Except this one wasn’t empty, of course. This vessel had the consciousness of Alex inside. A luminous blue glow pulsed in the vessel’s right temple, indicating that a human consciousness had been ported in.
“You know the drill,” said Alex, handing him the clipboard. “Just ring the bell when you’re done.” The vessel gestured toward the counter in the center of the room.
Taran nodded and sat back down on the chair, dutifully filling out the form that would be clipped to the foot of his bed for the next two weeks.
Name: Taran Freeborn
Occupation: Business Consultant
MindPort ID: 54598
Departure port: AUK33
Arrival port: MEL54
Length of absence: 14 days
Date of re-entry: 3rd September
Time of re-entry: 11.00 a.m.
Taran’s fingers began to ache as he wrote, and he felt relieved that he wouldn’t have to deal with such human tribulations for two weeks. For two whole weeks, somebody else would be taking care of this fragile, stinking body that needed to eat, and shit, and sleep. Because, for that brief period of time, he wouldn’t be human anymore. He would be . . . more. He would be a vessel.
Taran completed the form, but before he had a chance to walk over to the counter, Alex appeared once again beside him. He gazed longingly at the hairless, utterly flawless figure and felt wildly inadequate.
“Can I ask you a question,” he began, surprised that he was being so forward.
“I’m a female,” said Alex, and Taran laughed as he rose to his feet.
“No, no . . . something else.”
The vessel shrugged, an all-too-human action that looked clunky in the sleek shell.
“Do you get longer?” asked Taran, and then he frowned. “I mean, working for MindPort, are there allowances?”
Alex reached for the clipboard, shaking her head. “Maximum one month at a time, same as everyone else.” She spoke in that same monotone voice as all vessels, so Taran couldn’t tell if there was a hint of regret or annoyance in her words.
“Unless you’re in the army though, right?”
“Right,” said Alex, glancing over the information on the form. “But that’s not a desirable option for most.”
Taran had to agree. Although recruits could stay in the military-equipped vessels indefinitely, the likelihood of surviving combat for any real period of time was slim. And everyone knew that if a vessel was destroyed, the consciousness inside would die with it. Once the link between vessel and body was severed, the fragile human form lying in the Body Lounge would remain a vegetable until the money paid to keep it there ran out. Taran shivered. Although he would give just about anything to remain in the vessel system forever, enlisting in the army was one step he wasn’t brave enough to take.
“Or . . .” continued Taran, clearing his throat. “Or if you’re very rich.”
The vessel looked up at him, the pupils in its gray eyes just a little too large to pass as human. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
Surely she had heard the rumors of immortal men wandering the earth, constrained only by their access to a charging station and gel sachets. Taran just shrugged, running his eyes from the bald head, down the vessel’s neck and chest, all the way to its feet.
“Do you think the laws are archaic?” asked Taran. “I mean, they were initially set up due to the limited number of vessels available, but now . . .”
“Now there are enough vessels to service all of the developed world.”
“Right.”
The vessel shook its head. “Studies show that it’s not good for us to spend so much time in the system. The longer we spend in the vessels, the less connected we feel to other humans . . . To ourselves.”
Taran raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the point?”
Silence stretched between them, and Taran wondered if Alex would be so quick to dismiss the wonders of the vessel system if she were currently locked inside her human form like he was. Her face was virtually expressionless, the same as all the other vessels. There weren’t enough movement plates in the facial region to form complex expressions—such functions weren’t a desired feature.
“Follow me,” she said at last, and the vessel led him through the door and into the main section of the Body Lounge.
As Taran walked along the rows of curtained off cubicles, he could hear quiet beeping emanating from within. It was like hundreds of mechanical heartbeats playing a strange symphony. Taran knew what lay behind the curtains, of course—he’d been there numerous times. A single bed. A sleeping figure. A dozen wires connecting the body to a machine that hummed and beeped and buzzed.
They weren’t really asleep, of course. MindPorting was more like going into a coma. For the body left behind, only the most basic functions would continue to work. The heart would continue to beat, pumping blood around the redundant, unmoving form. The chest would continue to rise and fall as oxygen was drawn in through the slightly open mouth.
In just a few minutes, Taran would be lying in one of those hospital beds. Once his consciousness had been siphoned out, Alex would shove a feeding tube down his throat and into his stomach. She’d also insert a catheter so that one part of his bodily functions would be taken care of. He didn’t like to think about the other ones.
Of course, she’d have him cleaned up, tubeless, and ready to go at 11 a.m. on the 3rd of September so that when his consciousness re-entered his body, it would be in pristine condition. At least, as pristine as a human body could ever be. Taran tried not to think about the return, it was always a massive letdown.
“Just to your left, Mr. Freeborn,” said Alex, gesturing to cubicle 324. Taran admired the way that the vessel’s body moved. His own body was getting older and was starting to creak, and he yearned to stay in the vessel indefinitely once he had MindPorted in. But of course, the laws were strict. A maximum of one month at a time, and no more than half a year in total could be spent in the vessel system—at least for civilians.
