Public Domain

In the future, memories are traded like the grainy videos of a hundred-years before. One woman stands up for the rights of the dead though, no matter how unpopular it makes her. And now someone approaches her with an offer to finally do something about it.

Note: this story owes a debt to my friend John Blake, an artist who last year commissioned me to write a script for a graphic novel based on ideas very similar to some of the ones in this story.

She sat silently in the doctor’s office, holding her husband’s hand, feeling her heart beat rapidly in her chest as she stared into the other woman’s eyes, trying to read what was in her mind, to somehow see through the back of the innocuous report she held. Paradoxically, time seemed to slow to a crawl, each moment stretched to an eternity, the sound of her blood pumping in her ears like a thunderstorm. She knew what was coming. She’d been having this same nightmare for months and now it was coming true. Every detail in the office was picked out in high definition – the anatomical charts on the wall wrenched at her eye, the pictures of the doctor’s smiling blonde children seemed rendered in nauseating Technicolor. And here it came: the moment she’d dreaded.

“Mr and Mrs Johnston,” the doctor said, “there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m going to just come out with it. I’m afraid that your son has leukaemia.”

A cry escaped from her lips. “Oh God…”

“That’s never easy to hear, but please understand that because we’ve diagnosed this early, Harry has the best chance possible. This journey we have to take is going to be a hard one – I’m not going to dress that up for you – but there are many options.”

“Just tell us what we need to do,” her husband said. His grip on her hand was fierce.

She leant forward across her desk and gave them a reassuring smile. But there was something in her eyes…something that told her this was the beginning of the end…

Skip ahead.

She tried to explain it to Harry, but he was too young to understand. He was just a little boy, more interested in the glowing holoscreen at this age. She made him turn it off and then told him slowly.

“Honey, you’re sick. But it’s going to be okay.”

“Do I have to go back to the hospital?” His innocent stare broke her heart.

“Yes, honey. But hopefully only a couple more times…”

“I don’t understand. I thought that…”

Skip ahead.

“Mrs Johnston,” the specialist explained, “a bone marrow transplant is really Harry’s only hope at this stage. We’re going to have to find a compatible donor.”

“Okay,” she said, “tell us what we need to do.”

He brought up a floating ‘screen. “We have a global database, but obviously the logistics can be complicated, and naturally it will depend on funding.”

She caught herself against the table by her dozing son’s hospital bed. “Funding? We’re talking about my child’s life…”

“I understand that, Mrs Johnston, but there are eight billion people on the planet, and less them half of them are Chipped. Finding a donor costs money. And as you know, your insurance…”

“Whatever it takes,” she interrupted, “anything.”

He smiled dispassionately. “Of course.”

Skip ahead.

“There are still options,” the doctor told them.

“What options?” Her voice was hollow. When was the last time she’d slept, or eaten a decent meal? Her skin looked sallow when she glanced down at her hand.

“There’s a genetic technique that has yielded some interesting results in the laboratory. It would just be a trial. There’s no guarantee of success.”

“I said before I was willing to do anything. This is our son we’re talking about.”

“Very well.”

Skip ahead.

“Harry, I know it hurts, baby, but you have to try to be strong. This will all be over soon. And then we can…”

Skip ahead.

“Mrs Johnston, here’s our selection of caskets. I understand that…”

Back a little way.

In the same office where this began. She felt small and frail, like an old woman. Her husband was gone. It had been too much for him. He’d disconnected from everything and she had no idea where he was now. She looked around. In contrast to her first numbing visit, now everything seemed grey and washed out. She blinked slowly, owlishly at the doctor. She looked upset too. “Mrs Johnston, as you know, we’ve tried every treatment possible but sometimes…sometimes there are just no options left.”

“How can that be?” she asked in a tiny voice. “With all the medical advances of the last ten years, there must be something. Some other genetic or biotech intervention. Some nanite implant or that kind of thing. I read…I read about a thing they’re trying in China where…”

“Mrs Johnson,” the doctor said, “Karen…if there was anything else we could do, believe me I’d have pushed for it. Over the last two years I believe I’ve become close to you and Harry and…yes…and I want you to know that no piece of news I’ve ever delivered has been harder for me to say. This is…this is really the hardest thing that…”

“I’ve spent every credit I have. I’ve sold our home. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do.”

