In Dreams Read online

  I spot the clock. It flashes: 12:30. I still have fifteen minutes!

  I slap my neighbor on the shoulder. He flinches in pain, but doesn't lose his smile. I look at him and for the first time I really see him. An average bob. Looks a lot like me really -- just a guy down on his luck, looking for relief.

  But just when we think things are going our way, a bot marches up to the booth.

  "Lock down the area," it says.

  Our grins stiffen.

  "Shut down the booth," it says.

  And now our smiles are covered and gone.

 

  *** Subliminal Encryption ***

  Undesirables.

  The Facts.

  Did you know all inmates become Undesirables?

  Did you know that Undesirables cannot legally find employment above Sector 7?

  Did you know that a check will be made on every purchase Undesirables make for the rest of their lives? Even for milk?

  Did you know that it is almost impossible for Undesirables to secure housing above Sector 10?

  Sign up for your procedure.

  With this, you get the last laugh.

  With this, no one can control you.

  Visit your ASP booth today.

  Brought to you by Phoenix Preparatory Services.

  *** End ***

  I limp up to the guard and say, "You can't!"

  "We must clear this area, citizen," it says, tapping something into a hand-sized datapad.

  "What? Why?"

  “Someone kamikazed a booth on Sector 7 yesterday,” it says showing more interest in the datapad than me. "We can't have that happening again. The area must first be fully investigated and cleared."

  The clock ticks 12:34.

  I probably look like some desperate, raving lunatic when I say, “But I want a procedure now!”

  The bot doesn't even look up. "I suggest using one of the thirteen other booths on this level. I can gladly direct--"

  "And wait in another line for an hour? I can't."

  It grinds its eyes toward me. "I'm sure we can give a discount if--

  "It has to be done here. Now!"

  The bot just gawks. Two hollow eyes blink. "Citizen, why is it so important?"

  "I--" can't tell you. "My reasons are my own."

  I march away.

  Step, grumble, sigh. My shoulders drop. Then my head. Now what?

  I flop to my battered bum. Looking at the clock, I sigh. Only ten minutes left. I should have known this wouldn't have worked.

  In a puff of noxious vapors, my neighbor plops down next to me.

  What I wouldn't give for an Anti-Felaxic right now. Oh, those pink little poppers. To sooth the pain, to sooth the madness. Bliss in a bottle.™

  Across the street a woman lounges out of Attire de Hérétique, cradling a scrawny little dog in her acrylic claws. The pooch covers more of the woman than her new clothes. A smile doesn't come to me this time.

  “Wh-wh-why don't people protest those saps?” says the one next to me.

  “Cuz they look better than us.”

  Silence takes over. We sit. I think. He reeks.

  It's over.

  I've lost.

  "There's one," a guard cries in the distance. My head snaps up to see. Through the smoke, that big, mountainous thug makes a break for it. But there's no way he'll make it. Like some kind of mechanical cheetah, three of the bots bolt after him and pounce. In an acrobatic twirling act, all four roll to the pavement, and in nearly the same motion, vault up, the perp locked in the guards' arms.

  "Get a black and white down here, ASAP," one says to the gathering guards.

  “Well, at least the nightcrawlers won't have to search for me now.”

  But I'm talking to no one. The sap has already leapt to his feet. In a skip and a stumble he darts over to the booth.

  He is gone. For no reason. Just like that. That simple.

  Funny.

  I am finally alone. In quiet. Unnoticed. What I wanted. Right?

  Sigh.

  Pitter, pitter, pat -- through a curl of smoke, the sap comes trotting back.

  “Great news,” he says. “Th-th-they opened up the booth.”

  My eyes shoot up towards him. “Really?”

  “Yup. Since they ca-ca-caught the guy who threw the bomb, they sa-sa-said they'll open the booth up for customers." He thrusts out a finger. "I saw some bobs already making a line.”

  I whip my eyes toward the booth. There are only three in line. And the clock up top says I've got five minutes left.

  I wobble up to my aching feet. “Great. Maybe I still got a chance." I nearly break out in a smile.