Taran entered the cubicle, and when he saw the hospital gown on the bed, a little thrill coursed through his veins. In just a few minutes, he would be far away from this clunky form and dull reality. He would be in a different country, not for a holiday this time, but to consult with a cosmetic business on improving their profits. Not quite as pleasurable as a vacation, but he wasn’t going to complain since it meant spending more time in a vessel.
Taran couldn’t help but marvel at the fact that just a few years ago, traveling to Melbourne would have required transit time and the hassle of customs control. These days everyone accepted that it was cheaper, faster, and easier to MindPort into a vessel than take a plane, and his boss had never seriously considered sending him the old-fashioned way. Taran was just fine with that.
Alex shut the curtain and stepped outside the cubicle while Taran took off his clothes, folded them neatly and placed them on a shelf beside the hospital bed. There, the clothes would stay until he returned. He looked down at his flabby gut and wrinkled skin. Gross. Quickly donning the thin hospital gown, he lay on the bed.
“I’m ready,” he said quietly, and Alex re-entered the booth, wheeling a trolley silently behind her. She closed the curtains and moved the trolley up to the right-hand side of the bed. Taran glanced apprehensively at the small machine propped on top, a roll of thick cable resting beside it. Although he loved everything about being in a vessel, Taran couldn’t pretend that he enjoyed the transition.
“Okay, Taran,” said Alex, her voice smooth and almost toneless. “It’s time.”
Taran dutifully rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. This part of the journey, although it wasn’t painful exactly, was a little . . . uncomfortable. He felt the vessel’s cool fingers prod the area at the top of his neck where the port had been surgically implanted. Bracing himself for the explosion of sensations about to accost him, he curled his hands into tight balls.
“Don’t fight it,” said Alex in what wa
s probably supposed to be a soothing tone, and Taran tried to relax his racing mind. He felt pressure on his neck and knew that Alex had just inserted the cable into the port. There was a slight hum from the machine, a prickle of electricity, and then Taran was falling forward into a rush of stars. Pins and needles broke out along his body, and he became vaguely aware of his limbs twitching and thrashing, and Alex saying something to him. And then everything went dark.
When Taran opened his eyes, he was standing in a docking port in a long, narrow room that was more like a corridor.
“Take a moment to adjust,” said a voice beside him. Gazing at the port agent standing a few feet away, Taran could see each and every blemish on his human skin. Viewing the world from within a vessel was like looking at a high definition television screen after squinting at one of those old tube sets for most of his life. He was still seeing the same things as human eyes, there was just more. More clarity. More depth. He looked at the name tag sewn into the front of the agent’s crisp, white shirt and he could make out every individual crimson fiber making up the word, “Greg.”
“Welcome to Melbourne, sir.” The port agent’s voice had that unmistakeable Australian twang, and Taran felt mildly annoyed about the gendered greeting. Wasn’t the point of using the vessels to transcend human concepts such as gender? Taran gazed out one of the small, square windows on the opposite wall. The frames spaced evenly along the corridor reminded Taran of portholes in a submarine. With little effort, his telescopic irises allowed him to see clearly across the room, out the window, and into the apartment opposite. It was a nice apartment, small, with the lounge and kitchen combined. His gaze was drawn to the little red lights flickering on the front of the oven.
6.45 a.m. Taran quickly did the math.
“I’m late.”
“Yes,” agreed the port agent. “By fifteen minutes.”
Taran fixed his stare on Greg. “What happened?”
“Probably nothing,” said the port agent. “Slow connection.”
But Taran didn’t need the vessel’s enhanced hearing to note the twinge of concern in the agent’s voice. Was it because he had fought the system? Alex had reminded him to relax, but had he really listened to her? Had he mucked up the transition somehow?
The agent reached behind Taran’s head to unfasten the port cable which extended from the docking station into his neck like a confused umbilical cord. But this cord was pulsing with electricity rather than blood.
Unclipped, Taran stepped forward off the low platform and flexed his fingers. Looking left and right, he could see a long row of vacant vessels stretched along the corridor, shoulder to shoulder as though seeking comfort from each other. Don’t be so overdramatic, he thought to himself.
“I’ll just run a couple of tests,” said the agent, and Taran nodded, distracted by the rhythmic pulse of blood through the man’s jugular.
“While you’re in there,” said Taran quietly, “maybe you could tone the visuals down slightly? Just while I adjust.” It happened every time he ported into a vessel. He should be used to it by now, but the technology used to create the teleoptic eye was so advanced that Taran would find himself getting distracted by the minutiae in the world around him.
“Of course.” The man led Taran halfway along the corridor, where a service pod was nestled in the wall, slicing the row of vessels in two. As he walked past the empty vessels—their grayish bodies reflecting off the polished concrete floor—Taran couldn’t shake the feeling that they were watching him. Impossible, of course, because they were simply 3D printed shells—empty and waiting for a human consciousness to be ported in. Their eyes were closed, temples blessedly bare, waiting to be of use to a human mind.
