Kill Switch: Chapter 17

reLaxative

That night I return to my persyPod, and it’s as if I haven’t there here for years, as if I were a different person when Yide and X found me reeling from pharma withdrawal and brought me to the malWard. It’s like I’m looking at someone else’s home. The ads on the panels don’t feel relevant; I have no desire, in fact, to buy any of the pharmas or skins that flash around as I mix the pink powder Bunnfield gave me with a glass of liquid. “Goo Me, Goo Me” starts playing on the speakers, and I mute the song. All I want is silence, which is impossible, really, while I’m glassed, because my feed keeps dinging, and ads keep playing, and there are vids flashing and music blaring. I mute everything, but the algo recommends something else, but I can’t unGlass, because Bunnfield was very adamant about not unGlassing, saying that I’ve already unGlassed way too many times this week, that he can only cover for me so much, that, at some point, Upper Management is going to catch on and put us both under the death beam; in fact, Bunnfield says, he’s been rushing around the past week doing nothing but covering for me, because I’ve been reckless in my actions – the conversations I’ve been having, the vacuum links I’ve been clicking, the trip I took to the outskirts – and while Bunnfield has been able to sneak into Middle Management’s server farm and erase the macroData on most of these infractions, he can only erase so much before inevitably getting caught, and he’s afraid that Upper Management is already on to him, the way his boss keeps asking him a dozen questions about his cases, the way, every time he turns around, he sees a simulCop tailing him.

“You’ve been a real pain in the ass, kid,” he told me. “A real pain in the ass.”

And speaking of a real pain in the ass, I down the glass of pink liquid and wait for the floodgates to open.

It doesn’t take long.

I barely make it to my toilet, which I’ve already fastened with a bucket. Nearly six days worth of goo comes tumbling down.

And, it’s, like, whoa, what a flood.

Usually, even after seven days, I have to work to squeeze out one black hard lump. But this time, my stool is…well…listen, I won’t disgust you with the details. Let’s just say, it’s a total and complete mess.

I gag, digging through the mess, searching for the device.

But finally, like a gold miner of old, I come up with the goods.

I wipe the silver surface with some toilet paper.

Then I put the device in my pocket and head out the door, to our predetermined rendezvous location, dressed in a highly-illegal unGazable jumpsuit, my feed still jumbled and hijacked from the mal that Claudette installed on my jumpsuit, so that my server won’t log my actual movements, but instead loop a recording of me playing Derrick 9 last week, thus more or less ensuring that my gaze won’t get tagged sus.

I send an encrypted message to my colleagues.

I ride the line back to The Outskirts.

I stay on the edges of the crowd, making sure that nobody runs into my invisible form. It’s surreal, not being seen. Butterflies flutter in my stomach.

It’s strange, as well, to ride the line unGlassed. The way the crowd huddles into one undifferentiated mass, everyone standing bulky in their clunky jumpsuits, hands swiping. Notifications ding incessantly. My stomach drops at the thought of how many unread emails I have, how many BOGO deals I’ve missed, how many Top 10 articles have been published in the last couple days. And then I think about work, and a primitive panic seizes me, and I have the sudden urge to return to my persyPod and check on the performance of my accounts. I wonder how many action items await my return. But then I remember that, if all goes to plan, I won’t be returning to work. And I wonder if I’m making, like, the biggest mistake of my life.

A couple teenagers stricken with viral dancing gaze themselves as they perform their moves. It looks odd, watching them twerk and bend, because I can’t hear the music they’re listening to. Just looks like they’re spazzing. And then one of them bumps into me, reels backwards, and is all, like, yo, can’t you see i’m going viral here? And I’m all, like, to myself, thinking, relax, don’t do it, when you want to suck it, chew it, the synth of a song from the olden 80s playing in my head, super random like, and I’m relieved when the dancer moves down the line, totally unaware that he just bumped into an unGazable. It’s like we’re all here, but not here.

I deLine at Stop 15.

Bunnfield was adamant we not return to Room 11. He said the escape ladder had been compromised. So instead, we rendezvous at this weird ancient server farm with empty racks and sparks flying off exposed wiring. A camera hangs off a broken mount, pointing at the ground. Cobwebs cover the wall sensors. Water drips from a busted pipe. I stand, watching, listening. I wonder how many followers I’ve lost over the past week. I’ve barely posted any content. It’s shameful. If this doesn’t work, I’ll have a lot of ground to regain on my socials. I wonder if my profile will ever regain relevancy.

A message dings. I swipe. It’s a jumble of letters and numbers. I copy the message, throw it into a deJumbler app that Claudette downloaded for me, and watch the random string of characters rearrange into something readable.

where r u?

I encrypt the following message: im here, at Stop 15, standing in front of the server farm.

Prove it.

I reGaze, making myself visible again.

I stare into the endless rows of mist-covered server racks. Slowly, one by one, like ghosts rising from the fog, my colleagues shed their unGazables. X, Bunnfield, Claudette, Yide. They each walk down a separate aisle. Even though Bunnfield and Claudette didn’t want the extra baggage of Yide and X, I told them I’d only hand over the device if my colleagues were allowed to accompany me to the hiding place of the mysterious Elijah Mitchell. Well, Claudette just wanted to go ahead and slit me open right then and there and get it over with, but Bunnfield held her back once again, and we all agreed: the five of us would go, device in hand, or we wouldn’t go at all.

“You look ten pounds lighter,” Bunnfield says. “Any tails?”

“No,” I say. “I was the only passenger who offloaded.”

“Jolly good. Then let’s make tracks. This way.”

Bunnfield turns down a server aisle. Claudette follows after him. I glance at Yide and X. They both nod.

“Simuls first,” X says, waving out a hand.

“Then you should go ahead,” I say.

Yide rolls her eyes. “You two are pathetic.”

She falls in behind Claudette.

X claps me on the shoulder. “Seriously, Vonn, go ahead. I want you to see The Without before me. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. And I’m just, like…” X is searching for a word that he probably doesn’t use a ton. “Grateful, I guess. I never thought I’d live to see The Without.”

I nod, unsure how else to respond to X’s sudden sentimentality.

“Alright,” I say. “Don’t mind if I do.”

And as I turn down the server aisle, I get the sense that my life is only just now beginning.