Chapter One

Aaron Holt didn’t believe in alarm clocks. He woke up naturally with the sunrise. He kept his bedroom curtains open so light could spill across the room and declare a new day. He didn’t require electronic devices to jolt him with beeps or poke him with music. His body was synchronized with the rotation of the earth. The dawn refreshed him.

Aaron’s room was clean and orderly, a foundation of comfort before he confronted the usual spread of mess across the rest of the house. In the past twelve months, his roommates had reversed their priorities and embraced artificial reality over their true living conditions. They had mentally moved out of Los Angeles without physically relocating, reduced to grotesque, vacant shells anchored around the house, indifferent to their bodily needs and deteriorated appearances.

Aaron stripped and covered himself in a robe, an old habit that was probably no longer necessary given his privacy was almost certainly guaranteed. He stepped into the hall and walked past Scotty’s room on the way to the shower.

Scotty’s door was open, and he was sitting shirtless on his bed, fat hairy belly exposed, wearing a Dynamica eye cover illustrated with goofy, cartoony eyeballs. Creative eye cover designs had become a hot seller in recent months, one of the few physical items to see a rise in popularity as people spent more time with their ‘head in the cloud’, fulfilling Dynamica Incorporated’s marketing tagline.

The odor coming from Scotty’s room was inescapably sweat and urine. To extend consumer ‘chip time’, an enterprising company had come up with an apparatus that attached around the waist and over the groin to collect streams of piss and eliminate pesky bathroom breaks. Prior to retiring to bed, Aaron had witnessed Scotty deep into a chip adventure in essentially the same spot. It was apparent he had been on another all-night chip bender.

“Hell yeah!” shouted Scotty abruptly, as speckles of saliva flew from his lips. He was unaware of Aaron’s presence or anything else outside of his manipulated brainwave activity. His hands gripped an imaginary steering wheel, knuckles white, and Aaron concluded he was engaged in his favorite adrenaline rush: driving a supercharged race car through a twisty maze of outlandish landscapes painted in his mind.

Aaron was particularly annoyed with Scotty because Scotty wasn’t supposed to be a long-term housemate. The modest L.A. rental home initially belonged to just two tenants: Aaron and his longtime friend Desmond. When income streams decreased for both of them for different reasons (Aaron’s shrinking client list and Desmond’s deteriorating work ethic), they brought in a third roommate and mutual acquaintance, Larry, a struggling restaurant chef coming to terms with fewer people dining out. Larry then talked the others into letting his unemployed brother Scotty stay for a few weeks until he found new work, and ‘a few weeks’ became a permanent residency.

Upon securing a roof over his head, Scotty stopped looking for employment. He had twice seen his occupation replaced by automation – first as a worker at a manufacturing plant overtaken by robotics and then as a truck driver made obsolete by driverless highway transportation. Once he got hooked on the chip’s intoxicating escapism and found a way to sustain basic survival through government subsidies, Scotty placed his job-hunting efforts on an indefinite hiatus. His mental state slipped into a predominately passive mode, and his physical condition underwent a dramatic transformation; formerly physically fit and lean, his big frame now carried the droop of a soft, heavy paunch.

Aaron reached over and closed the door to Scotty’s room, gagging for a moment as he stepped too close to the authentic stink produced by artificial pleasures, a sour stimulation for those remaining in the real world.

The sloppy, messy condition of the bathroom increased Aaron’s ire. It was lazy and disrespectful, and Aaron knew that while his complaints would initially be met with a sympathetic response, no real action would ever be taken.

Aaron showered, suspecting he was also the last person to set foot in the shower. He brushed his teeth and shaved in the dirty sink. He returned to his room to slip into his gray gardener’s uniform and give a quick study to the day’s schedule of appointments.

Thankfully, he still had a decent number of wealthy clients with elaborate estates, people who remained committed to maintaining attractive properties. These people were willing to pay top dollar for the A-list treatment. They included celebrities and entrepreneurs, old money and new money. They put Aaron’s horticulture degree and landscaping artistry to good use.

