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On the way out the back door of the bar masquerading as a doctor’s office, I noticed a long line of disheveled people forming around the corner. It seemed to lead right back to the front of the same building. Intrigued, I let go of Brooks’s hand and followed the line as it inched forward.
“Come back here, Synta.” Mom was too exhausted from the day’s journey to speak with much authority. The surgery was over. Brooks was fine, and her adrenaline was depleted. She was her old tired sick self again.
“It’s fine. I just wanna see.” I waved a noncommittal hand behind my back, shooing Mom and Brooks to wait for me. They didn’t protest.
Rounding the corner, I saw that I’d been correct. The people, young and old, all hunched and broken, waited patiently in a long line that started at the front door of a store adjacent to the bar. I watched as a boy of about seventeen, tall and painfully skinny, knocked the same pattern as my mom had an hour earlier. The door opened and the gaunt boy disappeared.
“What’s going on?” I asked the woman beside me.
The woman, much older than my grandmother had been when she died years ago, held up a wrinkled finger behind her hear. “Chips.” Her deep voice cracked the single word.
“You’re all removing your chips?” I looked toward the front of the line. They’re at the wrong door.
“No, child.” The woman’s putrid breath stung my nose. “Getting them.” She raised a shaky arm, showing off a brown sack tied at the top with a sliver of ragged rope. The bag jerked and wriggled. A muffled squawk came from the bag and I stepped back.
“Getting them? How?” It made no sense, until it did. I snapped my head toward the doctor’s door. “My Stone,” I whispered.
Just as the words escaped my mouth, an authoritative voice echoed over a loudspeaker at the front of the line. A balding man in a dingy business suit and tennis shoes stood on the stoop, a megaphone in his hand. “One at a time people. No shoving.”
I left the old woman standing in line, fighting with whatever was in her sack.
The bullhorn pealed again. “As you reach the front of the line, please leave your payment with my assistant.” He gestured to a woman in her early twenties sitting behind a folding table. Her hair was pulled neatly in a bun and her clothes were at least cleaner than the people’s around her. “Clerice will give you a receipt for your payment, whatever it may be, and give you a clipboard. You will fill out the packet and return it to her. Then get in line over there.” He pointed at a wall where a few people had gathered, not quite in a line. “You must be sure to check the boxes confirming that you will not hold us liable for any injury sustained during the procedure.” He held up a finger to count off his point. “You understand that recycled chips come with their former owner’s memories, some... quite unpleasant.” Another finger stood up. “And any malfunction after implantation, especially pertaining to a second Glitch, is not the fault of StoneCorp.” The third finger—“And finally, if you don’t sign the Nondisclosure Agreement you will not receive a chip!”
“Also, for those of you who are interested, we have in our possession authenticated stones. Verified and serialed with the Geology Service’s seal. Only a few remain so get yours while they last.” With that he unclicked the trigger on the megaphone and jumped off the stoop.
The line of people bunched up behind me, crowding to fill in the space. I studied their faces. Where did all these people come from? Recycled chips?
So many thoughts flew through my mind at once. Memories of ancient stories. I knew the lore all too well. When my parents had decided to chip Brooks, Mom had been so scared he would ‘remember’ his previous death like so many others with recycled chips. Luckily, he had never said anything about it. We’d been spared.