Jack woke with a start, gasping, sweating, shooting up onto a bed tossed entirely into chaos. Light was filtering from transparent windows, declaring the chunk of daytime he’d slept through. The vivid dream — the nightmare — the horrifying memory — flared in his head, bygone reflections of a prior him made into hot brain knives. Too real, too specific, too accurate… too common. The smells were still in his nostrils. His heart was pounding, blood pumping like he’d just crawled out of that hangar of death again, with Death 2.0 a promise waiting around the corner.
His eyes sought for threats briefly — aliens — before he shook himself and forced his brain to discount that possibility. Safety. He was safe. They were safe.
Are they, though? They’re probably all as dead as the one in my-
Jack shook his head, banishing the thought. He made his way to the bathroom, blurry-eyed, starving, thirsty, and aching in mind and body. He drank a bit from the sink, splashed water into his face, and knew he needed way more of that — as always. He took a cold shower.
Reset. His spiritless baptism purging demons with ritual. The fall of the water was a balance between discomfort and something almost pleasant. A precious liquid, always, yet he reaped an abundant bounty of it. It was the soul of the present reality; his eternal grounding and beginning.
He’d been there before. So many times feeling an uncanny panic. Bristle-haired, waiting for the walls to blow, waiting for the ceiling to crash and horrors to spill forth; death to come knocking. Against that thing inside him, that hated ‘condition’ he’d been labeled with despite how he denied it and rejected it mulishly arguing his way through two psychiatrists, refusing medicine, refusing medicine, refusing medicine, refusing medicine… against that thing he perceived as a weakness where his very thinking about it had to be deconstructed by the third — and perhaps best — head doctor… Against that, he’d learned what he needed. Solutions. Techniques.
Eyes closed, he simply endured under the water, deliberately thinking of nothing more than that spray. Water and life, leaving death behind him. He’d tried mantras. No good. Emptiness was better inside. It was… efficient. Eventually, the external aligned with it. Discomfort died, shock settled, and all things became calm. Peaceful.
Except for one thing, toward the end. He cringed as more terrible memories came to him. “ ‘I’ll have Superhero Abs to show off,’ ” he mimed, mocking himself, barking a hysterical, incredulous noise, not quite a laugh.
Skies Above, how much more stupid could I have been? The solution is simple, though: never show my face in that place again. Goodbye, Hot Agent Bermuda.
An overall much calmer Jack toweled off as he sought out clothes. Multiple drab, light uniforms in the closet. Of course. Gray synthsilk that could take a knife’s blade without cutting. The military certainly didn’t shortchange soldiers. He proceeded to dress himself, though he paused on the heavier short coat. On the right shoulder was the jacket symbol of the Linewalkers in black. On the left shoulder was the symbol of the mushhushshu in bronze.
Jack grinned faintly. The mark of the elite. As he ran his thumb over it, his grin faded. Haven’t really earned it. Time to fix that.
When he checked his Mini-Mem interface, he had two ‘alerts’ with little exclamation points pulsing. The first was from Lindsay from early in the morning, text that read,
The other alert was from Mini herself.
Okay, food it is, then.
Jack checked the kitchen and found cabinets stocked with dry foods, and a refrigerator modestly stocked with a few things. He went for the milk immediately, and also noticed multiple, sparsely-labeled silver cans which had to be the ‘infused’ stuff. The labels were some sort of coded symbol that triggered Mini-Mem to inject the interpretation into his head. [Raspberry Cream]. [Jet Engine Green]. [Fireseed]. [Mocha Latte].
Jack was very tempted, but held off. He poured a full glass of milk and guzzled it down, spilling a bit over his chin in eagerness that made him feel like a caveman. He dug around in the cupboards for a snack and found some fruit-nut bars. He devoured two as he further sought out what he really wanted, not sure if it would be there…
“Ha ha! There it is!” A small little square brick of coffee, vacuum sealed in thick yellow plastic. The only decor was a black imprint, a fairly elaborate image of an armored woman riding a pegasus, thrusting out a spear. Representative of the Valkyries, the mountains where the vast majority of coffee was made. Never enough, though.