While his original client base had dwindled, Aaron picked up new customers as larger competitors folded, unable to sustain themselves when interest in beautifying the physical world diminished. This allowed for an independent, sole proprietor like Aaron to survive as a niche business.

His income was crucial to the others in the house. At this time, he was the only person with a regular job, resulting in a lopsided contribution to the rent. During rare moments of real-world coherence, the other three vowed to find work and help cover costs, but these promises were left behind once they journeyed back into fantasyland.

As Aaron descended from the second floor, he encountered Larry sprawled on the steps, an obstacle to be stepped over. Scrawny with long limbs, Larry appeared to be unconscious, still wearing his designer eye cover (illustrated with a colorful fruit cornucopia). He gripped a mobile device that routed signals to the chip implanted at the base of his brain. This was typically how Aaron discovered his roommates in the morning – dropped in random places around the house, exhausted from lengthy, immersive sessions in their imagination that all but erased their awareness of their real surroundings. Sometimes they passed out while the chip was still receiving an onslaught of data, unable to turn off the feed, resulting in health risks. Heart attacks and shock-like trauma had been linked to overdoses, although the lawyers at Dynamica had skillfully avoided any direct correlation or liability. It was hard to sort out how much of the health risk was ancillary: the result of a population taking less care of its physical well-being through proper sleep, diet and exercise.

Aaron reached down to extract the thin, rectangular remote from Larry’s hand. As he did, he glimpsed the screen to see the sensation Larry had ordered up: Flavors. Chef Larry no longer indulged in the taste and aroma of real food preparation; he now fed off the simulation of these things as delivered via satellite and transmission towers to his sensory system. He had sworn to anyone who would listen that the chip experience was stronger and more pleasurable than the real thing. He could blend flavors, meticulously dial them up and down, and choose from a menu of monstrous proportions and variety.

Actual eating for sustenance had become dominated by Body Fuel bars and a selection of pills, bland intakes that were quickly and efficiently absorbed to keep the body operational, like filling a car with gas, while extravagant meal experiences primarily existed as a virtual treat.

Standing over Larry on the steps, Aaron turned off the feed to Flavors. Some of Dynamica’s feeds charged by the minute and Aaron doubted Larry had an unlimited plan – or could afford to run up his bill. He placed the remote back down near Larry’s hand. At that moment, Larry grabbed Aaron by the sleeve and shouted out loud, startling him.

“Don’t!”

Aaron pulled his arm away, irritated. “Give it a rest, Larry.”

Larry blindly scrambled to regain the remote. Aaron yanked the eye cover from his roommate’s face. Larry froze for a moment, staring at Aaron through thin, pained eyes unaccustomed to light.

“I said give it a rest,” said Aaron, tossing the eye mask down the stairs. “Get up. Go find some work. If you don’t start pulling your weight around here, I will have you evicted. Got that?”

Larry’s eyelids flickered in a mad twitch of blinking. He was still coming down from hours of stimulation high. “Banana…. Strawberries…” he said, nonsensically, still mentally consumed somewhere else.

Aaron descended the rest of the steps. Two roommates accounted for, one more to go.

Desmond was laid out on the living room couch with his pants down around his ankles. Aaron didn’t have to guess very hard at his chipfeed choice. He appeared to be sleeping, chest rising and falling gently under a wrinkled T-shirt. His hair was pulled into a man-bun. He was pale and shriveled, but not dead. Like the others in the house, he was in his late twenties, but looked older.

