WHEN I COME back into my body I ignore the MyPhys recommendation to remain lying flat for at least sixty seconds, and sit up. There’s a moment of dizziness and a residual sense of disconnection that makes me shake my hands and feet as if I’ve been out in the cold.
I’ll watch your back if you’ll watch mine.
It feels like something has been pulled out of my chest and left an aching hollowness. All these years later and I thought Dee was still watching my back, the only person in the world, literally, that I could call a real friend. The self-pitying misery twists into anger, settling into a more familiar shape inside me. What else did I expect to happen? This is the way the world works! I was stupid to think she would be different.
“Come on,” I say to myself. “Get up. Fuck her! Fuck all of them!” I squeeze my eyes shut, digging down into myself and that well of self-reliance, a strange comfort in this realization that Dee has fit the same pattern as my father, as Alejandro, as all of them. “I don’t need any of them,” I whisper to myself.
I take a moment to look around myself, making sure I’m fully oriented back in my apartment and that my brain is in sync with reality again, before heading over to the kitchen area. I need a practical task that can absorb some of this useless emotional energy. I know I’m pushing the emotional shit down and I know my psych supervisor would berate me for it, but what the fuck else am I going to do? Smashing stuff up or crying or talking it out isn’t going to change what my best friend just did to me.
I fish out some cubed beef and stock from the freezer and dump them in the microwave. “Defrost,” I say, and leave it to do its thing as I prep the vegetables.
My ex would start complaining at this point. “Why don’t we go to La Casa?” she’d say. “We could have anything we like for a tenth of what this costs.”
“But it’s printed,” I’d say, and the old argument would start again.
“There’s nothing wrong with printed food. Stop being such a caveman, Carl.”
“No. If you want to eat with me, we eat real food.”
It never would have worked. She was great company if we were doing something together, like dancing or sim-diving or whatever new thing she’d found to get her adrenal gland working again. But it was the quiet times when the gulf between us was far too evident. She’d make jokes I didn’t get because I just didn’t have the same kind of life as her on too fundamental a level. When she had been a teenager, finding boyfriends and trying to study during blackouts caused by mass riots, I was in the Circle, digging fields on the other side of the world and pretending to pray. She’d grown up during the transition from pseudodemocracy into neoliberty, experiencing the varying crises caused by the shift from state governance to gov-corp management firsthand, while I’d been held in a cocoon of cult worship. How the hell could we understand each other?
“Who are you, Carl? Really?” she said when we broke up. She’d started asking about an article on me that was making the rounds online. “’Cos you keep telling me that you’re not who they say you are, but every time I try to figure out whether there’s anything more to you—”
That was when I shut the door in her face, having pushed her out of my flat. I handled that badly. But I can’t deny the relief when her noise was gone. And I can’t say I’ve really missed her since. I’m just glad she signed the NDA so nothing about what we did together or how crap I was to her at the end made it online. Those fucking documentary makers would have had a field day with it.
I’m gripping the knife too tightly. I draw in a deep breath and release it slowly. Why am I even thinking about her? Between our incompatibility and the change made to my contract a couple of years after we split up, that relationship was doomed. Back then, the corporates followed advice based on a social algorithm that apparently recommended allowing assets to have friendships and even date. It prevented long-term psychological issues or something. Then the corporates decided it was cheaper and less risky to allow assets access to gaming platforms where they could have virtual relationships instead. The same parts of the brain get stimulated without any risk of an asset falling in love and becoming difficult; problem solved. Only someone who has never been owned by another could balance that equation.
My contract has always prevented full-time cohabitation, as they call it. A tidy corporate phrase encompassing love, security, friendship and the chance to discover something special enough to make an asset rage against his contract. That’s what it comes down to in the end. And that’s only the first of more than fifty clauses detailing all the other things I’m denied. The right to have children. Discussion of my contract with anyone other than my owner or their representative. The right to own property . . . The list goes on.