  “Yeah,” the sap says. “All we got to do is ma-ma-make it past their screener.”

  My smile flops. “What?”

  “They're screening everyone th-th-that goes in. All you got to do is te-te-tell them why you want to use--”

  “If I do that--" I gulp. "They're going to tell the nightcrawlers.”

  “Just make something up.”

  “Those guards are decommissioned Enforcers. They've got built in fMRI's."

  He scrunches up a big dumfounded shrug.

  "That means they know when you're lying," I say. "Hell, they'll probably think I'm one of those yahoos that started all this mess.”

  We both just stand and shake our heads.

  After a second, I grunt. “Hell. So what if they catch me. I'm supposed to end up in the clink either way. Who cares what the reason's for. This is my only chance not to.”

  We step up to the line, my neighbor shielding me from the guard. Digital grunts and soft mumbles come from the bot and bob in front of us. Behind them, smoke wafts up through the long slitted windows wrapped around the top of the booth. The clock up top reads: 12:41.

  Buzz. The bot is done. Ding. It steps up to my neighbor.

  Damn, it's tall. Figures we'd get the ultra-intimidator model.

  “What is your purpose here, citizen?” it asks.

  It takes my pal a good minute to work through a knot of syllables and spit out an answer. I can't quite make out what he says, but the bot seems to have no problem. All the plates on its face are pushed into place, a blank silver skull.

  “Alright. Next,” it says, nudging him forward.

  It stomps up to me. It's all rigid, a stiff inquisitor.

  A set of red glowing eyes leer down at me. I squirm like under a spotlight.

  “What is your purpose here, citizen?” it asks.

  “You saw me in line." I hold in a shudder. "I'm not a protestor.”

  “You must prove your intention.”

  “Is this questioning really necessary? Scan me. You can see I have nothing on me.”

  “Why do you wish to have a procedure performed today, citizen?” The plates on its face clink, clank and tilt into a frown. It's lost its allotted limit of patience.

  “I...” I just can't say it.

  The bot crunches a metal foot in front of me. It leans in close enough for me to get a nostril-full of oil fumes.

  It says, “I cannot let you in otherwise, citizen.”

  It stares. Waits. Frowns.

  A siren breaks the silence, a whirring, whining wail. I turn. A flashing black and white cruiser hovers down, its jets hissing as they hit the pavement.

  I look back at my bot. It hasn't moved an inch. It's either now or never.

  I close my eyes and say it. “I've been given a 3FD3 municipal sentence. This is my only way out.”

  The bot is silent. The silence of judgment. Shit.

  Suddenly it leans in. “Sir, that sentence is only a month's detention.”

  "Yeah, but all inmate's are marked Undesirable."

  "Citizen, you are mistaken. Only 10% of inmates are--"

  "No. I've heard what happens. I've seen the ads. I know. And you don't know what being marked an Undesirable means."

  The bot's blank stare says that I'm right. Its lack of movement says that it doesn't care.
>
  "That means I cannot legally find employment above Sector 7."

  The bot stares, still hunched over me.

  "That means I'll have a check run on me even when I go to the shop to buy milk."

  I get nothing.

  "That means my life will be over. The way I've known will be gone. You work for them. You must know all of this. This is my only way out. You got to let me through. I need this.”

  The bot springs back to its firm stance.

  "I see, citizen," it says. "One moment please."

  The bot stands there all stiff, eyes starring out at nothing. Motionless. Silent. Humming. Is it processing? Or notifying the Enforcers? Like that big one right over there.

  In the distance, past the group of guards, past that cowering thug, an Enforcer caped in black stomps out of the cruiser. Its plated skull, the large silver slabs, are angled in a angry scowl, a mix of some kind of samurai and skeleton.

  It slams down the other foot. Is it coming towards me? Yes. It's taking another step this way.

  But the guard, it's still just standing there. A computing statue. The world's largest paperweight.

  And I just stand here, aching like I was hit by a Rig, and stewing in my own sweat.

  What I wouldn't give right now for a Personal Air Pack 7G. Zero to splat in under four seconds. Get out of anywhere in a blast.™

  The ground shakes as the Enforcer takes another clomp closer. It raises two burning green eyes straight at me. Shit. My heart gets lodged somewhere around my uvula.