Desmond worked sporadically as an information technology specialist. As such, he had connections to a lot of gray market hardware and software that mimicked Dynamica’s chip sensations without requiring Dynamica’s pricey products and services. Desmond currently wore his sensory collar – a black, softshell device that circled his neck and communicated with the chip in his spine through an alternative delivery method. Desmond claimed the collar provided a boosted signal that the satellite couldn’t replicate and created superior sensations at an unrivaled strength. The collar had a small slit that accepted thin square ‘memory cards’ of stored experiences that could be purchased on the black market. While the public had been warned about ‘bootleg’ feeds, they became popular nevertheless as a lower-cost alternative that offered unregulated experiences that sometimes strayed into sick and twisted fantasies. While it was illegal to buy and sell brain feeds that simulated the act of rape or murder, these cards became widely available and difficult to intercept.

Aaron looked at the scattering of small black squares on the floor next to the couch. He worried about the questionable sensations they offered and the potential for underground products to have bugs and viruses that could damage the brain and nervous system. Earlier in the month, the local news had warned about black-market sensory cards that had been suspected of triggering aneurysms and strokes.

“That’s a load of crap,” Desmond had responded to the controversy. “Dynamica is a monopoly. They want to give everything else bad publicity. There’s nothing wrong with these knockoffs. They’re just cheaper, with some different offerings. If you’ve got a fetish, why not? It’s not hurting anybody.”

Aaron had long ago learned not to argue with chip users. Their numbers had grown to the majority of the U.S. population in less than eighteen months after the technology’s introduction into the marketplace.

“Unleash your imagination,” promised Dynamica. “Live your fantasies. Expand your senses.”

Aaron’s response was a firm ‘no thanks’. When everyone else was jumping on the bandwagon and having the chip installed in simple two-hour surgeries, Aaron flat out refused. Some people laughed at him and called him old-fashioned. They considered him a stubborn traditionalist, ridiculing him as they would somebody who still used a typewriter, made phone calls on a landline, or listened to compact discs.

“Get with the times,” they told him.

“It’s not how I want to live my life,” he responded.

Aaron entered the kitchen and made himself a real breakfast of pancakes with syrup, scrambled eggs and melon slices. He drank a tall, chilled glass of orange juice. He did not touch any of the smooth, tasteless Body Fuel bars or Instant Edibles nourishment pills that his three roommates gobbled for convenience. Aaron’s food, kept on designated shelves in a cabinet and in the refrigerator, was typically untouched by the others, even the former chef. They didn’t have the patience to cook, to clean dishes, to shop for groceries. They claimed flavors and tastes were far superior when experienced through the chip and that it made eating real food a stale and tedious exercise.

Sadly, as the roommates neglected to feed themselves real food, they also neglected to feed the house cat, Paddy. Aaron filled Paddy’s bowl with a generous heaping of cat food, and Paddy hungrily wolfed it down.

Aaron reached down to stroke the back of the cat’s neck, a smooth sweep of fur undisturbed by the awkward bump added to so many human necks. Paddy purred with appreciation.

* * *

Aaron and his roommates lived in a rundown twenties-era Spanish colonial- style home in Elysian Valley, a neighborhood in East Los Angeles nicknamed Frogtown after a legendary incident in the thirties where thousands of toads invaded the community following a hard rain.

While swarms of toads no longer posed a threat, slippery humans were commonplace, stealing from ignorant homeowners. Aaron kept his Ford F350 landscape truck and gardening equipment securely locked up in a detached garage on the property. Residential burglaries, often conducted brazenly in open daylight, had become an epidemic as the number of ‘zoneouts’ – people consumed in lengthy chip fantasies – skyrocketed. In some cases, items were stolen out of rooms while zoneouts lay sprawled in chairs or sofas a few feet away, unaware of anything happening in the real world.

Aaron kept his own lawn watered and neatly manicured – a compulsive routine – and it caused the house to stand out on a block of ugly, indifferent residences surrounded by dead foliage, sparse grass, uncollected litter and bald patches of dirt. Unfortunately, Aaron’s cleanliness sent the wrong signal to would-be thieves who deduced this well-maintained home must have some valuables inside. More than one burglar left the house disappointed and empty-handed. While the yard was attractive, the house’s interior remained a dump.

