After years developing neurocom integrations, I'd learned a few things. Hardware limitations, usage stats, and how different corporations used neurocom apps to augment — or control — their employs.
I saw the weirdest skitz in data collected from Overwatch associates. Not that I was allowed to see much, since they're the world's largest cybersecurity corporation, but you can figure out quite a bit from seemingly innocuous log files. For one, they have ways of virtualizing users, a sort of ‘mind control’ that lets their cyberspooks take the wheel of another human’s body.
Fragging creepy, for sure.
GreySec employs working the HMPD roster didn’t have anything quite so nefarious installed. Only some tactical augmentations and work-related apps that average peeps didn’t have access to. The most common was an AR program called ‘LionEye’. It let badgers see invasively detailed files on anyone they looked at. Thanks to built-in facial recognition algorithms, it would work even if the mark was off the MiFi network, or if they were an opt-out with a disabled neurocom.
Ours was not a society of privacy.
Everyone knew it, but that fact hit extra hard during the walk from the GreySec Skypillar to the High-Efficiency, Mixed-Allocation building where I lived. It was only a few blocks away, but Silvia District had never seemed so unwelcoming.
Almost no civilians in sight, but every twenty feet, I passed a foot patrol in their gray uniforms. The badgers would stare at me each time, checking with LionEye that I was a bona fide employ traveling between his work and home. It felt like someone was constantly peeling off my skin, digging into my brain, and looking for some reason to point a gun at me.
Not once was I actually stopped or questioned, though. Somehow, that made it feel worse. Technology was advanced enough that I could be harassed and judged without the inconvenience of talking to me.
Still, that wasn’t the scariest part. What had me sweating was the fact that in a matter of minutes, they wouldn’t be seeing an Edison employ on their LionEye overlays. Just a Disemploy nobody with nowhere to live.
Trying to walk around the street without status would be far too risky. I had no idea what the HMPD would do when they found me, but it wouldn’t be pleasant.
When I finally reached HEMA-3, my building, I hoped to find plenty of activity in the commercial areas at ground level. With over ten thousand residents stuck inside the building, the atrium would no doubt stay hopping until the lockdown ended.
I kept my head low as I made my way through the fans and NIR lamps at the entrance. I grinned at the hundreds of people milling around the shops and makeshift stalls.
With so many people shopping and shooting the skitz, I could prolly blend in with the throng after clearing out my place. It would be better than leaving the building, even if it meant finding some dark maintenance hallway to sleep in for the night.
Tomorrow, I could work on spoofing my LionEye ping. That might be enough to get around the foot patrols and at least get my Suprema out of the garage. I just needed a decent terminal and some time.
Stepping into the residents’ elevator, I shook my head and sighed, awestruck by how quickly a relatively stable situation can turn into a bid for survival.
***
Taking a last look around my apartment, I slung a cherry red Severe backpack over my shoulders, tightening the straps. High fashion was no longer the priority, but I wasn’t going to leave behind a bag that was worth more than most denizens make in a year.
It wasn’t all that spacious, but I’d managed to fit my TaoCom slate, two changes of clothes, and a couple of portable drives loaded with data I’d ‘borrowed’ from work. The overhead lighting had already turned red a few minutes ago, accompanied by an obnoxious low-frequency humming that was no doubt intended to make the apartment very uncomfortable. Considering every display terminal in the walls also flashed the words “VACATE IMMEDIATELY”, the noise was one of the more subtle signs that Hiro had pushed through my resignation.
It was time to go, and I found it surprisingly easy to leave behind years worth of accumulated baubles and bits of decoration.
“I’m glad I never got that dog,” I mumbled, making one last trip to the wall cooler to grab a couple cans of HeadRush before leaving my life behind.
The door hissed shut as soon as I stepped into the hall, and I made a final, pointless attempt to reenter just for my own edification. A shrill buzz denying my entry confirmed I was no longer welcome.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
When I boarded the elevator, it was kind enough to inform me that I would be automatically taken to the first floor because my resident status was no longer valid. Notifications in my field of vision, courtesy of my Neuro-visual User Interface, followed on the long ride down.
> Disemploy status applied (code 4A/RE6).
> Citizenship status in review.
Just like Hiro told me. But then another followed, and I didn’t like the look of it at all:
> Investigation pending. Report to law enforcement.
Damn. I guess Reyez wasn't catching all the heat.
Sneaking out wasn't an option. In a world where your brain is hardwired to a surveillance system, avoiding the authorities isn’t exactly easy. The order to report was a veiled courtesy. No doubt HMPD was already on their way to my MiFi ping.