I don’t look at that list anymore. I’ve grown out of seeking emotional self-destruction. But even now the doubts are slithering in, making me question whether ignoring the hellish foundation my life is built on genuinely equates to coping. What if I just keep looking the other way until one day it comes crashing back in? I’ll be sent back to the testing center to be “recalibrated.” No. I can’t let that happen. Deep breaths. Hold the knife more gently. Chop the fucking vegetables.
“Tia, find me something to listen to. Something with a bit of oomph to it.”
My APA selects a favorite of mine: an old album by an obscure Russian nova-punk band that self-destructed in an all-too-predictable fashion. I chop the carrots, and without a case to occupy me, my thoughts drift back to Dee, and another burst of anger flares through my chest. I’m not going to be able to let this go. She means too much to me.
It obviously wasn’t mutual. We went through the stress, the fear, the abuse—all that hot-housing did to us—together, and then she throws me to those fucking dogs hungry for the next story. And for what? Did they offer her the same private-server deal they tried to buy me with? How long has Dee been reporting to them?
I put the knife down and press my fists into the worktop. I have to accept Dee told them everything about me that she could. As a fellow asset, she can’t have told them about my status or about the hot-housing, so realistically, the most they could know is how I approach a few games. I didn’t spill my guts to Dee as we played. Far from it. I just have to let it go and be thankful that I figured out the trap in time.
It doesn’t make the betrayal any easier to deal with though.
“You haven’t checked the stream for seven days,” Tia says. “Would you like to review your settings?”
“No.”
“I could suggest new people to connect with,” Tia presses. “Or perhaps we could discuss a way to make your experience more convenient or enjoyable.”
“No, Tia, it’s fine. Everyone’s talking about that bloody capsule, and when you filter that out, there’s not much left.”
“There are several trending tags that might interest you: #shutupaboutthecapsule, #boringcapsuleisboring, #anythingbut—”
“Nothing social tonight, Tia, thanks.” I’m not sure what the masses enjoy more: being swept into a fervor about the latest big story or the backlash against it. It all ends the same way: by the time whatever is being hyped actually happens, most people have used up all the fucks they could possibly give about it.
“Would you like me to review the filters in place on your public in-box? You have received new messages since you last checked your mail.”
“All asking for interviews or some statement about the capsule?”
“All except one has been filtered into the ‘Journalist shitbags’ folder. Would you like to—”
“I’m not interested.”
“Would you like me to summarize the latest papers published in Applied Psychology, The Criminal Mind and—”
“No!” JeeMuh, I’m annoyed at an APA. I need an early night.
“Would you like me to make fewer suggestions?”
I start peeling the potatoes, wondering how to reply. I should keep up-to-date with things better than I have been of late. It’s good to keep up with the latest research and think pieces by the greats in the field. But on these rare evenings of downtime between murder investigations, it’s the last thing I want to do. I should keep an eye on current affairs too, but with the news feeds full of crap about the capsule and all the markets, tech and financial, wanking themselves senseless about what could be inside it, there’s nothing left of merit. Tia is one of the highest-level APAs for both work and personal use, but it can be overzealous in trying to connect me more. It’s only following protocols established from a combo of my psych supervisor’s recommendations and my own profile settings, but sometimes it feels like it’s nagging me.
“I don’t mind suggestions,” I reply. “I’m just not interested in anything except making this casserole right now.”
I know I’m an outlier. My ex used to have ten conversations on the go while taking a shower—even while taking a dump. It’s not like I can really jump into the stream anyway, not with my job. I’m always holding something back, even though I have permission to use a legal pseudonym for recreational use online. It’s not the same when you know anything you say or do is being recorded and could be reviewed at any time by your owner. I can see why the hard core go to such lengths to create illegal online identities. The freedom that true anonymity would give must be intoxicating.
I’m quieter online than most. I guess some of Alejandro’s teachings sank in deeper than I’d like to admit. It’s then I realize he taught me how to cook this casserole and I shake my head. I’m not the product of tragedy the media hacks want me to be. Another selfish bastard did far more to make me what I am now than my own parents.