Aaron started up his truck. He headed to his first client of the day, a multimillionaire in Beverly Hills who still believed in preserving the beauty of the physical world. The eerily quiet Los Angeles streets continued to amaze Aaron, because he remembered a different L.A. from not that long ago, when traffic was constantly congested and everyone seemed to be on the move from one location to another. Now most work and pleasure took place inside the home, thanks to advances in technology that Aaron was convinced represented a regression in society. Everyone back to your caves!

He remembered the heavy traffic on game nights to nearby Dodger Stadium, before baseball went bankrupt from the loss of a new generation of fans. The relaxed pace of the game was intolerable for users of chip technology, accustomed to an accelerated rush of rapid-fire thrills.

Today, most of the other vehicles on the roadways belonged to transportation companies that had perfected driverless technology for home deliveries. The majority of bricks and mortar retail stores had become obsolete as most anything could be ordered online and arrive the same day. Residents only needed to step outdoors to report to a driverless truck stopped in front of their homes, punch in a code supplied during the transaction and accept packaged goods through a service window, much like an ATM withdrawal.

The autonomous vehicles were very good about not striking other vehicles, and when Aaron was younger and more mischievous, he would deliberately swerve his car in their direction to send them off the road and into palm trees.

Driving through the residential streets of Frogtown, Aaron couldn’t help reflecting on what could have been. The community had just started riding a development boom that replaced old bungalows and vacant lots with new housing and hipster restaurants, drawing a younger crowd and fresh energy. But when the chip technology took off, shifting allegiance from the physical world to a state of mind, the gentrification movement stalled, then died.

As Aaron drove by the L.A. River bike trail, which ran along the eastern edge of the neighborhood, he could remember a time when cyclists populated the community and groups of children played in the parks. These days, such sightings were rare. You were more apt to see packs of lost, wandering dogs and cats neglected by chip-addicted pet owners who no longer required a furry companion. The tactile experience of pet ownership had been efficiently recreated as a brain stimulation, without the nuisance of buying pet food and cleaning up poop.

Just before he reached Highway 101, Aaron caught a glimpse of something that caused him to do a double take. It was a common sight in his younger days but an unusual spotting in today’s Los Angeles: a jogger.

In simple shorts, T-shirt and running shoes, a cute young woman kept a steady stride on the sidewalk, arms locked in forty-five-degree angles, ponytail bouncing, cheeks red, eyes determined and focused. Aaron smiled. Here, in the flesh, was someone who still believed in the outdoors and exercise.

Dynamica offered a chipfeed that replicated the adrenaline rush of a good run, releasing many of the same endorphins, without subjecting the user to physical exertion and the side effects of blisters, shin splints, burning lungs and tired legs.

As he drove past, Aaron waved at her.

She glanced at him for a quick moment and did not wave back, facial expression unchanged.

“God bless you,” said Aaron softly, and he headed for the ramp that would take him to the highway.

Highway 101 was a breeze: open and uncluttered. Years ago, this stretch of concrete would have promised bumper-to-bumper traffic inching forward at an agonizing pace. This was one of the upsides of the chip phenomenon: fewer cars on the road, faster travel and a noticeable decline in smog and pollution. Deteriorating and faded billboards, long past their expiration date, still decorated the route, promoting forgotten movies and canceled television shows. The newest billboards mostly advertised Dynamica and the ‘mind-expanding’ selection of more than one hundred thousand experiences ‘just a finger poke away in the comfort of your own home’. With lightning speed, Dynamica had become the number one company in the world, surpassing its beginnings as ‘alternative recreation’ to become a way of life. On days when he was feeling angry and extra defiant, Aaron would flip his middle finger at the billboards, an old-fashioned physical gesture.

More recently, however, his ire had turned to a resigned sadness.

