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Mister Dancer - ch 18

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Working shift after shift, job after job, I've reached my next quota of ten on the day before the medical technician is supposed to come. My notes are a little more lengthy this time, which feels nice, but also means I spend longer checking the spelling and transcribing them. I glance at Vin’s UR channel after lunch. His latest video is the review of apple and walnut pizza. I don’t watch it. Instead I send him a text message. ‘Please please post that disconnection study video tonight’ Then, with nothing else to do and no desire to wallow in worry at home, I bundle up my notes and request an auto-van pickup to go into the city. ~-~ Riding down the highway, I’m surrounded in the auto-van by couples with their arms around each other, heads together and whispering. They fill most of the seats. When my cell beeps, I need to twist around to get a hand into my pocket, then hunch down for some privacy. ‘Scheduled near midnight tonight in fact, our peak traffic hours . Yur gonna love
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Mister Dancer - ch 19After gliding through quiet residential streets, our auto-car turns onto a broad avenue with other vehicles running bumper to bumper in lines. The two-lane roads become four-lane city bypasses, after which we spill out onto an eight-lane highway with a mix of auto-trucks, -vans and a few auto-cars like ours.Marc seems busy tapping away on their cell and even makes a few calls on the trip. Their tone changes for each, going from stern and commanding with one, to polite and unctuous on the next. I stare out the windows and try not to listen too closely.The traffic gets a little faster driving on a toll bridge high above huge basins and gullies that were presumably once ponds and rivers. Blue lights flash overhead. The car behind us has tinted windows, while on our right are a line of auto-trucks with high-end brands on the side.I turn on the maps app of my cell and watch as we drive south toward a neighboring city.We finally exit the highway, passing a transit center exactly like the one up north, and enter a tunnel that dives under the city. Numerous turnoffs and ramps head outward into what my app reveals as a web of underground streets and parking garage entrances. I’m reminded of the rat maze, though there’s nothing but vehicles down here.“Everything okay?” Marc asks me, leaning closer. “Do you not like being underground?”I shrug and try to relax in my seat, then reach for a water bottle. “This place reminds me of something unpleasant. Why did they build so much of this underground?”“Walkability. You’ll understand when you see the city above. It promotes business density, while the various parking garages help the district zoning.” Marc hums, tilting their head. “Also because they can, geologically speaking. Solid ground and very light earthquakes.”Our auto-car turns, entering one of the parking garages and following a circular track past several openings. Lettering on the walls list these as ‘Bay 11’ and ‘Bay 12’ and so on. We enter ‘Bay 15’ and slide in alongside the exit curb. A small screen near the front of the vehicle displays the message, ‘Please take all belongings. Have a good evening!’ When the door opens, I get out first and then hang around near the door in case Marc needs help.They nod and accept my hand when exiting. “Next we go up three floors and walk one block east. We’re actually a few minutes early if you want to explore.” I look around at the cement walls and harsh lighting. Being early sounds right for a date, but what do I know. Glancing down at myself, I frown. “Am I dressed okay for this?” Marc’s sharp laugh echoes off the hard walls. Walking away with a contented sigh, they tap their cell. The auto-car closes up and rolls away.“Someone might mistake you for a medical billionaire.” Letting slip a quieter chuckle, Marc leaves the curbside area for a bright hallway.I watch the auto-car leave, wondering if I made the right choice coming along, before following Marc at an easy pace.The hall merges with others - as arrows painted on the floor and walls point backwards with the numbers for bays - and soon we reach a room with bathrooms to one side, stairs on the other, and a couple of elevators.People stand around the area, staring at their cells or watching the elevators. All of them appear tall and thin, with a few who might have the muscular build of athletes. They wear suits like Marc, short dresses, thick coats or clothes shabbier than mine.Marc heads for the nearest elevator and stands in front of the door.I stop nearby and look around. A few people glance at us. Their stares are strangely steady, almost intrusive. I take a few steps away from Marc, who at that moment leans forward and taps the up button on the elevator. We wait - and wait. Nothing happens.A woman in a glittering floor-length dress mutters, “The elevators are stuck on an upper floor.” Marc turns to her with a smile. “Really? Do you know why?”The woman shrugs and goes back to staring at her cell. Marc and I look at each other, then they press the up button again as I look around. I point toward the stairs. “Can we get upstairs by walking?”