirror, his hair. Suspicions spun in circles, a broken record replaying the morning event, and he reeled at the idea of bad news.

  Rico continued, “We have a few extra lenders coming in today and we’re high green right now, so without delay, vamonos. Foll
ow me. Jim or George, can you please help Abell carry Lia when we get to the steps.” Lia had been horribly scarred and deformed from a deadly attack, the same that had killed Rico’s father, long ago. Only in the dream world could she ever talk and run again. She was the next most productive lender after Jim, now third with Amy in the picture.

  “I can,” Abell said, in his soft deep tone. Abell was Lia’s longtime lending partner. He was the largest and strongest man in the town by far, and rarely spoke more than a few laconic words per day.

  There were two entrances, one at the end of each hallway. The long hall, upon entering the facility from the bay, curved round in two directions: right to the broadcast room, left to the control room. After exiting the broadcast room, they made a left and followed the hallway until it dead-ended—and they set foot into the wall.

  Single file. They clinked and clanked along, up the narrow metal stairway. A colossal open space, a void save for the facility below. The peak of the broadcast-room’s architecture stabbed it, rising toward the top like a jousting spear. And the stairway traveled along the roof of the broadcast room, spiraling up and around its conical shape, winding its way to a platform high above. Views from the midpoint were incredible. Amy yelled, “Echo! Echo!” George gave her a funny look of annoyance; Jessie bumped him.

  The innards of the mountainous wall were engineering wonders. The structure was built with compressed metal, and much thicker was the outer partition. It was constructed from any scrap that could be found: cars and tractors, axles and motors, yellow school buses, even concrete, all compressed to add thickness. There were airplane hulls and propellers, rims and rubber tires, automobiles of all shapes and sizes and colors, entire tractor trailers, the whole jumble mashed together into thick blocks. Stacked, welded, reinforced. Nothing was congruous, a hodgepodge of whatever could be resourced; an impressionistic masterpiece. And Amy said, “One could spend hours just looking at it.”