“Tia, has Alejandro Casales said anything about the capsule?”
“Yes. He made a public statement on arrival in London.”
“He’s in Norope?” My heart judders in my chest. Has he finally come to find me? No. He probably doesn’t even remember me now. Only a narcissistic twat would think someone as high-profile as him would give any fucks about me. I know I’m just another piece of human wreckage he’s left in his wake.
“Yes. He arrived in London eight days ago and made the statement at the airport. Would you like me to play a recording of the footage?”
I don’t want to hear his voice again. I don’t want to see his face. Why did I even ask? But I have to know now. “Just . . . read it out to me with your voice.”
“Upon arrival at Heathrow Airport, Alejandro Casales said: ‘I don’t have anything new to say about Atlas and the one they called the Pathfinder. All I have is hope that whatever she left us in that capsule nourishes humanity. I know there are so many who hope it will contain answers, but to those who seek them I say this: look inside yourself. The answers to these questions are probably already within you, waiting to be heard. Turn off the distractions long enough to listen.’”
Even with Tia’s voice it makes me clench my teeth. It sounds like the kind of preachy bullshit he’d say. “Why is he in Norope?”
“He hasn’t made any statement to that effect, nor answered any questions about his visit,” Tia replies. “Eighty-two-point-five percent of all mentions regarding his visit make the assumption he is here for the opening of the capsule.”
That’s bollocks, I think. For one thing, the capsule will be opened in Paris, Europe, so why fly into the capital of Norope? Relations between the two great gov-corps are better than they’ve been for a while, but back before England became part of the union between the former UK and the Scandinavian countries, there was always a vast political gulf between the island and mainland Europe. Landing in London when you’re as famous as Alejandro Casales is like flicking all the balls in Europe without even trying. He used to be one of them, after all. And for another thing, there’s over a week to go. Half of the news feeds have got that number ticking down in the corner of their broadcasts. Millions of people, every day, are counting off the days to what many are calling the event of the century. Others are calling it the end of the world, but then there’s always someone counting down to that. Whether they believe it’s going to reveal secrets that will change the world or just a picture of Cillian Mackenzie with his middle finger thrust in front of him, everyone is talking about it online. Except me.
The irony is, if I had true anonymity out there, I’d probably want to talk about that fucking capsule too. As much as I try to keep any and all reminders about it away from me, I can’t stop my thoughts from drifting back to the bloody thing. I was only six months old when it was buried by the Pathfinder and her project/PR manager. What did Lee Suh-Mi and Cillian Mackenzie decide to gift to the poor bastards they left behind? The fabled coordinates to God and enough technical knowledge to build another huge ark and follow them? That’s what most people seem to be hoping for: a new age of interstellar travel and space exploration. That’s because they’re idiots. There’s no way we have the resources to devote to such a huge project, not after the damage from the ’30s. There’s no way to mobilize a build like that without taking critical materials and man power from something else, and there just isn’t the slack anymore. The last thing that even came close was the Mars expedition and that hasn’t made enough money to recoup costs. No profit means no more gov-corp interest, and that means it won’t happen.
And what would be the point of trying to pursue Lee’s crazy followers anyway? There’s no guarantee Atlas made it, even if God was waiting for them at those coordinates. The Pathfinder and those stupid enough to follow her are probably all dead, frozen and floating in a huge man-made failure. I can imagine my mother’s face, gray skinned and white lipped, eyes staring—
A loud buzz makes me jump and the knife slips. A red bloom sinks into the potato on the chopping board as I inspect the cut. Another buzz.
“What is that?” I ask Tia.
“The doorbell.”
“You’re shitting me.”
A new icon labeled “DOORCAM” flashes in my right-hand field and I select it. My boss is standing on the doorstep, pressing the button for a third time. Fuck! Did she find out I was at that food market? As the buzz fades she looks straight into the cam and raises an eyebrow. I’ve been living here for more than five years and no one has ever rung the bell. I didn’t even know there was one.
