Cold Reboot (Shadow Decade Book 1)

by Michael Coorlim

  One result. No way it was could be anyone else. My Baxter. I reached out, fingertips brushing his name.

  A box expanded from the point of contact to fill the screen with a profile. No photograph, perhaps mercifully. His address was unlisted. He was married, and had accounts on several social media networks. There was a button I could press to call him.

  I didn't press it. I just stared at that word, letting it burn itself into my eyes, my palms pressed against the wall above the screen.

  Married.

  The screen blurred, my vision grew foggy, and I felt distant. Like I was an observer, watching this woman doing her best not to collapse, naked, to her knees in the middle of her apartment.

  Why was I surprised? It made sense. What, I was supposed to expect him to wait for me to resurface? No, it was better this way. Better that Baxter got on with his life. If he'd been waiting for me all these years, pining, searching... I was glad he'd moved on. No, really.

  A churlish, vicious part of my mind wondered how long he'd waited before he'd started dating again. I choked it down.

  "Directory."

  Back to the start. I went to the kitchen to get myself a drink. The color of the water coming out of the sink's faucet wasn't very comforting, so I opened the fridge instead.

  Scott had said he'd had groceries delivered, and true to his word, it'd been stocked. A package of cheese slices, some deli meat, shrink-wrapped hotdogs, incredulously butter-like spread, a jar of pickle relish. In the back were a few bottles of water.

  I grabbed one and read the label while walking back to the kitchen. In addition to the helpful information that the bottle's ingredient was WATER, it told me that the contents' temperature was 38° F. As I wondered if that was a prediction, a recommendation, or a weird bit of marketing, the temperature ticked up to 39° F, likely from the heat of my hand.

  I turned the bottle over, and saw that the mountain spring pictured on the label was animated. Huh. Electronic paper. Cute, if maybe wasteful.

  Peeling the label off seemed to break it, as the picture went static and the temperature reading zeroed out. Oops.

  I took a drink of cool clean water, then returned to the living room. "Edith and Harold Crawford."

  It didn't take long for me to figure out why Scott had said that finding my old contacts would be a lengthy process. The Directory was, it turned out, nothing more than a service that collected public information from different social media services and tried to guess which accounts under the same names belonged to the same people. And there were a lot of social media platforms, without any of them seeming to be "the big one" that everyone was a part of.

  Instead, from what I could tell, most people signed up multiple accounts on specialized platforms that catered to their interests. I'd lucked out with Baxter... even the profiles for people I'd used to know that I could find didn't provide an easy way to contact them without accounts on the same social media networks. I sincerely hoped that the Department of Human Services had access to better resources than my television did.

  One of the contacts that I actually did manage to find was my old boss at Septopharma. There were a lot of Greg Matthewses in Chicago, but one of the first I looked into was working for Novabio Medica, which certainly sounded like it was in the pharmaceutical industry. He'd be in his sixties now, but even if he'd retired he'd be able to help me find a job... or at least he'd know someone who could.

  His personal voip address wasn't listed, but his office's was. It'd have to do.

  I tapped it, and another box popped up, one with a little telephone icon. It was kind of funny... the icon was clearly a desktop rotary model, the kind with the handset attached to the cord. That model had been old and obsolete when I was a kid. Would any of today's users know what it was supposed to be? And did they even make phones that weren't integrated into other devices anymore?

  "You've reached the office of Greg Matthews." The voice coming from my screen shook me out of my internal rambling. It was older, wearier, but definitely Greg's. "I'm not in the office, but if you leave a message at the tone I'll get back to you when I can."

  Voice-mail. Of course. It was well after business hours.

  "Greg, hi." I tried to come up with something to say that didn't sound stupid. "It's... it's Erica Crawford. We worked together at Septopharma between 2010 and 2015? And then, uh, I went missing? Okay, well... now I'm back. It's a... it's a long story, but if we could get together for lunch or something, I'd like to touch base with you. I'm at..." I faltered. I didn't know my voip number or have an email address, and the directory didn't have my name yet. "500 43rd Street Apartment 245."