  I'm caught.

  The second before I scream, the guard flinches. And thank God, because of that I stop.

  In a rattling vibration, the guard says, "I'm convinced you aren't one of the protestors. You may enter."

  I whip back to the Enforcer. Its stare turns away, turns right towards the thug. It slaps a shiny pair of cuffs on him.

  A long sigh dribbles out my lips. My entire body shrivels and shrinks -- I deflate all the anxiety; I hiss away all the nerves. Finally, I feel peace. Finally, something is going right today.

  I step behind my neighbor. In silence we stand. In a hush we wait. We are almost there.

  The last bob in front of us tap-tap-taps into the booth. The door hisses shut. No one is left in line. And the clock reads 12:45. I smile.

  “Looks like you're next.” I pat my friend on the back.

  Right then a well-endowed woman strolls by in her new attire, or actually, lack thereof. Her uncovered mammaries flap as she passes, their undulation almost hypnotic.

  Perfect timing. Boobies just when we need them.

  My neighbor rattles his head, no. “P-p-people aren't aware of how far they are gone.” I'm actually glad to hear his nasally voice. “They think this is what they need be-be-because someone tells them so-so-so. Then cuz they do it, others think it's no-no-normal. Before you know it, everyone's na-na-naked, paying good money literally for nothing. But none of us complain cuz, well--”

  "We're all happy," I say, eyes locked on those bouncing, wobbling wonders.

  "Exactly. Everyone's hypnotized. And it's all because someone is just ba-ba-banking off of their insecurities. Poor blind sa-sa-saps.”

  I shrug. “I guess the need to make cash can make anything OK, eh?”

  In an awkward twitch, his lips curl open. Then he says something I thought I'd never hear.

  “But I guess I can admit it. They do-do-do make nice eye candy.”

  For a good second, I stand and gawk at him. This bob's not such a sap after all. I guess everyones' nerves come out in different ways. Some just condemn.

  The clock buzzes to 12:46. A minute over. And that Enforcer is lifting off in its cruiser. Going, going, gone. I'm free. Nothing can stop me now.

  I turn to my neighbor and smile. Big. White. True.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “What for?”

  “I don't know. Talking just...was good.”

  He grins back. “For me too. It was good to see someone getting a procedure for the same reason,” he says, crystal clear.

  Wait, that would make him destined for the clink too. I would have never thought it. That crumple of paper could do something bad? I guess I never really was a good judge of character.

  The door of the booth slips open.

  “You're up,” I say.

  “Good luck on your procedure,” he says in an untied tongue.

  It hits me right about then. What happened to his stutter?

  A frown comes over me. Who is this guy, really?

  I eye him over. This bob, this conservative nut. Condemns every jane bobbling on the street. Is capable of doing something bad enough to go to the clink. Is pretending to be something he's not. Shit, he sounds like one of those-- No...

  A chill bolts through me. Every pore raises in unison. My heart trembles out shriveled muffles.

  This bob is going to kamikaze this thing.

  My heart practically stops.

  The sap's back is already turned. It's too late. There's nothing I can do.

  Thunk, he steps towards the booth. Thunk, my heart drops. Thunk, the door slides shut behind him.

  A hush, a dead calm. The birds chirp happily through it, sing in the pseudo-sun. In my head, silence echoes hollow.

  Puff. A stream of smoke drifts out of the booth's windows. Puff. It lifts slow, light, thin. Puff. It's just the normal kind.

  Relief slips through my lips. I almost smile. I breath.

  Despite whatever this damn world's thrown at me, I'm getting what I want.

  Then the door to the booth whooshes open.

  Silence.

  The booth waits. It looms in this peace. It dominates in this calm.

  No more excitement.

  No more rush.

  No more distractions.

  Now, I'm at oblivion's door. Now, it is my turn.

  I gulp and look around.

  “No more naked bodies to save us,” I say trying to open a sad simper.

  But no one is listening. My neighbor is no longer there.