“Yes, though -” Marc sighs in the direction of the stairs. “Okay. Good thing we were early.”Maneuvering past the people standing around, we arrive at the base of the stairs. The concrete steps are wide and have an easy slope, but go for quite a distance before turning toward the next landing. After one look at the stairs, Marc turns to me. “Maybe I should, uh - you know, the elevators will surely be running again any minute.” I start walking up and call back, “I’ll go ask why the elevators are stopped. You have my number, right?”“Yes! Great idea. Good luck!” Marc smiles and waves, leaning against the wall.At the next floor, there are less people standing around, but the elevators still aren’t working. The one after that is silent and empty. I press an elevator button just to be sure, wait, then continue up.After the third flight of stairs, I reach the ground floor. There are people everywhere here: lined up at the front desk, wandering the lobby, talking on cells or going in and out through the front doors. Like a transit station in miniature, this place is bustling and loud.I try the elevators but they remain closed and inoperable. A nearby droid in a painted suit and cap lurches over to me. “They’re out of service, sir. But the stairs are right over there. Or can I help you with something?”I nod to them. “Do you know why?”“The elevators? Yes, they’re being held on the fifth floor for cleaning. It should only be another minute or so. Our apologies for any inconvenience.”“Ah, okay.” I back away from the elevators. “Thank you.”Going to stand out of the way of foot traffic, I wait and watch the elevators. People continue entering the building, the same types as I saw below. Some press the button like I did and get approached by the nearby droid, others immediately leave again or go down the stairs. When the occasional person comes up the stairs, they tend to be glaring and breathing hard.Minutes go by. I check my cell constantly. Marc sends a message asking for an update and I respond with what I learned about the elevators. They reply with a frown emote.After five uneventful minutes, my wandering gaze lands on a door in the lobby’s corner with an icon of stairs and flames. Pushing aside the feeling that I’m doing something wrong, I wander over, glance around and slip through the unlocked door when no one is looking. Inside is a narrow set of stairs, with a mop bucket and safety cones under the first landing. I head upward.Every floor of the building has a door marked with a number. The second floor is silent, while behind the third and fourth I can hear the powerful hum of many rigs and fans and coolant pipes. Unfortunately, none of the doors have handles on this side and so when I get to the fifth floor all I can do is pound as loud as I can. No response comes. My only reward is a stinging fist. With nothing better to do, I continue upward. The sixth floor goes by, followed by the seventh and the eighth and - the ninth floor is the top. Still no door handles. I’m starting to feel my legs burn as if I’ve been running, but I kick the door a few times and try to think of what to do next.Starting to walk down again, I stop as the ninth floor door creaks open. A wrinkled, wizened face peers out at me. “Excuse me, sir. You really shouldn’t be up here. Can I help you with something?” The voice is instantly recognizable from the droid in the lobby.“I was trying to get to the fifth floor to check on the elevators. Is there a way down from inside?”“Oh, you again? You came all the way up those stairs?” The door opens wider and someone so old I can’t decipher anything else about them beckons me in. “I suppose there might be something you could try. Come in then.” They shuffle away, leaning into a wheeled walker with every step. I follow them into a posh and spacious penthouse apartment with bright crystalline light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, handrails and paintings lining the walls, and firm floors somewhere between rubber and wood.“I’ve never had problems from this service before,” the old person grumbles. “They’re usually in and out within minutes, but it’s been almost half an hour and I don’t have another droid on that floor to go check on them.” The hallway stretches across the whole floor and our first turn from there is into a kitchen full of sparklingly clean appliances. A tiny teakettle sits on the gray metal stove’s burner, steam wisping from the spout. “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you concerned with the elevators? Since you walked up here, you obviously don’t need them yourself.” “My, uh, friend I guess is waiting for it on the lowest basement level.” They stare at me. “The transit floor? Did you really walk up all those stairs?”A tiny dog roughly the size of my hand scampers out from an open doorway, yips at me, then scrambles back into the room. I glance in to see an equally luxurious living room with a whole half of the space taken up by a curved TV, shelves filled with colorful cases lining the open walls, and a chair in the center with a built-in facemask and controller armrests. The tiny dog yips at me again from behind the chair and runs to hide in a cushioned bed.