“Open the door for her,” I say, hurriedly rinsing the cut. Knowing her, she’ll take the stairs even though I’m five floors up. Enough time for me to put on some trousers and a clean T-shirt, if this bastard cut stops dripping.
“MyPhys, does this need stitches?” I stare at the long slice down the edge of my left forefinger.
Tia’s voice reports back. “MyPhys recommends thorough cleaning of the wound and application of a medi-strip. The injury has been logged in your medical record and you will be notified should there be early indications of infection.” When I don’t immediately move, Tia adds, “There’s a box of them in the bathroom cupboard.”
I leave drops of blood on the flooring as I dash in there and rinse it. Another drop splatters the white porcelain as I pluck a strip from the box and tear off the protective film with my teeth. There’s immediate relief once I’ve pressed the gelled side against the cut as the local anesthetic does its work.
There’s just enough time to dress properly and wipe up the blood from the floor before the knock. I run a hand through my hair, realize I haven’t shaved and then open the door.
Roberta Milsom looks exactly as she always does: her hair is cut shorter than mine, in an Afro style, dark brown skin, no makeup. What you see is what you get with her and I like that. She gives her usual nod and steps inside without bothering to wait for the invitation to do so. We both know it would be superfluous, and if she’s anything, she’s efficient.
“Caught you out, did I?” she says, taking in the medi-strip and the fold creases in my T-shirt that haven’t had a chance to drop out yet.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, standing straighter out of habit. “I was cooking.”
“I’d heard you do that,” she says, walking in, her boots making a gentle clumping sound.
She doesn’t ask if she’s disturbing my plans. That’s irrelevant. I’m always available, as per the terms in my contract. Milsom knows there’s no one else here because she would have checked beforehand. She doesn’t apologize for the intrusion because she has every right to summon me any time of day or night, regardless of what I might feel about it. What I don’t understand is why she’s come in person to do something she usually handles with a message.
That fact makes me tenser around her than usual. I follow her down the hallway, watching her sweep her trained eye over everything. She’s thinking it’s too big a place for me, that it’s an indulgence on my part that she would never permit herself. But she won’t say that. There are professional boundaries, after all. Just like everything she’s looking at, it doesn’t really belong to me; it’s being paid for out of a negotiated extension to my contract. I’ll be paying for the rent on this place as part of my contractual debt for many, many years. At the end of it all, I’ll walk away with the clothes on my back—nothing more. I’m not going to extend my contract for paintings and ornaments and clothes I don’t need.
“I’ll get to the point,” Milsom says, even before taking off her coat. “There’s a case but it’s complicated. I’m going to shut down your APA while I brief you.”
Another first. The tension knots my shoulder muscles. I don’t keep a cluttered border in my UI field, not like some, only a tiny icon in the bottom right for me to select if I want to do anything in silence instead of the voice interface. When it disappears I realize how deeply I’d become accustomed to it.
“Are you worried about a security breach?”
She doesn’t answer, just tosses her coat onto one of the chairs. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”
I want to quip that she said she was going to get straight to the point but I daren’t piss her off. She’s honest-to-God nervous and I know that something big is coming. “Should I get one for myself too?”
She nods. “Make them large.”
I open a bottle of wine, having finished the whisky last week, and pour two large glasses as she settles herself in another chair, all the while taking in the Spartan decor and sleek storage. This could be anyone’s apartment, I think, imagining seeing it through her eyes for the first time. No photos, no ornaments, not even any art.
I take the wine over to her and sit opposite. She takes a sip and then downs a good slug of the stuff. It irritates me that she isn’t savoring it; the bottle, being the real deal, costs just shy of a week’s worth of debt. I hide the fact I’m trying to breathe in the aroma—she’ll only think I’m some pretentious tosser—and then take a sip myself, letting the flavors spread across my tongue before swallowing.
I’m ready for something shitty—some celeb knocked off in a corporate’s house, that sort of thing. I wait as she considers the best way to start.
“Alejandro Casales has been murdered. We want you to lead the investigation.”