  I disconnected the call before I could stumble and make myself sound like more of an idiot.

  For the first time in... well, since I'd woken up in that hospital... I felt a shred of optimism. I felt a modicum of accomplishment. I'd reached out to an old contact and made the effort to take back some control over my life, to move forward, to get my career back on track. It might not have been much, but it was a something after a long yawning abyss of disappointment and helplessness.

  And that mattered. A lot.

  ***

  CHAPTER 3: TRUST AND CONSEQUENCES

  I spent some time exploring the Internet of 2025, trying to get used to it, trying to learn about the world. It didn't bear much resemblance to what I was used to. There was just so much of it, so much information, so many confusing tools designed to help you navigate it, that eventually I just sort of zoned out reading a tutorial on basic search engine research. I'd been told that this, too, was a symptom of dissociation, but it seemed to be happening more and more often.

  I must have sat on my futon staring off into space for at least half an hour before a chime and a little envelope icon on the screen broke me out of it.

  "Play message." The words were out of my mouth before I even knew what I was saying.

  My caseworker's voice filled the room, businesslike in tone but warm and friendly. "Miss Crawford, this is Scott at the Department of Family Services? I'm just checking in to see how you're getting along, make sure that you found the place okay, see how you're getting set-up. Your assistance funds should be in your ChicagoCard account by now if you want to do some shopping... you can order most of what you want online.

  "I've managed to get contact information for some of the people you were interested in touching base with, and I've forwarded those over into your address book. There are a few other administrative matters we need to discuss, and I've started the paperwork on getting you an account with the Department of Workplace Services. I've made another appointment for you here for next Wednesday at noon. If you need to reschedule just call my office extension and we can work out something else."

  He paused. "That's it, really. I look forward to seeing you next week, and can answer any other questions you might have, now that you're settled in a little."

  I couldn't help but smile a little. Out of all the things that were hard to deal with, all the harsh truths I was discovering about the future, it was social services that was proving the easiest to deal with. I'd never needed to rely on welfare or public assistance back in the day, but you hear stories. It was a little comforting to hear that at least one thing was getting better.

  And it was nice to hear a friendly voice, even if it was one being paid to be friendly. Job or not, Scott came across as a genuine guy. He was a point of personal contact, and really the only one I had.

  "Directory. Scott Morris. Chicago. Uh... social worker."

  There was only one Scott Morris employed with Chicago's Department of Human Services. His page was sparse, but it did have a photo taken from his government work badge. Even a few years old, out of focus, and under terrible lighting it captured his strong features, his easy smile, and those beautiful amber eyes. He'd had a goatee when it was taken. He looked better without it.

  I laughed at myself softly and looked away. He was a kind ear and that was what I was in need of now, but he w
as also my caseworker. It was his job to help me, and crushing on him just because I was feeling lonely was... I don't know. Opportunistic? Pathetic?

  Unprofessional.

  I needed help, assistance that only Scott could provide, and mixing that up with personal feelings? Not going to happen. I'd take him for what he offered, and would be grateful for it. It wouldn't be fair to him to ask for more.

  Besides, his social media accounts included a lot of pictures of Scott with that guy whose pictures he kept on his desk. Shirtless. They probably weren't brothers-in-law.

  As Scott's voice faded, the cold fingers of loneliness came creeping back into my spine. Connecting to computer networks had just left me feeling more needy for real, actual, human contact. I wanted to call his extension and confirm my appointment, just to hear his voice.

  Pathetic.

  I shook it off and tabbed over to the address book to see what my caseworker had provided. There they were, contact options for my parents, for Matthews, for Baxter, for Scott's office. Four points of contact from my old life, one for my new.