The elevator doors slid open, and my uncanny predictive abilities proved correct. Four HMPD badges were waiting for me on the ground floor, submachine guns hanging from their shoulders.
“Someone’s havin’ a real bad day,” the closest one said, smirking. The name tape on his body armor read ‘Lanahan’. A sergeant, the crossed rifles under his chevrons indicating he was a GreySec combat veteran, not one of the gumby-greens hired directly into the HMPD contract to harass vagrants and direct traffic.
I forced a smile, adjusting the red pack on my shoulders. “Little fight with the boss. I’m sure you get it.”
Lanahan pointed, and one of his squad members stepped behind me. She pulled the Severe pack off my shoulder and around the HeadRush cans still in each hand. After tossing my bag to another badge, she patted me down from neck to ankles.
“Unarmed?” Lanahan scoffed. “With your service record?”
“I don’t care for guns,” I said, shrugging.
Lanahan looked me up and down. “Yeah, I guess. Motor Transport fobbit, right? Ya know, they still flagged you as dangerous.” He smiled, but it was off putting. “Are you dangerous, Qadir?”
Fobbit. Meaning I wasn't front-line infantry and spent most of my time in a Forward Operations Base wrenching on trucks.
I chuckled, holding up my two frosty beverages. “Only if you don't like Mango Pineapple.”
The sergeant grinned, this time like he meant it. He looked a little disappointed that I was cooperating, but took easily to my joke. A good sign.
“Come on,” he said, waving me out of the elevator. “Let’s get you home.”
“Home?”
“Gotta take you to a state shelter. Can’t be homeless during a lockdown.”
I stepped into the lobby, the other badge right on my heels.
“So…I’m not being arrested?”
Lanahan scoffed. “No. Don’t sweat the ‘investigation’ bullshit. That’s SOP when some hothead resigns from a GC. Normally, we’d just tell you not to leave the mega, but since you have no address of residence, we have to stick you somewhere.”
I flashed a smirk. “Or you could just leave me here, and I'll promise to stay in the building.”
Lanahan stopped and dressed me down with a dirty look. “Because you served in Greysen, I won’t call you a dumbass for suggesting that.” He stepped off toward the exit, smiling again. “Come on, dumbass. I don’t have all day.”
He certainly sounded like most of the NCOs I’d met during my stint with GreySec. That weird combination of gruff, offensive, and funny that seemed the hallmark of field leadership. I followed his instructions, grateful that he wasn’t one of the nervous types. Or worse, one of the ones who got far too aroused by wielding even the smallest bit of authority.
The commercial floor was still bustling as we walked through. Hundreds of peeps shopping or sitting at small metal tables eating vendor food. That meant quite a few eyeballs following me like I was part of some underfunded parade.
I did not enjoy it. Humiliation was an apt seasoning for the day’s entree, but it left my mouth dry. Remembering my twin beverages, I held one can up to the sergeant as a courtesy.
“I’m not allowed to take that,” he said, before grabbing the HeadRush with a grin. "But I'll seize it as evidence."
He cracked it open, filling the nearby air with a sparkling aroma of tropical fruit. I did the same with the remaining can, chugging half of the ice-cold drink down in a single swig.
“You were stationed in Washington?” Lanahan asked after taking a sip of his own. “In ‘61?”
I nodded. Not that I could deny it, since my entire life history was no doubt scrolling through his NUI where he could pick it apart at will.
“Summit Riots?”
I sighed. “Yup.”
“Damn, boy,” Lanahan said, shaking his head. “Sorry to hear that.”
I looked him in the eyes, frowning. “So, you get why I’m not a fan of lockdowns?”
He didn’t reply.
We reached the plaza surrounding the HEMA’s entrance, and Lanahan pointed toward a six-wheeled armored utility truck parked right up on the walkway. An Akira-Greysen OGRE. Matte gray with white stripes, it was liveried for HMPD duty, but otherwise identical to the GreySec troop trucks I’d worked on in 2161. Fuel-burning ICE power plant — Internal Combustion Engine — made to run on alcohol and supported by a hydrogen generator. In an emergency, it could even run on refined petroleum.
“Alright, Qadir,” Lanahan said, opening the rear door. “All aboard.”
I climbed into a backseat that was designed to hold prisoners, evidenced by the correlated metal dividers between myself and the rest of the cabin — transparent titanium, most likely. Through the panel, I watched Lanahan’s officer climb in the passenger seat with my Severe backpack still in hand.
“Am I gonna get my things back?” I asked the sergeant before he could close the door.
“Officer Yamato will hand it over to the shelter admin,” he replied. “You can get it back from them. Thanks for the drink, Motor T.”
He crushed the can in his hand, tossed it on the sidewalk, and slammed the door.