People were free to live their lives however they chose, and if someone’s quality of life was improved by the chip, then he would accept that. But there was no way in hell he would ever get a chip sewn into his own flesh and blood at the delicate spot where the spine met the skull.

Aaron reached his exit quickly and then took Santa Monica Boulevard into Beverly Hills. Every week, he witnessed more businesses shuttered on the long, commercial strip that once drew big crowds to shopping plazas, popular restaurants, trendy nightclubs, fitness facilities and car dealerships. Today, he noticed a newly closed clothing boutique. (Who needs to worry about fashion when the physical world barely matters?) Some of the old storefronts were taken over by groups of homeless people, while others hosted shady, pop-up enterprises selling black-market chip technology that stole or mimicked Dynamica’s signal feeds.

Male and female beggars created obstacles in the street, stepping in front of the sparse traffic, holding up cardboard signs pleading for money to maintain their chip subscriptions and shouting offers to do anything for renewal funds. Aaron moved around them without slowing down. When stopped at red lights, Aaron had to keep an eye out for ambushes from quick-moving criminals – sometimes gangs of teenagers – who would try to break into the back of his truck and steal his equipment. The cargo area had a thick padlock, but that didn’t stop attempts to break inside. The police, hopelessly outnumbered by the rise in petty crooks, could not be counted on to show up and save the day. The ranks of law enforcement diminished as the chip’s popularity grew, and Aaron couldn’t help but wonder if more of L.A.’s finest were staying home to play cops and robbers in their head rather than place themselves at risk on the city streets.

Construction crews, too, had been abandoning their posts, resulting in stretches of roadway in a permanent state of partial shutdown. Trash pickup was equally unreliable. Aaron regularly swerved to avoid garbage and potholes, as if maneuvering through a minefield.

The most popular addresses on Santa Monica Boulevard belonged to Dynamica. The company’s nationwide network of chip installation clinics drew long lines of ticketholders on their big day, assigned to receive what the company’s marketing professionals touted as ‘The Nirvana Effect’. In less than two hours, a chip could be installed and linked to the satellite feed. Chip types came in a variety of offerings – from standard to premium to ‘gold’ – with an array of subscription packages to choose from. The first three months of service, known as ‘the starter kit’, came reasonably priced, and then subscription costs soared soon after to coincide with the inevitable consumer addiction.

Stopped at an intersection in front of a Dynamica clinic, caught in a rare moment of cross traffic, Aaron studied the happy, excited faces of customers lined up at the entrance, awaiting a life-altering change. This particular Dynamica clinic had taken over a large space that previously belonged to a Cineplex movie theater. You no longer had to go to the movies to see Spider-Man when it was much more exciting for Spider-Man to come into your head and take you on an adventure of your choosing.

Unlike the rest of Santa Monica Boulevard, this stretch of block boasted fresh paint, vibrant colors and a clean sidewalk. For a split moment, Aaron observed a cheerful, chatty woman in a long skirt who resembled his wife, Wendy. Her long brown hair and lively eyes reminded him of the way Wendy once looked, years ago, when she had the spark. It filled him with a profound sadness.

Aaron looked away and kept his eyes on the road for the rest of the drive to Beverly Hills.

Beverly Hills remained in better shape than its surrounding neighborhoods, but not anywhere near as lush and picture-perfect as in its recent past. The crumbling of Los Angeles was extending into the upscale areas. It started slow and gradual, then turned swift and deadly, like the spread of cancer. Environmental indifference had reached the wealthy, who retreated into custom designer pods in their homes, paying top dollar for the gold chip and unlimited signal access. For many Beverly Hills residents, showing off an extravagant façade to their neighbors no longer mattered.

Thankfully, a few people still cared about appearances, and some of them remained Aaron’s clients.