Taran entered the service pod, taking a seat on the stool in the center, back facing the port agent. There was a slight hum as the pod performed a sort of x-ray on his vessel, and the agent perused the results. Then he felt Greg press down firmly on the back of his head and remove the plate that protected the inner circuitry. There was no pain, of course—the vessels were created without pain receptors, which was what made them so perfect for the military. He felt a tingle in the circuitry and then the luster of the world around him dimmed slightly until it was almost—but not quite—at the level of a human.
“Better?” asked the agent.
“Yes,” said Taran, with relief. Now he would be able to concentrate on his work rather than risk becoming distracted by a colorful poster on the wall or dust on the windowsill shining in the early morning sun. Taran heard a click as the agent replaced the plate on the back of his head.
“It all seems fine,” said the agent. “Your consciousness has merged with the vessel circuitry as intended. The delay could have been a clog up in the lines—this time of the morning on a weekday is a popular time to port.”
Taran nodded. He wasn’t overly concerned—he’d lost count of the vessels he’d inhabited, and he trusted the system more than he trusted catching a taxi to the office.
“Any accessories?”
Taran perused the shelves in the back of the service pod, filled with hats and gloves; the hangers overflowing with dresses and coats; and the decapitated heads staring out at him, wearing wigs in brown, and blonde, and blue. For a moment he entertained the thought of wearing a business suit, and then shook himself. Beyond the first time, when he was still stained by that flawed human self-consciousness, he never wore any sort of accessories on his vessel. They were perfect. Genderless, devoid of race or sexuality. Why mar them with human preconceptions?
He shook his head. “No thank you, I need to get to work.”
It was a tricky assignment, and one that Taran didn’t feel particularly invested in. Marcus, the CEO of a popular cosmetics business, was understandably concerned about the drop in revenue after being involved in a company that, until recently, had been incredibly profitable.
“I thought they would have sent me a human,” he said gruffly as soon as he saw Taran.
“I am human,” said Taran automatically, “on the inside.”
Marcus soon got over his qualms and showed Taran his latest financial reports, desperate for some way to rejuvenate his failing business. “I honestly thought that the vessel system would be good for the cosmetics industry,” Marcus confided to Taran over lunch. “You know, for when they return to their human bodies. I thought they would be even more inclined to want to improve them.”
Taran watched as Marcus sliced into a piece of rare steak, the bloody juices oozing across his plate. “Do you use the system much yourself?” Taran asked, raising one gray finger in the air to hail a waiter.
Marcus shook his head, swallowing a bite of food. “Tried it a couple of times, not my cup of tea.”
Then you clearly have terrible taste, thought Taran, but he didn’t dare say this aloud. The waiter arrived at the table and looked at Taran expectantly. “Flat white,” he said automatically, and then laughed. The sound was odd and he stopped quickly.
Marcus and the waiter just stared at him.
“Sorry, habit. Just after another gel infusion.” He shook his head, a little embarrassed at the slip-up. Perhaps it was something about being at a restaurant that reminded him uncomfortably of being human.
Marcus glanced around at the half-empty restaurant and then leaned forward, speaking quietly. “It’s not only my business that’s suffering, you know. Restaurants all over the city, just like this one, are sitting there empty. Transport companies, too, are struggling for business.”
“I know,” said Taran, although he didn’t see what the big deal was. “It’s a shame for those companies—for your company—but there are a lot of good things that have come out of the system, too.” He wanted to tell Marcus about his grandmother who, rather than spending her final few weeks in pain, had ported into a vessel and hiked the Himalayas—a lifelong dream of hers becoming reality.
But Marcus wasn’t listening to him. “Did you know that they are lowering the price again? Soon every Tom, Di
ck, and Harry will be able to use the system. And that latest idiot vying for Prime Minister promises to remove time restrictions if he is voted in.”
This was news to Taran, and he suppressed the urge to ask more. Instead, he lifted his vessel’s lips into an attempted smile. “We just need some lateral thinking, that’s all.”
Taran caught a taxi back to the hotel in the early evening. While the body of the vessel itself couldn’t get tired, he felt mentally drained from his conversations with Marcus. Entering the taxi, he swiped the barcode on the back of his hand beneath the scanner on the dashboard. An LED screen—sitting where a steering wheel would usually be—flickered to life.
Vessel #038574857438 Taran Freeborn.
Input location:
His boss, Brent, had booked Taran one of those special hotels just for vessels. He keyed the coordinates into the screen and then sat back, closing his eyes while the car navigated its way across the busy Melbourne streets. He hoped that Brent hadn’t been as cheap as last time, when he’d booked a room that resembled a toilet cubicle, boasting nothing more than a docking station and a supply of gel sachets. Sure, it wasn’t like Taran needed a bed or a bathroom, but a television screen or a couch might have been nice.
A loud beeping emanating from the dashboard of the car roused Taran from his light slumber, indicating that they had arrived at the hotel. His room was on the fifteenth floor, and Taran was pleased to see both a couch and a television. Looking out the window, between the towering forms of two identical skyscrapers, he could just make out a patch of blue that must be the sea. Taran walked over to the phone on the desk and pressed zero.
On the Brink Page 14