  My fingers hovered briefly over my parents' contact option. What would I say to them? What could I say? "Hi, mom, dad, it's Erica. Sorry I haven't checked in over the last decade, but I've been busy." I wanted more than anything else to let them know that I was okay, but... not yet. They'd only worry. Try to help. I loved them, but I wanted to get my own life sorted first, so they could see that I was alive and had my shit together. No more disappointments, and there was no way in hell I was going to move back into my parents' basement at twenty-eight.

  Thirty-eight. I was thirty-eight now. God, I'd missed out on a decade of adulthood.

  It hit me then, suddenly and powerfully. I was almost forty. I had had a plan. I'd spent my mid-to-late twenties building a career. I'd wanted to be an upper-level executive by thirty, VP by thirty-five, married to Baxter and with a child of my own.

  My life.

  My Baxter.

  My eyes went back to his name, and before I'd realized it my forefinger had tapped his contact button.

  It rang. I didn't dare disconnect, but hoped he wouldn't pick up.

  He did. "Hello?"

  Fuck. My mind blanked.

  Baxter cleared his throat. "Hello?"

  "Hi."

  "Hi." His voice hadn't changed at all. "Who is this? Karen?"

  Was that his wife? "Baxter... it's Erica."

  "Who?"

  "Erica. Crawford."

  Silence.

  "From ten years ago? We lived together? I... went missing?" God, that sounded so lame, but what do you say in a situation like this? If I had had the time to think I would have planned something. If I had had the time to think I never would have called him.

  I could hear the astonishment and suspicion in his voice. "Erica? Is this some kind of joke?"

  "No, Baxter, it's me." I wondered if he was going to believe me or just hang up. It was odd, how distant the fear of abandonment felt, how I both felt it and, at the same time, didn't. It felt... fake. Like a sentiment I was holding on to out of obligation to who I felt I should be. "Listen, I was in some kind of accident. I don't remember anything about the last ten years. Please don't hang up, I... I don't have anyone else to reach out to." The tear trickling down my cheek. That felt genuine.

  "Is it really you?" He sounded small, tiny, far away.

  "Yes. It's me."

  "Where, what happened–"

  "I don't know. I don't know, I woke up in the hospital, and I don't know what happened or how or anything. You're all I remember, you're all I have left."

  "Are you in trouble? Do you need me to come get you?" He asked.

  There it was. Baxter the hero. My hero. I couldn't give him any answers, but he was ready to drop anything and ride up to come save me.

  I took a moment to compose myself before replying. "No... I mean, I've got a place to live and I'm not homeless or anything. I don't know anyone, though, and I just feel so... I know you have your own life and everything, but do you think we could get together for coffee and talk? I just really need a familiar face."

  "Of course, Erica." His voice was soothing. "Of course. I'm free tomorrow. The Starbucks near the Jackson Red Line stop?"

  It was a small relief that Starbucks was still a thing. "That works for me."

  "Eleven-thirty?"

  "Okay."

  "See you there. And... it's good to hear from you."

  I disconnected the call, not trusting myself to say anything else. I needed a friend. I needed an ally. Baxter was married, with kids for all I knew... but to me, it felt like we were still together, like it'd only been a week since I'd felt his loving embrace. What I needed was companionship. What I wanted... it wasn't something I had any right to ask for.

  I turned my head towards the reflection in the mirror across the room and narrowed my eyes. I'd have to tread carefully, because I sure as hell didn't trust myself.

  ***

  I must've stared into the eyes of the woman in the mirror for a good ten minutes before a chime from the television brought me out of my mental fog. I hastened over to find another message, this time from Greg. Unlike Scott's voice message, this was a simple text.

  Erica,

  I cannot adequately convey how shocking it is to hear from you after all these years. My first instinct is that this is some kind of sick prank, and to tell the truth I'm not entirely convinced that it isn't. If you are a prankster, let me say that you are a reprehensible human being. Erica Crawford was more than my protégé, she was a friend, she was practically a daughter, and losing her was one of the darkest periods of my life. To come at me with such a vile ruse is despicable beyond measure, and I will spare no expense in making you regret your cruelty.