The saddest sight for Aaron, just before he reached Madison Reddick’s mansion, was the local high school. The once handsome campus with its surrounding sports fields had become a shuttered, abandoned building surrounded by stray trash, dead grass and silence. Once Dynamica introduced stay-at-home chip schooling – a huge cost saving for the state of California – physical schools began shutting down. The arguments in favor of the transition pointed to the fairness of every student receiving an identical education, from the same curriculum feed, regardless of neighborhood, family income or other differentiating factors. While it sounded promising in theory, a singular experience eliminated a diversity of instructors and teaching methods, while reducing the creativity and interaction enabled by a classroom setting. Experiential courses like art, music and theater that did not effectively translate into one-way chip downloads were dropped from standard education and halfheartedly made available as a smattering of ‘extracurricular’ activities.

Aaron drove past the homes of two former clients – residents who previously cared about their lawns, gardens and plant life and now no longer gave a shit – sighing at the ugly sights they had become. He finally reached the stubbornly beautiful and majestic estate of Madison Reddick. He pulled up to the front gate and entered the code that Madison had trusted him with, enabling Aaron to conduct his weekly maintenance even if the eighty-one-year-old entertainment industry mogul was not at home.

The entire trip, door-to-door, had only taken fifteen minutes. When Aaron first started serving Madison as a client, the drive took about forty-five minutes on a good day, and sometimes up to an hour if traffic was backed up.

Yet somehow, someway, this shorter commute felt longer to Aaron. He was too aware of his surroundings.

Aaron parked, opened up the back of his truck and got to work. Vibrant plant life decorated every side of Madison’s mansion, a leafy pleasure to the senses. Aaron trimmed and pruned, treated the soil, spread compost, cleaned up the flower beds, checked the sprinklers and irrigation control, applied protection from insects and disease, controlled the weeds and arranged some new life and color to brighten several areas that were beginning to bald.

After a solid three hours of work, as Aaron was packing his truck, Madison called to him from a tall, open window with billowing curtains and invited him inside for a glass of tea.

This had become a tradition.

Aaron understood it. Madison was lonely. Unlike most of the others on his block, he still craved human interaction.

Aaron smiled and waved his acceptance. He was tired and dirty, but you don’t say no to a man who provides a considerable portion of your income. And Aaron liked Madison – they were on the same wavelength, literally. They did not surrender their brainwaves to a chip.

“What flavor would you like today?” Madison asked Aaron as he entered through the oversized front door. Madison rattled off a selection of exotic teas, leading Aaron into a grandiose den surrounded with plant life, framed art and stuffed shelves of books, compact discs, vinyl, DVDs and Blu-rays. It was an unusual sight – no one collected physical media anymore.

Aaron made his choice – ‘white mango’ – and sat in a large, soft chair that immediately felt good against his aching back. He apologized for his sweaty smell, and Madison laughed. “If I wanted a pretty scent, I would chipfeed it to my neurons,” he said sarcastically. He was breezily indifferent to Aaron tracking dirt into his house. He didn’t care about their difference in class status or age. Madison, at least fifty years older than Aaron, was a retired entertainment executive who had done it all – produced hit movies, managed pop music superstars, created long-running television series and even dabbled with stage musicals.

Famous decades ago, Madison was now irrelevant in the modern era. The entertainment industry had essentially shriveled up since the introduction of the chip. People could experience the euphoria of an exciting feature film or music composition without enduring the actual art. Now it was as easy as the touch of a button on a mobile device.

Madison delivered a tall glass of cold tea to Aaron, who gratefully accepted it and took a healthy gulp. It hit the spot.

“Real human labor and work ethic,” said Madison, admiring his visitor. “I deeply appreciate it. I do. Everything is so automated these days. But you bring a personality, a passion, a creativity that a cluster of technology could never achieve. You’ve continued to stay off the chip?”

As Madison asked the question, he lowered himself into a nearby chair, which signaled this would not be a short conversation. He had trapped a real live human and would make the most of an opportunity for authentic dialogue.

“I will never put that thing in my body,” Aaron said. “It’s not how I want to experience the world.”