“I know, Karen. But sometimes there’s just nothing that can be done. I’m so sorry.”

That’s when she knew it was over. That’s when the last fragment of her battered heart broke in two and her whole world seemed to collapse into hot, wet fragments. She felt like a thousand needles were pushing into her flesh. There was nothing but pain and grief. She folded over in the chair and began to sob helplessly.

Rewind…

“I’ve spent every credit I have. I’ve sold our home. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do.”

“I know, Karen. But sometimes there’s just nothing that can be done. I’m so sorry.”

That’s when she knew it was over. That’s when the last fragment of her battered heart broke in two and her whole world seemed to collapse into hot, wet fragments. She felt like a thousand needles were pushing into her flesh. There was nothing but pain and grief. She folded over in the chair and began to sob helplessly.

Rewind…

“I’ve spent every credit I have. I’ve sold our home. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do.”

“I know, Karen. But sometimes there’s just nothing that can be done. I’m so sorry.”

That’s when she knew it was over. That’s when the last fragment of her battered heart broke in two and her whole world seemed to collapse into hot, wet fragments. She felt like a thousand needles were pushing into her flesh. There was nothing but pain and grief. She folded over in the chair and began to sob helplessly.

Skip ahead…

She held Harry’s hand as his breathing slowed. The heart monitor beeped softly in the background. It was dark. Everything was dark. There was no strength in his grip. She looked at his beautiful face, now so small and sunken where the disease and the terrible treatments had taken their toll on her once happy little boy. She wanted to be strong for him, here at the end, but how was any mother supposed to deal with this? How could it be borne by anyone? She held him as tightly as she could, but then she felt his fragile grip begin to slacken imperceptibly. She looked down at him, so pale and tiny, and then the monitor’s beep began to slow…slow…slow….

Rewind…

She wanted to be strong for him, here at the end, but how was any mother supposed to deal with this? How could it be borne by anyone? She held him as tightly as she could, but then she felt his fragile grip begin to slacken imperceptibly. She looked down at him, so pale and tiny, and then the monitor’s beep began to slow…slow…slow….

Rewind…

She held him as tightly as she could, but then she felt his fragile grip begin to slacken imperceptibly. She looked down at him, so pale and tiny, and then the monitor’s beep began to slow…slow…slow….

Rewind…

She looked down at him, so pale and tiny, and then the monitor’s beep began to slow…slow…slow….

Rewind!

She looked down at him, so pale and tiny, and then the monitor’s beep began to slow…slow…slow….

Again!

…the monitor’s beep began to slow…slow…slow….

Again!

…slow…slow…slooooooooooo….

AGAIN!

…sloooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo….

The image dissolved into fragments. He blinked and collapsed back into the chair, breathing hard. His heart was pounding like a jackhammer and he puffed his cheeks as he breathed out. His chest was slicked with sweat and he laughed shortly to himself. “That was a good one,” he whispered to himself. Slowly, in the darkness of his hab unit, he sat up and disconnected the ‘net terminal from his Chip, dismissing the miniaturised playback in the corner of his vision.

*

The host of the netcast smiled at the buzzing camdrones as the commercials ended. She spread her hands invitingly. “Welcome back. We currently have over seven million users logged in – thank you, everyone. Now, in recent months the ‘streams have been filled with chilling stories about a new pastime that’s gripping markets all over the globe that’s known by a number of names. “Chip-viewing”, “memory porn”, “past surfing” – we’ve all heard of it, many of us have even tried it. As of right now, it’s perfectly legal, although there are some who argue it’s distasteful or even dangerous. I’m here with two special guests: Marie Carter from the Society for Preservation of Identity and Max Teller-Jones, who runs the largest ‘node providing access to Chip data, House of Dreams. First I’ll turn to you, Max. Could you give us some background information about this new hobby users are enjoying?”