He found the coffee maker — a typical hand press for efficient extraction — and set about the wonderful process of making a decent cup of black liquid heaven. First sip… slightly too bitter. Well, he was rusty, probably. He added a little more sugar and it was damn fine. He wouldn’t complain if it were twice as bitter.
Despite savoring a blatant appetite suppressant until it was gone, it barely suppressed much at all, and he remained ravenously hungry. Rather than continuing to hole up in his pad — tempting as it was — he decided to have a look at more of his new environment in the light of ‘day.’
He sent a Mem-text to Lindsay just as he was leaving.
Lindsay quickly shot back,
Jack exited his room, frowning slightly at the info. He drew it up from his Mini-Mem and saw 2,367 Bennies, with 5.23 Lux.
Damn. I’m rich already.
He asked Mini, “Why can’t I use my old account?”
“You are not officially here right now, Jack,” she answered in his head. “You are not publicly ‘Jack Laker, Junior Agent and Homo Superior.’ Publicly, where Jack Laker is, what he’s doing, why — that’s all classified. Those who knew you can wonder if you were killed, detained, got into trouble, went into witness protection, or whatever else imagination can conjure. Naturally, in your case, not a soul will consider that you’ve become what you are. Corresponding to this identity, your expense account is that of an agent of Memoria, a Man In Black, not something so very civilian as Jack Laker.”
Walking down the hallway outside his quarters, wondering where exactly he should be going, he stopped dead in the middle, blinking and trying to absorb what he’d just been told. Ultimately, he chided himself. He should’ve expected every bit of that.
They walk around in masks. Most are obscured, only the scarce chosen attaining any official public identity, and that usually through their handles. I saw Vim’s face… they yelled at him, scandalized and downright angry that he took off his helmet… I signed some shit to never talk about it or be prosecuted severely.
Jack took a deep breath. “While I’m thinking about it, Mini, make me an alert to make sure I do that form to get my shit from my apartment. Before you guys burn it down or something.”
“Jack!” Mini called in admonishment. “Memoria would be offended that you’d think us so crude. Shame on you! You have time, and we’d never toss your things without your sanction, nor allow your things to be tossed by a third party. We look after our own. In any case, I’ve created a reminder. Would you like me to remind you directly if you forget and have a free moment to deal with it?”
“Yeah, sure. I guess I don’t want to just say, ‘grab everything,’ huh?”
“Probably not. You’ve got a number of things you should just replace or throw out. Like that ratty old brown jacket that fell behind the couch.”
“Shit, so that’s where it was! Wait, how do you know- hey, are you fraggin' kidding me?! Of course I’m not throwing that out!”
“Ugh. Fine. At least let us clean the ugly thing, though. It’s not like you clean back there in your dust mite factory.”
“I’m not appreciating the privacy violation here.”
“Call it what you like, but that place is objectively dirty as hell and poorly cleaned. Mere path and visible surface maintenance can only do so much.”
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“We’re done, Mini. Done! Begone!”
“Sure thing, Jack. I’ve provided virtual arrows to guide you to your destination. Would you rather I remove them?”
Jack scowled and didn’t respond, allowing the glowing arrows to appear through silent sanction. Popping into his field of vision, they guided him to the proper stairs down to the subway. He had to pass entirely out of the wing into the central space of the building. The halls were empty, though he thought one door was to a class underway from what he could see and hear. With the small number of students, he imagined there weren’t many in session at the same time. He’d think a few at most.
Wide stairs led down to a small station. The subway car wasn’t visible yet, and not a soul was in there. Not surprising considering it was supposedly student-only.
Jack sat down and opened up the ‘Possessions Relocation’ form while he was thinking about it. A somewhat embarrassing checklist displayed itself, including to sequester ‘to storage,’ to trash, or to send to his new apartment. He had Mini mass check all foodstuffs and change ‘trash’ to ‘donation if viable; trash otherwise.’ No sense in wasting usable things.
“Trash already accounts for this, Jack,” Mini chided him with a note of exasperation. “We have efficient systems in place for re-use, salvage, and trash processing.”
“I think we’ve already established that I don't fully trust our systems.”
“Noted. We’ll try and make sure that you’re especially satisfied with our use of your trash. You’ll get a detailed report.”