“My grandchildren sometimes walk up here, but they’re seven and ten. Full of energy. Do you need a glass of water?”I lift up the water bottle I’ve been carrying since the auto-car. The old person nods, opens a nearby drawer and pulls out a porcelain cup.My cell buzzes in my pocket. Checking the front screen, I see a message from Marc. ‘You should go to the restaurant and tell Xharm what happened’ followed by an address. I send back, ‘Working with someone upstairs to get the elevator running You should call her’ and put my cell back away.When the teakettle starts to whistle, the old person twists a knob on the stove and lifts the teakettle over to pour a pale green, steaming drink into their cup. Each step seems to take longer than the last and at the end they smile toward me, holding the cup under their nose.“Do you like tea?” Shrugging, I try to keep my voice neutral. “I like it sometimes but my friend - the one waiting for me downstairs - they have an important appointment to get to.”The old person sighs and sets their cup on the counter. “Oh, thank you for reminding me. Although to be fair, you distracted me first. This way.” Leading me out of the kitchen and back into the hallway, we travel to the center. On one side is the elevator doors, but they point at a large painting on the opposite wall.“Remove that, if you would. Careful with the edges.”With my hands stretched to the limits, I grab the painting and lift away from the mounts. The awkward size and weight of the object causes me to wobble but soon enough the painting is propped up against the wall nearby. Behind where the painting was, there appears to be a large recessed cupboard closed with a latch. The old person pats their hand against the cupboard door. “Back when I had people working downstairs and not just smart rigs, I got this dumbwaiter installed to have things delivered to me. If this old dude still functions, it’ll take you straight down to the fifth floor.”I stare at the door. “Are you sure it works?”“Haven’t used it in years, so I don’t know. Stuff gets delivered by air drone these days.” They pull a sparkly red-gold cell from their pocket and tap the screen. “Even if you don’t go down, I suppose it’s about time I called emergency services to go check on that unresponsive droid.”Clearly, leaving this problem for someone else would be the better choice. I could go back down the stairs and walk to the restaurant while they get the elevator running again. If there’s some kind of emergency or technical problem on the fifth floor, chances are I won’t know how to handle that. But ... “I’ll try anything once.” Maybe I can. Better to try than do nothing.The old person grunts. “A risk-taker, eh?” Turning and reaching up, they unlatch the door. “I didn’t know we had any of you left.” They pull open the door, behind which is an open, empty box with dark black walls. A tiny screen and two buttons with up and down arrows adorn the rim. I stare in. “And this thing is like an elevator?”“It’s, uh - yeah, it’s like an elevator. Can you fit inside?” Turning my back to the wall, I hop up to sit on the lip, then push backwards until my body is within the cramped space. I hug my knees to my chest and nod to the old person.“Ready.”They grunt and close the door halfway, then point to the back side of the outer latch. “When you get down there, you should find a release lever right about here on the door. Push that and the door will open. If it doesn’t - I’ll tell the response team you’re in there.” Their hand taps one of the buttons and they close the door, cutting off the light. “Have fun.”A sickening feeling rises in my stomach as the metal floor beneath me descends. Normal elevator rides are far smoother - this small box I’m in rattles the whole way and a deep hum builds from the walls around me, as if I’m inside some giant old rig. The feeling is definitely worse from being crammed blind into the dark space. With a small lurch, all motion stops. I jab my fingers at the smooth wall in front of me, searching in a slight hurry for the lever. As I’m starting to panic, I find a button and push.The door opens to a dim hallway, lit by distant lights and missing the paintings and furnishings of the top floor. Across from me are the elevators, doors open to a bright and empty shaft beyond. The deep hum has become a loud mix of industrial fans, hundreds of rigs busy