  What I wouldn't give for a Ritswald Time Slipper right about now. Go back. Make this all right. Take back stealing those Woebegones. Take back nicking that 529 Pure Turbine. Take back taking that Takemura Cam-plant, those Anti-Felaxics and all those things I somehow really, really needed. Those things I couldn't live without. The reason I've been ordered to the clink. Oh, but wait. They haven't invented time slippers yet. Damn.

  I step in.

  Inside, the pallid room is empty. Inside, the air feels sterile, a crisp, chilled cloud.

  A large relief of a phoenix is carved on the entire face of the shiny wall. The rest of the pearly surfaces are barren. Empty. Blank.

  A small plastoid chair is centered in the middle of the spacious cube. I sit. The door whirrs shut behind me.

  The only thing in the room is a small terminal dangling in front of me. On it, drawings and a message flash: Begin?

  Following a diagram on the screen, I take a small cable off the terminal and plug its electrode onto a vein.

  “Yes,” I speak to the screen.

  It changes to: Enter payment details.

  I swipe my hand over the R1317 chip reader.

  The screen buzzes a new message: Are you sure about this procedure today?

  Sure? Hell yes! With this, I get the last laugh. With this, no one can control me.

  For a second I stop. For a second those words sound familiar. Where had I heard that before?

  I shrug. It doesn't matter. So I say, "Yes."

  I suck in a long, cool breath.

  “Well, this is it.”

  My mind is blank. Quiet. Finally. No more thoughts. No more fear. Just blissful nothingness. Peace.

  The screen flashes: “Beginning Assisted Suicide Procedure.”

  Almost over. But my life isn't flashing before my eyes. Only a bunch of commercials. The levitator I had. The shirt I bought. The dream vacation I wanted. When are we going to get to the
main feature? It's not like I got all day here.

  Pop. It all stops. Focuses. An image of giant flapping breasts.

  I smile.

  Ah, fashion. The boobs. Hypnotized. Mesmerized. Don't even know they are naked. God bless 'em.

  Final words? the screen flashes.

  I think. I sit. The mammaries continue to bounce.

  "Least no one's ever going to hypnotize me into lining their pockets!"

  And poof I'm--

  TRANSMISSION TERMINATED.

  END R1317 DATA RECORDER LOGS

  BROUGHT TO YOU BY PHOENIX PREPARATORY SERVICES

  VISIT YOUR ASP BOOTH TODAY

  ***END***

  The citizens were distracted. They were so convinced that this place they lived was paradise, that these rights they had were 'freedom,' that they did not know what they were truly doing.

  And like Bob and Franz, this would not be the last we see of this nameless man. For if this man did not kill himself, the Incident may have never taken place.

  -NH

  If I had it my way, I'd step up to this table, put all these organics in cuffs, and drill them one by one. Because somewhere here, I have what I'm looking for -- the spy.

  But I cannot. I must follow orders. And while I may not be one of those new pinnacles of cybernetic law enforcement, I am still an Enforcer. I have a protocol to uphold. So like this, with the product meeting already underway, with my orders to look but not touch, all I can do is listen. What a stellar last assignment.

  I reach for my built-in Audio Amplifier, but this damned suit collar is two inches too tall. In every smooth seem, under every sleek stitch, it's clear this monkey suit wasn't made for a century old, virus-infected, gear-grinding R3 unit like me. This bulky frame of mine is better fitted to the faded blue and gold greatcoats of decades past. Literally. Not this black on black SS uniform by Armani. With this getup, I look like a bad idea.

  Finally wrenching the collar down, I flip open my imbedded receiver gills and initiate the amplifier. In a tornado of consonants and vowels, all the conversations in the echoing conference arena whirl into a verbal salad.

  "Despite the loss of one shipment, everything is going as scheduled."

  "I don't know how Peter is handling this."

  "This new revision will put us back in control of the market."

  Who is speaking, what is being talked about, I'm not really sure. At the moment, though, none of it seems important. Just a dozen stiffs in suits whispering a dozen hidden agendas. I have no idea how I'm supposed to be able to hear our tell in all this.