“Hmm.”
Jack deliberated on what else to trash. That bathroom rug, definitely. Stool? What stool? Oh, that little table in the corner with the broken lamp on it. That wasn’t a stool. Was it?
For the most part, he committed a lot of junk to storage.
A brief series of chimes announced the subway car, and shortly thereafter it came smoothly and silently to a stop, automatic doors opening. It had one car, making it questionable to contain all of the lunch hour crowd. Just as Jack was getting up, a uniformed young cadet carrying a book bag exited, glancing at Jack curiously but soon nodding politely and moving on. The patch symbol on his arm was what looked to be a silver mask.
Jack returned the nod and hopped into the car, soon finding an immediate seat in an otherwise empty space. The chairs were cushioned and overall it was nice, if kept simple. Standing hooks hung from above.
Wonder how often those see any use.
“Destination, sir?” a feminine voice asked in his ears.
Jack jumped out of his skin, looking around in alarm, but soon realized it was some sort of interface trick. “What?” Jack said out loud in uncertainty. “Y- where are you? Ugh. Sorry. I’m new.”
“That’s quite alright!” the voice returned cheerily. “Sorry I startled you, sir. This is the subway car’s operating system. You can think of it more like a cab on tracks unless you see the big, multi-car lunch train. We’re very modular! If multiple people come on board, we go in sequential order. Sometimes we pick up others on the way, sometimes not. So! Where to, Mr. Laker? Note that you can subvocalize your answer or send it through your interface by Mem-text to Hall Subways, if desired. This latter effect can be done preliminarily as well. It’s your choice, sir!”
Jack nodded slowly, appreciative that the system was a bit more efficient than it would otherwise seem due to organized automation. “Mess hall, please,” he answered. “Thanks.”
“No problem! Coming right up, sir!” The doors closed and the levitation commenced, headed down an artificially lit tunnel that soon showed multiple turns rather than being one static direction. It wasn’t long before they made a turn, what Jack thought was almost certainly deeper inward in respect to the greater tower.
Jack finished up his form on the way, greenlighting things like his personal effects and mementos while sending most furniture and what he was indecisive on to storage.
When he was done and sent the form in, Mini immediately sighed into his head. “Jack, you can’t send your medals into storage.”
Jack scoffed. “Why not? That’s basically where they were in the closet. Not like I parade them around. What would I even tell people? ‘I did some classified stuff I can’t talk about, or the Mems will come for us. Also, it messed up my head and discontinued my career!’ Whoopity doo.”
“First of all, you should be proud of them. You earned them with bravery, excellence, blood, sweat, and tears in the field. You helped save the lives of several of the Agentus and a decorated Major. Second of all, you can talk about it with a great number of your soon-to-be peers at this point. Third — a nitpick, maybe — but you’re the one who passed on respectable continued service out of the field. We both know you’ve regretted it, besides.”
“Eh. I’ll pass on the medals being here, too.”
“No, you won’t. You are required to wear those medals for formal ceremonies, Junior Agent. Left breast, well-polished.”
Jack was disbelieving. “You’ve got to be kidding me! I don’t want that kind of attention!”
“Too bad, Soldier! Proper uniform for the proper occasion, that’s the SOP.”
Jack grumbled within himself, jaw clenched. Orders were orders, cut and dry. He’d signed away the general avoidance of that, as well as the general invisibility being a civilian granted. He’d traded one kind of obscurity for another — a trade with costs. “Should’ve just grayed them out, then. Since I don’t have a choice.”
“Fair enough. Just understand this: awards, like presentation in general, exist for the fame and glory of the entire military order in a perpetual war for survival. The mystique of accomplishment serves to inspire and give hope to those coming up. It embarrasses you? Alright. Suck it up and stand tall with it anyway as an example to others. Consider it a sacrifice.”
It gave Jack pause to consider. If he could think about it like that… “I feel like Memoria is talking to me, here.”
“Memoria would deliver the point with more dramatic flair and gusto. Probably be slightly more insulting, as well.”
“True.”
“What, you think just because I’m a local AI that I should be soulless and unsubtle? So insulting.”
“Whatever. Back in the cage, Demon! It’s time for me to eat.” The subway car was just pulling up to a station.