Max returned the host’s smile. She was known as Tammy, but she didn’t actually exist – she was a holobot, a conglomerate of inoffensive talkshow hosts of past decades, melded into a racially-neutral, aesthetically appealing woman with no discernible personality except that injected by the netcast’s hidden controllers. Most people never bothered to think in those terms, but Marie was different. Marie believed holding onto these things was important. But she was accurate, even down to the scar on her temple where her Chip would have been implanted if she were a real person. “Thank you, my dear,” Max said. He was a fat man, dressed in a shimmering suit that displayed constantly moving holo-images. “Well, you know, it’s very simple. A hundred years ago, the first people began using Chips. It’s hard for any of us to imagine a time when we didn’t make use of such everyday wetware, but everything has to start somewhere. Those first few individuals used the Chips to log into the primitive ‘net of their age to skip all the unnecessary tinkering that those basic, binary interfaces demanded. Logging in with fingerprints or retina scans or even,” he laughed shortly, “text-based passwords. Remembering personal details, having dozens of different accounts for different ‘nodes, having details stored in hundreds of databases in servers spread across the planet. It was no wonder that mental health problems were so endemic in that era. With the Chips, we took the first step to interfacing in a truly intimate way with our information networks.” He interleaved his fingers in front of his copious belly to demonstrate. “We became…one. And, of course, the most vital use of Chips was to record and examine the users’ thoughts and memories, all the better to make their ‘net experience more useful. To that end, everything they saw and did, everything they thought, every single experience they had, was recorded on that little, magical computer in their brains. It changed everything.”

“We can’t imagine life without Chips now,” Tammy said, “and only a tiny proportion of malcontents struggle through the modern world without them. But what’s changed recently?”

“Like all data, the information stored in those first primitive Chips was protected by international copyright laws. After the users died, their Chips’ data was uploaded to the ‘net to be kept safe for all time, but now that a hundred years have passed, the copyright has expired. The information is accessible to everyone. It’s a fascinating time.”

“Fascinating,” Marie said coldly, “that’s a very useful term.”

“Marie,” Tammy said, turning in her chair. For a second her face broke up into pixels and the effect was stomach-churning, but an instant later order was restored and she was grinning blankly at her again. “From the way Max describes things, accessing that data is perfectly legal.”

“Look, we’re not talking about a book or a song here – these are people’s lives!” She’d had this argument over and over again, on countless ‘nodes now, but this was her first live interview on the topic, and the first time she’d been face-to-face with one of the men behind this sordid business. “We have evidence that most of the Chip data being accessed by users involves sexual encounters and even in some cases crimes or just moments of intense emotion – winning sports tournaments, fighting in wars, the birth of a child. Even the less palatable moments such as…”

“Marie,” Max interrupted, “I’ve read all the arguments about this, both yours and others, and they all miss one key point.” He tapped his head, by his own Chip scar. “What we experience here, inside our heads, it’s not ‘reality’. It’s an edited version of events. Your senses filter out so much, and your memory plays tricks. Do you remember what you had for breakfast this morning? What about yesterday? What about last week or last month? The Chip is constantly overwriting the data it holds – it couldn’t possibly record everything accurately, and so it’s as biased as your own memory. All these old Chips hold is the memories of each individual at the moment they died. Isn’t it a fitting tribute to those brave wetware trailblazers that we now relive who they were? That we watch those memories back and honour them?”

“This isn’t about honour – it’s about pornography. I told you already that most of the memories accessed are sexual. I have some data here about the number of downloads this month alone. The most popular Chip accessed is one that belonged to an actor known for sleeping with hundreds of women, included film stars and musicians. One particular…uh…evening…with a singer called Martiqua who was popular a century ago has been downloaded over seventeen million times. Is that honouring the memory of this man or his one-time partner? I don’t think anyone has listened to her music in decades, but men across the planet now have the experience of having sex with her. How can that be anything but abhorrent?”

Max steepled his fingers and shook his head slowly. “Marie, you’re being very simplistic here. What if that man had written a book about it? What if he’d recorded it with a camera? A hundred years ago, ‘sex tapes’ were very common entertainments. Recordings of the celebrities of the day having sex with one another were leaked onto the ‘net all the time, often by the participants themselves. Whole careers were fuelled by this industry. How is it different?”

“We’re not talking about a recording!”

