Transcendence Read Free Page A
Book: Transcendence Read Free
Author: Christopher McKitterick
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it is to erase them without damaging the other data contained in memory.
For a moment, his ephemeral brain-fingers almost touch his black-market card, almost power it up, almost nudge him back onto the road that led to feedrapture and those idiotically concerned nurses at the Center. Because he was still unenfranchised—and won’t be franchised with EarthCo until he turns twenty-one and proves himself worthy of becoming a full, shareholding citizen—they hadn’t probed his head. In the old days before the politi-corps, the unenfranchised used to be called “minors” or “homeless.” Because the Center staff hadn’t probed him, they hadn’t noticed the blackcard implanted in his scalp. Had he been a few years older, they would have looked for and found it, and he could have been sentenced to five years of virtual lockup. Simple as that. He’s seen it happen to other kids, others from the gang. Their slack faces attested to the claim that virtual lockup is more secure than the physical prisons of history.
Something in the distance booms , followed by a shockwave that rattles the metal grate protecting a chipboard window beside him. Jonathan stops and turns to see what’s happening while resuming the city’s default overlay, bristling with information and ads.
A chorus of whistles slashes the air, whistles followed by howls of pain. Cracks and sharp bangs answer the chorus, and this orchestra rivals the music in Jonathan’s revmetal subscription. He realizes the booms come from sonic grenades, the cracks and bangs from antique guns, the whistles from police rifles.
A pair of young men round a building and run toward Jonathan.
“ Zone behind us!” one of them shouts at Jonathan via a line-of-sight personal-comm channel, his self-projection appearing for a moment overlaid atop Jonathan’s splice, then disappearing just as quickly. Though the words shouted in the air are hard to discern amid the noise, those fed direct to Jonathan’s neural receivers are as clear as the man’s calm, smiling 3VRD image, his concept of himself.
“ Beatcoats heading this way, stupid,” the other man says, also flashing in front of Jonathan with tailored perfection, then winking out.
Jonathan finds his legs, turns, and begins to run. He’s been inside a mobile hostile zone before and feels no urge to repeat the experience. Beatcoat cops don’t have the same restrictions as regular police.
Thunder rattles in his skull. He hasn’t gotten far enough away. Thunder for three seconds, then a booming voice and a disorienting 90-degree grey-out splice that pushes reality far into his peripheral vision:
“ ATTENTION ALL CITIZENS IN RANGE OF THIS FEED. DO NOT BE ALARMED. DO NOT TRY TO RUN OR YOU WILL BE TARGETED. DO NOT BLOCK THIS POLICE OPERATION, AUTHORIZATION ZIGFIELD-PP107. WE ARE SEEKING THESE MEN—”
Several men of varying skin color appear in front of Jonathan, who—since he is a master of splices and overlays—is still running, keeping his attention on the fuzzy periphery. Statistics, names, and credit IDs roll across the sizzling grey background of the splice while 3VRD images of the men slowly spin, sprouting beards and changing hairstyles. Dozens of info-icons glitter above them, awaiting Jonathan’s mental attention to click them open.
“ IF YOU ARE ON THIS LIST, SURRENDER. DO NOT RESIST. IF YOU RECOGNIZE ANY OF THESE MEN, CONTACT US NOW ON ANY BANDWIDTH. DO NOT HESITATE OR YOU COULD BE CHARGED WITH OBSTRUCTION, MOBILE HOSTILE ZONE CODE 97, PARAGRAPH 19. . .”
Jonathan recognizes one of the men as the first one who had warned him of the approaching Zone. He doesn’t even consider telling the cops. He runs, dodging a man lying prone across the sidewalk. Where did all these people come from? Like insects, they spill out of every crevice where they had lain quiet, alive only in their skulls and virtual lives. I bet none of them had to endure feedrapture treatment, Jonathan thinks. He grows angrier.
The
For a moment, his ephemeral brain-fingers almost touch his black-market card, almost power it up, almost nudge him back onto the road that led to feedrapture and those idiotically concerned nurses at the Center. Because he was still unenfranchised—and won’t be franchised with EarthCo until he turns twenty-one and proves himself worthy of becoming a full, shareholding citizen—they hadn’t probed his head. In the old days before the politi-corps, the unenfranchised used to be called “minors” or “homeless.” Because the Center staff hadn’t probed him, they hadn’t noticed the blackcard implanted in his scalp. Had he been a few years older, they would have looked for and found it, and he could have been sentenced to five years of virtual lockup. Simple as that. He’s seen it happen to other kids, others from the gang. Their slack faces attested to the claim that virtual lockup is more secure than the physical prisons of history.
Something in the distance booms , followed by a shockwave that rattles the metal grate protecting a chipboard window beside him. Jonathan stops and turns to see what’s happening while resuming the city’s default overlay, bristling with information and ads.
A chorus of whistles slashes the air, whistles followed by howls of pain. Cracks and sharp bangs answer the chorus, and this orchestra rivals the music in Jonathan’s revmetal subscription. He realizes the booms come from sonic grenades, the cracks and bangs from antique guns, the whistles from police rifles.
A pair of young men round a building and run toward Jonathan.
“ Zone behind us!” one of them shouts at Jonathan via a line-of-sight personal-comm channel, his self-projection appearing for a moment overlaid atop Jonathan’s splice, then disappearing just as quickly. Though the words shouted in the air are hard to discern amid the noise, those fed direct to Jonathan’s neural receivers are as clear as the man’s calm, smiling 3VRD image, his concept of himself.
“ Beatcoats heading this way, stupid,” the other man says, also flashing in front of Jonathan with tailored perfection, then winking out.
Jonathan finds his legs, turns, and begins to run. He’s been inside a mobile hostile zone before and feels no urge to repeat the experience. Beatcoat cops don’t have the same restrictions as regular police.
Thunder rattles in his skull. He hasn’t gotten far enough away. Thunder for three seconds, then a booming voice and a disorienting 90-degree grey-out splice that pushes reality far into his peripheral vision:
“ ATTENTION ALL CITIZENS IN RANGE OF THIS FEED. DO NOT BE ALARMED. DO NOT TRY TO RUN OR YOU WILL BE TARGETED. DO NOT BLOCK THIS POLICE OPERATION, AUTHORIZATION ZIGFIELD-PP107. WE ARE SEEKING THESE MEN—”
Several men of varying skin color appear in front of Jonathan, who—since he is a master of splices and overlays—is still running, keeping his attention on the fuzzy periphery. Statistics, names, and credit IDs roll across the sizzling grey background of the splice while 3VRD images of the men slowly spin, sprouting beards and changing hairstyles. Dozens of info-icons glitter above them, awaiting Jonathan’s mental attention to click them open.
“ IF YOU ARE ON THIS LIST, SURRENDER. DO NOT RESIST. IF YOU RECOGNIZE ANY OF THESE MEN, CONTACT US NOW ON ANY BANDWIDTH. DO NOT HESITATE OR YOU COULD BE CHARGED WITH OBSTRUCTION, MOBILE HOSTILE ZONE CODE 97, PARAGRAPH 19. . .”
Jonathan recognizes one of the men as the first one who had warned him of the approaching Zone. He doesn’t even consider telling the cops. He runs, dodging a man lying prone across the sidewalk. Where did all these people come from? Like insects, they spill out of every crevice where they had lain quiet, alive only in their skulls and virtual lives. I bet none of them had to endure feedrapture treatment, Jonathan thinks. He grows angrier.
The