“Hmph. Good. Maybe you’ll be less grouchy after eating properly.”
“I’m not being grouchy!” Jack filed out into the station, nodding as two female cadets filed in, but they were whispering to each other and not paying him any mind.
Jack proceeded up a very wide set of stairs that narrowed slightly as it rose and spilled out into a massive, grand hall. It was circular and had multiple layers of descending levels chock-full of tables, sprinkled here and there with uniformed cadets, mostly solitary or in pairs, along with a smattering of apparent non-cadets. In the very center of the dip, a stepped pyramid rose, with a dramatic shooting fountain on top. Some people occupied the steps or sat on the lip of it. Some kid with green skin appeared to be lying down and taking a nap there.
At least being a little older is nothing when you have mutations making people look like plants and stone statues walking around. Exotic appearances are like one out of five here.
Exotic appearances were hardly unheard of to begin with. In New Babylon, one out of a few hundred would have exotic mods, or maybe one in a thousand, unless one considered ‘invisible’ things like minor cosmetics, or ‘Deep Root’ hair dyes, which were cheap and easy tech. He knew quite a few people whose motivation to work was saving up for appearance-improving/altering mods. They happened to be those who were fine with or even preferred roommates, which helped with saving up.
At the top of the great circle were innumerable colorfully labeled food stations, most apparently utilizing automated systems and robots, but not all. Some were manned, and by most appearances, by older veterans, which was interesting. Incentives must’ve been great to utilize such a high clearance for mere food service. Scattered around were some walk-in restaurants, but most were just open counters, sometimes with a row of stools in front. Variety was extensive and usually specialized. Burger Bunny. Stapletown Fish N’ Chips. Jiaozi Doughy Fortune. Infinite Paratha. Flying Sushi. Thick Soup Shack. Cyber Gyros.
Of course there’s a Cyber Gyros, they’re everywhere.
It reminded Jack of a few arcology commercial districts, albeit a bit miniaturized in comparison. The one in Ragnar, close to the military academy, had a retro 20th/21st century styling with odes to some mall in ancient Sweden (the name escaped him) as well as the storied Mall of America, most of it on the top of the arcology. Food temptations were a fixture of the drop-off point near the elevators, as Jack had faced and smelled numerous times as a cabby. Various bakeries, too much ‘cinnamon bun’ in the air, and there was a great retro milkshake place he liked especially — and a delicious little place called Ramen, Ramen!, though it was always too packed for his tastes.
Jack started off to his left, walking around the circle while trying not to gawk like a country hick at the prior unique-looking people he’d spotted. And then his eyes locked onto what appeared to be a living ice sculpture behind a counter with a big label above titled ‘Frosties! — Shakes & Ice Cream!’ The sculpture was stylized as a young woman with snowy hair in an updo, and a dress patterned with snowflakes. She was partially transparent but had darker shading, almost making her like some sort of silhouette of mixed whites and darker blues.
She was smiling and laughing — Moving ice! — and Jack realized suddenly it was because she was chatting with two cadets standing in front of the counter. And he had walked right up to them, gawking like an idiot.
Shit-
The two cadets had cut off to look at him first, and then the ice sculpture enchantress turned to regard him as well, her candid smile faltering briefly before changing into a more polite version. Within her eyes, somewhere deep, were bright twinkles like stars. “What can I get you, sir?” she asked in a musical voice.
“Uh,” Jack blurted, stammering. “Right, um…” Embarrassed, he looked up at a digitally displayed menu, and the sudden social panic he felt turned the whole thing into indecipherable code that eluded him. “Too-too-too-too… what do I want?” He drummed his hands on the counter and tried to focus. A snicker came from one of the girl's friends, and then a few suppressed giggles from both of them.
Jack took a breath and winced. He turned it into a sheepish grin as he looked back at the thoroughly amused ice sculpture girl. Her face said it all.
“I’m blatantly caught gawking, aren’t I?” Jack offered in surrender.
Living ice sculpture is kewl. Powers are kewl. Sue him.
Also, Betrayal Brain won, and he will never be allowed to forget his sin of supreme cringe.
"NBP Districts, Part 2" (in Comments)
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