“Yes we are,” Max said, and now his tone was less calm. He leant forward. “A Chip records memories, that’s all. It’s not even as accurate as the cameras they used a century ago. It’s a…a…mish-mash of experiences. A collage. The people who access these memories, they don’t just perch on someone’s shoulder and watch what they went through: rather, they get a window into a forgotten life. Yes, it can be intoxicating, and there will be unsavoury things downloaded, but it was ever thus. The first moving images were used to depict a woman removing her clothes. Look back into ancient history at the artefacts of all the great civilisations and what do you see? Nudity and sex, in all their wondrous permutations. This is just another way for human beings to do what they do best! And, come on, these people are dead, Marie. They can’t object! I don’t know about you, but I’d be quite happy if someone got some joy from some of my memories a hundred years after I’m gone. Let them have them! They’re no good to me then!”

Marie pursed her lips. The arguments were the same, always. She’d been a fool to come here and try to reason with this man. “I wonder,” she said, “how you’ll feel when someone is accessing your grandmother’s memories. Because they will, Mr Teller-Jones. They will. And if we can set a copyright expiry of a hundred years, what’s to stop it being brought further forward? What if the moment you die, your memories are uploaded to your servers, and a million users are instantly revelling in your death? What of privacy then? What of an independent life?”

“The innocent have nothing to hide,” he growled, “and they said this about rock music, about television, about the early ‘net…this is progress, Ms Carter, and progress has always been resented by people like you.”

“If this is progress, I want no part in it. I can’t believe anyone would think it acceptable for users to look through the eyes of criminals a hundred years after they’ve died. Remember, prisoners were some of the first people to receive Chips.”

“Then they’ll learn from their mistakes. I predict we’ll see a sharp drop in incidences of violent crime as a result of people watching these horrible things take place. Maybe they’ll be looking for a thrill, but they’ll come out with a new understanding of the depth of human depravity.”

“I’m not sure how much deeper there is to go.”

They’d reached an impasse, and Tammy’s controllers could tell. The ‘bot clapped her artificial hands with another swirl of pixels and smiled fixedly at the cameras. “Well, what an interesting debate we’ve had. Our users have been leaving comments throughout the ‘cast and of course please add your voices to the debate afterwards. We’ll present a review in just a few hours. Thank you to both my guests for joining us.”

“My pleasure,” Max said.

Marie sighed. “And mine.” She tapped her wrist and the studio dissolved around her, leaving her in the darkness of her hab unit. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. Where was it all going to end?

*

When she logged back into her system a few hours later, she wasn’t surprised to see the tide of vitriol that was directed at her. She scrolled through the hundreds of messages, now numb to the mindless threats they voiced. She had bots that filtered out the worst of them – the more detailed descriptions of how she’d be hurt, disfigured and dismembered, and any rape threats were hidden away and analysed by a number of semi-sentient virals that would soon find the perpetrators home ‘node and report it to the authorities. It was the usual stuff. She’d had this her whole life. Ever since she founded the SPI in an effort to curb what she saw as the increasing erasure of personal privacy and identity in modern life, she’d been a target for a certain kind of unpleasantness. She wasn’t against progress. She had a Chip herself, after all, and she spent as much time logged into the ‘net as anyone else. But she remembered her mother’s stories about the world as it was, when there were divisions between the self of Iyarel and Online, when identities could be hidden and secrets preserved. Yes, some had used that anonymity to hide and to do unpleasant things, but it was also a shield that protected the vulnerable. That would soon disappear. Fifteen billion people spent almost every waking hour plugged into the ‘net, living most of their lives surrounded by blinking holo-advertisments, and if the technology advanced to the stage that Chip data could be uploaded automatically, while the user was still alive, she knew few who would object. It would make things simpler, after all. That was the slippery slope. Once you access the memories of the dead, the memories of the living is just the next logical step. And then they wouldn’t be people at all, any more than Tammy or Cammy or Roderick or any of those beaming bots from the ‘streams were. They’d just be data, bounced around from terminal to terminal. She kicked herself for not making that point earlier, but the conversation just hadn’t gone that way. She was no orator or politician. She was a writer, really, whatever that meant these days.

Her eyes alighted on a message as they continued to scroll past, superimposed over the blank shapes of her living area. She stopped the endless parade of angry threats with a flick of her wrist and rolled back. It was something different. Someone who said they were sympathetic to her cause. She frowned at the text.