Madison sighed. “And I thought it was bad when everyone had their nose buried in an iPhone. We should have known it would get worse – far worse. But maybe I’m just a relic of the past, an old geezer clinging to physical things.” He gestured to his walls. “My art collection, my antiques, my Persian rugs and elegant furnishings. I spent so much money on tangible items that I can touch and feel, and now it’s all worthless.”

A sad smile crossed his face. He was still a handsome man. His clean-cut appearance was at odds with social norms. He was dressed in a maroon polo shirt, neatly pressed slacks and new loafers. He was freshly shaven with short, wavy gray hair carefully styled with gel. He wore round designer glasses with thin metal rims.

“I get it,” he said. “I understand what happened – to people, in general. Real life is shit. Who wants to face it? The crime and disorder, the sad state of politics, a spiraling economy, the lack of ethics and moral fiber. We’re all just wanderers. There’s no longer a sense of community, of personal values. No individual expression. Everything is a one-sided download. Nobody wants real feelings anymore. Our real feelings are bad. So we feed off fake feelings from Dynamica Incorporated. Order me up some exuberance!”

He stared into the ice in his drink and added, “We’ve lost the art of being human. We no longer communicate in any meaningful way. The young people, they don’t even know human interaction, they can barely speak in complete sentences. It’s like they still haven’t found their voice. This new generation – everyone is growing up fat and lazy. Do you know that for the first time, life expectancy in this country is declining? It’s a statistically significant amount. We’re living shorter lives. Of course proponents of the chip say, ‘Yes, it’s a shorter life, but higher quality because of the pleasures of the chipfeed.’ What total nonsense. We are our bodies, we must take care of our physical health.”

“I need to do more to stay in shape,” said Aaron. He was a former high school and college athlete, distanced from his peak condition.

“Your work keeps you fit, it keeps you active. You’re in good shape. I work out every day in my gym. I go on long walks. I do laps in the pool. That reminds me, anytime you want, you are welcome to use my pool. I mean it. I promise it’s more refreshing than the swimming options in the chipfeed. You know they have one for the backstroke? Such nonsense! You can do your own backstroke for real at my house.”

“Thank you,” Aaron said. He was indeed tempted to bring his swimming trunks next time. All of the public pools around L.A. had closed, and the public beaches were in poor shape.

“Despite all of this,” said Madison, “I do have hope. Sometimes things have to get really bad for the pendulum to swing the other way. I have my sources – and they say the government is in serious talks with Dynamica. We should see some intervention soon. I don’t know the nature of the conversations, but one possibility is more regulation, more oversight of this nationwide addiction and its health effects. Or maybe they’ll load it up with taxes. Make it less affordable. It’s too easy to be a do-nothing these days. You have people who are playing the system. They live on the government’s Survival Subsidy because it gets them a minimal lifestyle in the physical world: basic housing, food and health care, and everything else goes toward their Dynamica subscription.”

Aaron nodded, thinking of his roommates. He had witnessed their slow slide into a minimal, lethargic presence hooked on chipfeeds.

Madison stood up. He walked over to a large picture window with a scenic hilltop view of his Beverly Hills neighborhood. “Look at this. No people, no cars. Looks like a goddamned still-life painting. I think I’ll go stir things up. I’m going on a motorcycle ride. I’m going into the mountains and make some noise.”

“I should be heading out,” said Aaron, putting aside his empty glass. “Thank you for the tea.”

“Any time,” Madison said. “You’ll be back next Tuesday?”

“Of course.”

“Good.”

At the front door, Madison handed Aaron a black and white booklet. “Here. Take it. You should read this.”

Aaron accepted it and looked at the cover, which said Real Earth Movement in big letters with a simple graphic of a globe. The tagline underneath said Chip sense is nonsense.

