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A bit of cyberpunk.
Jun. 24th, 2019 04:27 pmCredit for the first line goes to my cousin Pam, who used to describe how she felt with the flu. I have no idea where I'd go with this piece, but my writing group loved it. Let me know what you think.
Untitled Story Fragment #4
I woke up feeling like a leftover bag of gear and crappy food from backstage at a 1984 Ozzy concert. Summoning every milligram of energy I cracked open an eyelid. The searing white light caused my brain to explode and left after images of happy unicorns shitting rainbows. In an act of self-preservation, I managed to roll over. Which left me face down in the slightly damp carpet.
The thought of being found dead in this position was just humiliating enough for me to drag myself up into a loose lotus on the floor. I took some stock of my surroundings. Obviously, I was in a cheap but functional long-term hotel rental. The couch I was leaning on folded out into a bed; there was a maker unit showing 45% of the base block remaining, a small cleaner, and a sonic shower. There were also several empty pizza boxes and multiple empty bottles of soju, some smashed, littering the place. Add in the depleted medical kit and bloody bandages, and it seems I had quite the weekend.
But why couldn't I remember it? Even my chipped memory was wiped. My biofeed showed that in the last 72 hours I had been extremely active early on, then nearly comatose for close to two days. My locator put me in Los Angeles' Koreatown, which explained the soju. I needed answers, but first, some personal care.
Regretting every move, I got to my feet and stripped. The blood-splattered jeans and shirt went into the maker's bin. As did the socks and panties. The boots I woke in were really nice, so those went into the cleaner for a deep scrub. The bra deserved to be burned as biological waste, but it got fed to the maker. Then all the trash and broken glass. The maker happily hummed as it tore all that crap down to atoms and stored them.
Now me. I marched straight into the shower and set it to a deep clean cycle. On impulse, I also set a full hair removal. Ten minutes later, I felt as human as I get. The shower had even polished my right arm, bring out the highlights in the chrome work.
One more thing. I raised my arms and stood in the center of the shower. "Scan me for clothing, and send the results to the maker as Pam0311." I stood as still as I could until the shower chirped that it was finished. It was only when I stepped out of the shower did I notice the words written on the small mirror over the sink. Written in my own lipstick in my own hand.
DON'T ASK QUESTIONS
YOU GOT PAID A LOT TO FORGET
YOU WOULDN'T LIKE THE ANSWERS
That shook me. I called up my banking info and whistled. 250,000 Gold Bruins had been deposited two days ago. I recognized it as my standard fee for a political hit job. GB's were a strong, stable currency, backed by hard tech. What the hell had I done? Was the memory wipe voluntary? Or was it done without my consent? No, far easier to just kill me, the usual fate of an assassin.
I needed food to focus. The maker produced really good huevos rancheros and breakfast potatoes, along with a nice cold glass of tomato juice. While eating, I began looking at my security implants and their reports. Physically, I was fine, except for one gunshot wound to the leg that had already been tended to by a professional. My bike was outside, and one moron was off suffering from 24-hour Ebola for trying to mess with it. All my firearms reported green. A self-systems check revealed no malfunctions or invasive software.
Tummy filled, I used the maker to order up some good, rugged clothing. I was going to be charged for every gram of base matter I used over what was there when I checked in, which was one reason to dump all my trash there: build up the account. As I waited for the machine to work its magic, I turned on the wallscreen to catch up on the news.
And nearly lost my breakfast. Still dominating the headlines after three days was the brutal murder of the Governor of Los Angeles and his family in their home. Along with pretty much the entire security detail and the Governor himself, the dead included his wife and their five children. As I watched the pirated police camera videos, I recognized this as my work. I did this.
But kids? I never kill kids, I never kill family members. My rules are clear: I take out targets of value and anyone who tries to stop me. I am a dagger in the night, not a freaking car bomb. Yet somehow I was talked into doing this or blackmailed, and then agreed to be mindwiped and allowed to live. Nothing made sense.
But there was one thing I was sure of. The Pacific Coast Alliance was not safe for me. I was already dressing, throwing my other new clothes into my go-bag, and putting on my pretty new and now very clean boots.