Marie,

This is an encoded message, accessible only to your Chip signal. My name is Joaquin and I represent an organisation with goals very similar to your own. I cannot reveal the name of our group as our activities are not as legitimate as yours. There are some Corps that consider us terrorists. I understand if you do not wish to become involved, but I believe we can help one another. We have a solution to the Chip problem. If you wish to pursue this avenue of inquiry, please respond to this message via the ‘node shown. Thank you.

She blinked. Terrorists? She felt a sense of numb terror as she considered the implications. She wasn’t aware of any militant groups that were tackling the issue of privacy and identity, but then why would she be? Information on such dangers was never easy to come by. Only people with certain levels of access could view unfiltered news ‘nodes, and she was just a no-name firebrand. Did she dare to get involved in something like this?

Working quickly, Marie ordered her bots to check the origin of the message. She knew a few tricks, and she strongly suspected this could be some sort of trap. Quickly they returned information on the ‘node provided. It checked out. Nothing suspicious, nothing that led back to a Corp of any kind. Just a personal address, reassuringly anonymous. She brought up a keyboard and tapped out a response.

Joaquin,

Thank you for getting in touch. I have reservations about associating with any group that may be involved in any kind of illegal activity, but I do believe that the ‘Chip problem’ as you call it could change the very nature of human existence and I’m troubled about going into this new frontier without considering the implications. I don’t want to hurt anybody, and I will not have any part in anything that might be considered terrorism, but I will listen to what you have to say.

She paused a moment before hitting send, considering all the possible dangers as carefully as she could, but then quashed her doubts and pressed the holokey. The message flicked away into the æther of the ‘net. If it was intercepted, she was certain she’d covered herself, but even so, she was nervous. She continued to scroll through the mindless abuse of her detractors, and was surprised when a new message flashed up just minutes later. She brought it up with a frown.

Marie,

I cannot talk about what we plan here. It’s too dangerous. We have to meat.

She was stunned. Meat? An instinctive terror gripped her and for a second the interface picked up the strong emotional response flowing from her Chip and scattered away into pixels, leaving her in the dark. She controlled her breathing and brought everything back. The idea of actually meating someone…of going out into Iyarel and seeing a stranger in the flesh…sight unseen… Of course her immediate response was to refuse. It was much, much too dangerous. It was insane. For someone to even ask her to do something so foolhardy must mean they were incredibly stupid. Or incredibly desperate. She licked her lips. If this was a trap, there were a hundred better ways the authorities could snare her remotely. A quick shock of feedback would knock her out until enforcers could arrive. And if it was some sinister plot by House of Dreams, they’d surely force her to implicate herself further before proposing this. No, the only people who ever meated like this were unChipped worker drones. Iyarel was not a place for decent people. But her own words came back to her: about the depths of depravity. If she wanted to save the world, and the memories of the dead, there was no way she could do it without getting her hands dirty. She typed a reply.

Where?

*

Marie had to control her shuddering as she stepped from her hab complex. It was cold. She squinted up at the grey sky. The unfiltered air was thick and cloying. There was no barrier to her leaving her home, no guards, no cameras following her movements. The eyes of every human being on Earth were turned inwards, always. The great skeletal forms of abandoned buildings rose above her into the blank, steel-coloured sky. The roads were shattered, but nothing grew in the cracks except the webbing of black, sickly fungus. It was thicker in the shadows, like beneath the ruined overpass that stretched across the skyline. Nothing had moved out here for a long, long time. The umbilicals between the great, glowing hab complexes carried anyone that needed to go from place to place in sealed cars little different from a hab unit. Humans beings still met, still talked face to face, but most interaction was carried out over the ‘net. Why limit yourself to the people who lived in the same part of the world? Most of the people she knew lived on a different continent. It would never occur to her to meat them in Iyarel. She had no partner, but if she did, they’d have conducted most of their relationship in holo environments, only meating if they decided to have children. Being out here, in the cold, polluted environment outside the complex, was deeply disconcerting.

She used the portable interface in her wrist to navigate through the ruins of the city, until she arrived at an intersection beneath a vast tower that must once have housed thousands of people, or maybe it was an office. There was an irony, Marie reflected, as she shivered beneath the crumbling building, that the hidden secrets of the world as it once was would now be accessible through the hundred-year-old Chip data she so opposed being downloaded. But if people were only using it to brush up on history, it would be fine. It was the other things they were doing that were the problem.