  With that out of the way, Erica, if this is you, I cannot properly express my joy. I don't trust myself, not in an office setting, to avoid whooping and scaring my personal assistant, Yeong. PAs are flighty things, easily replaced, but difficult to train, and I'd prefer to avoid that, so I'm sending you this text missive instead of contacting you for a conversation.

  Once my exuberance at discovering that you're still alive has settled, I would of course love to meet with you at your earliest convenience. Whatever has happened, wherever you have gone, you may always count upon me as your staunch ally. Let me know when you would like to convene, and I will clear my schedule. I'm an old man now, and they let me do whatever I like, as long as I don't scare off too many interns. It's really quite nice.

  Yours,

  G. Matthews

  That was Greg, same as he ever was, by turns tempestuous and formal.

  A quick map search showed me that Novabio Medica's offices were down in the Loop, only blocks away from where I was going to be meeting Baxter for coffee. I sent Greg a text reply requesting a one-o'clock appointment. That would give me an hour with Baxter, and half-an-hour to regain my composure after. Maybe everything was going to be okay.

  Better than okay. I had a lead. I had a lead! Of course Matthews would come through for me. I knew it. He'd been my mentor, practically a surrogate father-figure crossed with favorite uncle. I couldn't blow this chance. I had to present myself the best I could, to make it easy for Greg to give me the help I needed. He could do a lot for me, provided I could show him I still had what it took.

  And I didn't want to show up in paper rags for lunch with Baxter.

  "Find me pictures of female pharmaceutical representatives." I'd learned, almost by accident, that search keywords weren't as formal as they were in 2015. Just speaking conversationally to the computer screen was the best way to find anything. "Emphasis on fashion."

  A mosaic of images filled the screen.

  "Filter out stock photos." Many of them disappeared. What was left gave me a good overview of what the standard look was for the industry. It wasn't very different from what I'd worn ten years ago... hemlines may change, but business professional is forever.

  There were purchase links att
ached to many of the images, offering a range of prices from different retailers. The range threw me at first... the same outfit ranged in price from hundreds to thousands of dollars. There had to be a catch. Investigating further, I discovered that the disparity depended on manufacturing method.

  The cheapest clothes were 3D-printed. A price breakdown on one of the sites showed me that this was almost entirely a licensing fee for the patterns used, and the cost of materials was almost negligible. The outfit the hospital had printed me would have cost them pennies.

  More expensive were machine manufactured clothing... and the hand-tailored jackets were well out of my price range. A close inspection of the pictures showed subtle differences in the look, and presumably feel, of the printed and machine-tailored cloth.

  They seemed minor to me, and I'd almost committed to just buying the cheap stuff when a thought occurred to me. I couldn't tell the difference because it didn't matter in my own era, but now, with material and manufacturing costs so low, printed versus stitched was the primary signifier of class.

  I couldn't go cheap. Not for a job interview. I could pick up casual-wear for a song, but for something this important? I had to view it as an investment.

  With that in mind I dropped six hundred dollars on a navy blue jacket, knee-length skirt, and a lighter blue blouse, all machine tailored. They were as expensive as anything I'd owned when I was financially secure, but by today's standards they were at the low end of appropriate. It was the best I could do. It would have to be enough. Anyone interviewing me would know my situation sooner or later anyway.

  I also picked up a pair of post earrings, a small purse, and low-heeled closed-toe pumps that matched the outfit, paying a premium to get it all delivered the next day.

  The purchases brought me dangerously low on funds, but I didn't really have a choice. I could get by on whatever modern poor-people food was.

  I slipped into a half-daydream then, thinking about my lunch with Baxter, showing up looking powerful and collected, how that would give me the confidence I needed to really blow Greg away. He'd find me a job comparable to the position I'd held with him at Septopharma, I'd spend a few weeks getting up to date with the industry and medical technology, and pick up my life-plans where they'd left off.