Finally, before I dropped a Kleen-All bomb to erase my DNA from the place, I smashed the mirror bearing the message for my traitorous self. I will ask questions, I will learn the truth, and when I find out why this happened, God help the people who made me do this.
Untitled Story Fragment #4
I woke up feeling like a leftover bag of gear and crappy food from backstage at a 1984 Ozzy concert. Summoning every milligram of energy I cracked open an eyelid. The searing white light caused my brain to explode and left after images of happy unicorns shitting rainbows. In an act of self-preservation, I managed to roll over. Which left me face down in the slightly damp carpet.
The thought of being found dead in this position was just humiliating enough for me to drag myself up into a loose lotus on the floor. I took some stock of my surroundings. Obviously, I was in a cheap but functional long-term hotel rental. The couch I was leaning on folded out into a bed; there was a maker unit showing 45% of the base block remaining, a small cleaner, and a sonic shower. There were also several empty pizza boxes and multiple empty bottles of soju, some smashed, littering the place. Add in the depleted medical kit and bloody bandages, and it seems I had quite the weekend.
But why couldn't I remember it? Even my chipped memory was wiped. My biofeed showed that in the last 72 hours I had been extremely active early on, then nearly comatose for close to two days. My locator put me in Los Angeles' Koreatown, which explained the soju. I needed answers, but first, some personal care.
Regretting every move, I got to my feet and stripped. The blood-splattered jeans and shirt went into the maker's bin. As did the socks and panties. The boots I woke in were really nice, so those went into the cleaner for a deep scrub. The bra deserved to be burned as biological waste, but it got fed to the maker. Then all the trash and broken glass. The maker happily hummed as it tore all that crap down to atoms and stored them.
Now me. I marched straight into the shower and set it to a deep clean cycle. On impulse, I also set a full hair removal. Ten minutes later, I felt as human as I get. The shower had even polished my right arm, bring out the highlights in the chrome work.
One more thing. I raised my arms and stood in the center of the shower. "Scan me for clothing, and send the results to the maker as Pam0311." I stood as still as I could until the shower chirped that it was finished. It was only when I stepped out of the shower did I notice the words written on the small mirror over the sink. Written in my own lipstick in my own hand.
DON'T ASK QUESTIONS
YOU GOT PAID A LOT TO FORGET
YOU WOULDN'T LIKE THE ANSWERS
That shook me. I called up my banking info and whistled. 250,000 Gold Bruins had been deposited two days ago. I recognized it as my standard fee for a political hit job. GB's were a strong, stable currency, backed by hard tech. What the hell had I done? Was the memory wipe voluntary? Or was it done without my consent? No, far easier to just kill me, the usual fate of an assassin.
I needed food to focus. The maker produced really good huevos rancheros and breakfast potatoes, along with a nice cold glass of tomato juice. While eating, I began looking at my security implants and their reports. Physically, I was fine, except for one gunshot wound to the leg that had already been tended to by a professional. My bike was outside, and one moron was off suffering from 24-hour Ebola for trying to mess with it. All my firearms reported green. A self-systems check revealed no malfunctions or invasive software.
Tummy filled, I used the maker to order up some good, rugged clothing. I was going to be charged for every gram of base matter I used over what was there when I checked in, which was one reason to dump all my trash there: build up the account. As I waited for the machine to work its magic, I turned on the wallscreen to catch up on the news.
And nearly lost my breakfast. Still dominating the headlines after three days was the brutal murder of the Governor of Los Angeles and his family in their home. Along with pretty much the entire security detail and the Governor himself, the dead included his wife and their five children. As I watched the pirated police camera videos, I recognized this as my work. I did this.
But kids? I never kill kids, I never kill family members. My rules are clear: I take out targets of value and anyone who tries to stop me. I am a dagger in the night, not a freaking car bomb. Yet somehow I was talked into doing this or blackmailed, and then agreed to be mindwiped and allowed to live. Nothing made sense.
But there was one thing I was sure of. The Pacific Coast Alliance was not safe for me. I was already dressing, throwing my other new clothes into my go-bag, and putting on my pretty new and now very clean boots.
Finally, before I dropped a Kleen-All bomb to erase my DNA from the place, I smashed the mirror bearing the message for my traitorous self. I will ask questions, I will learn the truth, and when I find out why this happened, God help the people who made me do this.