“Marie?”

She turned, gripped by horror, as a shadow detached itself from the deeper shadows at the base of the tower. She took a backwards step, hands clutched to her chest, but then saw it was just a man. He was wearing a heavy overcoat with a hood which he pushed back, revealing a handsome face. He smiled.

“Joaquin?”

“I’m afraid not. He lives hundreds of miles away. But I’m an associate of his. My name’s Paul.”

“Hi, Paul.”

He held out a hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Marie.”

She took it gingerly, flinching a little at the unaccustomed human contact. “Nice to meet you.” Her voice came out as a squeak.

“Please, don’t be nervous. Come with me.”

She looked around. “Where are we going?”

“To meet the rest of my cell.”

“Cell?”

“An old term. Please…” He gestured along a broken road that led away from her hab complex and she followed him tentatively. As they walked he kept the conversation going. “It isn’t safe to be out here for long.”

“Why not? We’re not doing anything wrong.”

“Some Corps disagree. A day is coming when the doors of the complexes will be locked forever.”

“You really think so?”

“We know so, Marie. Plans are already afoot.”

“What does that have to do with Chips?”

“We’re not just concerned with issues of identity on the ‘net, Marie. Our remit covers much more than that. We are looking out for the future of the entire species.”

She glanced up at the sky. “It’s getting late,” she murmured, “is it much further?”

“It’s still morning, Marie. The holo-images of Iyarel have lied to you your whole life. The pollution is so thick out here it’s always like this.”

“But the cleaning robots…”

“Deactivated a decade ago.”

“Oh…”

They turned a corner and now entered a more ruinous section of the city. Paul led her down another road and then into a narrow alleyway. He stopped at a door, a modern metal one, and rapped on it with his knuckles. Marie stared at the blank, broken interface in the wall. “Listen, maybe I should go and…”

“It’s too late now,” he said, taking her hand. The door creaked open and he led her inside. It was dark and she began to shiver again. She couldn’t see more than two feet in front of her as he pulled her along with him and then they ducked through another door and she perceived she was in a much larger space. After a few seconds, dim lights flickered on, and she shied away as she saw she was inside a great, empty warehouse filled with people. She stared around. Everyone was wearing the same dark overcoats as Paul, and they all stared at her with hollow, blank stares. “What…what is this?”

“I’m afraid you’ve been lied to, Marie,” a man at the front of the group said.

“By who? I don’t understand…”

“My name is Joaquin. I am the man who contacted you.” He was non-descript. Ordinary in almost every way, except one: he had no Chip scar. She hadn’t noticed it before, but Paul didn’t have one either. None of them did.

“Who are you all?”

“We are the unChipped. The ones you call drones. We live out here, in the real world. We clean up the mess you made.”

“Why have you brought me here? What does any of my work have to do with you?”

“The Chips of our ancestors are very interesting to us, Marie.”

“Why?”

He held up a hand. “Because this is our world. We live here, in the ruins you have abandoned. And the only place the true history of this place, our true history, is recorded is on the Chips of those who once lived here.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand. If you want to know that history, why would you want to stop access to those Chips?”

A strong arm grabbed her from behind and pulled her close. It was Paul. “We don’t,” he hissed in her ear.

“This was even easier than we thought it would be,” Joaquin said with a cruel smile, “once we have full access to all the Chips of those who’ve come before, mankind will see how far they’ve fallen. This regression into an artificial world will be halted. And it begins with you.”

“With me?” Marie whimpered.

“With your death,” Paul said. And then she saw the knife in his other hand, moving towards her…

Rewind…

“This was even easier than we thought it would be,” Joaquin said with a cruel smile, “once we have full access to all the Chips of those who’ve come before, mankind will see how far they’ve fallen. This regression into an artificial world will be halted. And it begins with you.”

“With me?” Marie whimpered.

“With your death,” Paul said. And then she saw the knife in his other hand, moving towards her…

Fast forward…

His breath quickened. This was the best part. This, of all the Chip memories, was his favourite. And he wasn’t alone – it was a famous one, a real classic. “There,” he whispered, as he saw Marie’s face transfixed in a scream, “begin playback again…”

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