“Yes, a paper product,” Madison said. “We operate off the grid. Do you think there’s any privacy online? Of course not. This is information about a group – a movement – of citizens resisting the chip technology. We’re advocating for a deeper appreciation of real-world experiences. People need to return to the purity of a natural life. We need to cut the connections with Dynamica and hit them with stronger controls. We can’t afford to accept this new norm. I hope you will join our movement. There’s information inside on where to find us, who we are. I’m one of the biggest sponsors.”

Aaron nodded. “I’ll look at it. I’m not one for organized groups…but I am sympathetic to the cause.”

Before Aaron departed, Madison gave him an abrupt, tight hug. “Thank you for being real, my friend,” he said.

“I like being real.”

“Perhaps we’re the last of a dying breed,” said Madison. “What happens when virtual reality becomes the new norm? And you and I become the alternate reality?”

Aaron had to shut his eyes for a moment. Madison’s innocent musing stung. It hit closer to home than the old man could realize.

* * *

On his way home, Aaron made his weekly visit to his wife, Wendy. He brought fresh flowers – red and pink roses. She could not see, feel or smell them, but he hoped that somehow she would sense their presence.

He signed in through the front entrance of Tranquility Stay, validating his identity with a thumbprint and face scan. He took the elevator to the seventh floor, walked a long corridor and reached her resting place. He punched in the code for patient #25176.

The room was small and narrow. It was just big enough for her see-through Living Casket, a tangle of tubes and wires connected to her vital organs, and a space for one to three guests to visit with her, observing her unchanging presence in suspended animation.

She looked peaceful.

Aaron set the roses on the clear casket, above her chest, where her arms remained folded.

Her condition made him feel sick inside all over again. She was dead and alive, stuck in a self-imposed eternal bliss or perpetual damnation, depending on whom you asked.

Once, many years ago, she had been full of life and energy. When Dynamica introduced the chip technology, she welcomed the opportunity to experience artificial sensations and emotions as an occasional recreation, despite her husband’s misgivings.

She got hooked and her personality changed. She was never the same again. She tried to go cold turkey but swung hard the other way. She abandoned her job, her friends and her family. Their marriage collapsed. She craved the chip’s effects above all else.

When she was off the chipfeeds, she was depressed. The declining state of the real world didn’t help.

She got hooked on the stronger, riskier, black-market chipfeeds. During one of their arguments, in a fit of rage, she told Aaron she wanted to escape into a chip high and never return. He yelled at her to go ahead, she was already halfway there.

She disappeared soon after. He went crazy trying to find her, fearing that she had gone on a binge and become unaware of her natural surroundings and possibly gotten hurt.

When she returned, she locked herself in the bathroom to avoid him.

Then she did the unthinkable. She downloaded an irreversible chipfeed, sold illegally, that sent her brain into a nonstop loop of ecstasy without ever waking up. This new ‘suicide drug’ dominated the headlines as authorities tried – unsuccessfully – to remove it from circulation. Thousands bought it.

Wendy entered her stimulated imagination and never came out.

As the number of victims of the ‘suicide’ feed piled up, enterprising new companies offered mausoleum-like storage spaces to keep these ‘patients’ on life support until a cure could be found.

Aaron looked down at his wife and wept. He felt the weight of being surrounded by hundreds of lifeless individuals in self-induced comas made possible by the ‘exciting advancements in technology’ brought to the population by Dynamica Incorporated. When his wife first underwent the chip installation process, he had been both upset and mildly intrigued. But after seeing the effects on her and others, he swore to never allow the evil, coin-sized demon into his body.

He hated it, even as it produced a thin smile across his wife’s lips.

“Cure? There’s no cure,” said a leading medical expert interviewed recently on the news. “You have two choices. You can pull the plug and bury them or allow them to live in a state of never-ending stimulation that, ultimately, is meaningless.”

Aaron couldn’t bring himself to pull the plug on Wendy. But he did vow to pull the plug on whoever sold her this poison. He would put them in a state of anything but bliss before turning out their lights completely.