I don ’ t know how this is helping any of you, ” Hall scoffed. “ Psyker Screams… It ’ s just a shitty techno heavy metal fusion band, isn ’ t it? There is a lot I understand in this world, but that will always be a mystery to me. ”
“ Let ’ s keep it that way. ”
Chapter Two
The Doctor
“ Thank you, doctor, ” Zarfa said politely as the doctor pulled the heavy gauged needle from his arm.
The pain was bad, but Zarfa was somehow more cheery now than he had been before the treatment. Dr. Hall could see it in his eyes; he was grateful. Zarfa then dug into his pockets and pulled out his bank chip. Dr. Hall held his bank chip out toward Zarfa.
“ Okay, ten thousand credits transferred to your account, doctor. I look forward to seeing you again four more times. After that, no more, ” he said dryly.
“ Any time. Give it a week, please, and I didn ’ t introduce myself properly. Now that I am your doctor, call me Max, please. Max Hall, but just Max will do. ”
His demeanor had changed from the emotionally charged wreck that had been ranting at Zarfa earlier. It would be an understatement to say that Max was passionate about helping people. He ’ d really set out as a doctor to make a change in the world, originally. He was in his forties now, though, and felt as if he had changed very little. He needed a new scene. Somewhere he could make a difference.
“ Will do, Max. ”
As Zarfa left the office, Max got the chills. It was as if someone ha d blown cold air right down his spinal column. He didn ’ t understand it himself. He ’ d always thought these Psyker Scream fans were just privileged rave kids spending their trust funds on some new trendy band, but his latest patient, Zarfa, was different.
He was quiet, stoic, testy, sarcastic, stern, but what really stood out was weathered. His battle scars weren ’ t fake, not some sort of masochism or self-mutilation . Not some sort of cult ritual. No, it had definitely been a battle.
But from what?
Max didn ’ t have an answer, and he wouldn ’ t rest easy until he did. There were no other patients to see him so he sat down at his desk and pulled up the Synaptix Corp multiprocessor interface. Back in the day, people were okay with calling it the “ Internet, ” but these days , it was much more than a collective of web sites; it was practically a world that mirrored the physical world with its every day hustle and bustle.
Some punk hackers figured a way to link the net with a human brain via a simple , small electrode implanted right behind the optic nerve. To see to it that this chip wasn ’ t used to hack into someone ’ s brain at any moment of the day, a safety protocol was put in place so that the chip would only activate in front of a terminal. When the user sat at a terminal and pulled up the interface, they were still aware of their surroundings.
They could see from the eye that didn ’ t have the electrode; the other eye, however, would see a sea of information. The information was easy to navigate. All one ne eded to do was think of what they wanted to see. The first few times most people would get on, all they would see were lewd pictures or videos of people having intercourse, or sometimes of a cat chasing a ball, but with some practice and self-discipline , one could find anything in the vast sea .
The other additional advantage of the interface was that the brain could respond so quickly to the written word without interpretation being required from direct visual stimuli . Reading an entire book was nearly instant. These days, spending the whole night on the interface was considered abhorrent. Nobody needed to be on that long; their brains wouldn ’ t be capable of storing all the information one would see in an entire eve.
Max took a sip of his cold, stale coffee and began looking for information on Psyker Screams. He waded through information for roughly ten minutes. He had instantly seen four videos, two books,
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