at work, and the whine of a vacuum cleaner. I slide out and land on the floor. Motion-activated lights come on above me. Looking around, I spot a janitorial cart nearby. The loud vacuum on wheels is plugged into the wall with a hose snaking into the open elevator door. On the floor, face down, a droid lays motionless.Crouching down, I notice the extra joints in their arms and legs. An android. Grunting and feeling my heart begin to race, I fall backwards and lean against the wall. There’s not many explanations for a droid being left in the middle of a job, other than a sudden disconnection. This might be a crime scene.But why didn’t the cleaning service send someone else to pilot the android? I take a few pictures with my cell of everything around as I circle the space, approaching the elevators in a roundabout way. Glancing into the open doors, I spot a short ladder in one perched atop the elevator a few feet lower than this floor. The vacuum hose stretches down through the other door to a nozzle left atop the elevator. Harsh lights shine from above, revealing a thick layer of dust over much of the elevator tops and a support beam between them in the shaft. Between the open doors, the elevator button panel has a key inserted and twisted to the side.After checking that my pictures have captured everything as it is, I pull the ladder up, turn off the vacuum and wind up the long hose. Last of all I rotate and remove the key. The lights inside the elevator shaft turn off. A moment later, the doors close and I hear the elevators rumble away. Taking one last look at the prone droid, I jog off down the hall toward the emergency stairs.~-~ “I gave the building owner their key, transferred my photos to them, offered my number in case anyone needed to ask me questions -” Taking a sip from the restaurant’s chilled glass, I sigh as the cold, delicious lemon water slides down my throat. “And then I headed here.”Marc gives a small but enthusiastic applause. “Fantastic. Sweet. Bravo.” They grin at Xharm. “I told you he was good. A modern day action hero.”None of us have mentioned the wheelchair she’s sitting in. From the moment I arrived, I knew not to ask any questions or even stare too long. Still, I find my gaze slipping to her new wheels.She grunts and nods. “Decent situational analysis. I wouldn’t say hero - but certainly commendable.”This private room at the restaurant is sort of like an office space rental with one wall open to a wide balcony overlooking the city. Outside, lights of every color and design festoon the buildings and hang along wires. Below are lines of people waiting to enter this and other establishments. Anything not neon or glass appears to be synth-wood, the primary theme of this business sector. “Not a hero?!” Marc leans closer to me but whispers as loud as they were talking. “She doesn’t play many video games.”Xharm grumbles and grabs the wheels of her chair, spinning in one swift motion. “Excuse me. Ladies room.” She pushes herself over to the door, which opens as she exits the room. Marc chuckles. Standing on shaky feet, they walk over to the balcony and stare out.After a moment I ask, “What happened?” “About what?” They don’t look at me. “The video games? Or with my wait for the elevator?”“The wheelchair - her legs. Is she - ?”They keep looking outside, but their voice lowers. “Oh. You didn’t know? I guess I thought, uh, if you were looking me up, you would have looked her up too. There was an accident on the mountain. She fell.” I wince and look back at my water. “Can she recover?”“Of course.”There is something unspoken in the silence after that. I take another drink, savoring the water.“So,” Marc continues, back to their normal volume. “What do you think of the city aboveground? Pretty nice use of space, right?”I nod, trying to put into words the maze of sidewalks without streets after leaving the auto-car dropoff building. “It’s different with no vehicles driving by. The scooter traffic was still pretty thick.” They return to the table and press their palms to the surface. “This is a city of the future. A giant park where people can enjoy the outdoors, shopping, art and leisure, along with food and drink.” Picking up their glass of water, Marc takes a sip and sighs. “With the online work revolution of the previous generation and transportation almost completely automatized, the old husks of factories left within cities can be demolished, or recycled as clubs and bars, gaming halls and sport facilities.”Really? If that was all a city did, the cities of the future would be empty. Sure, I prefer finding a place in town to buy clothes, but people like Vin apparently don’t. And if Vin’s group couldn’t rent a space in town for their UR channel, they would have less reason to leave the suburbs too.I look up at Marc. “What about when more people are living entirely online? Or - If disconnections are inevitable, we won’t need cities.”“What, do you mean like me?” They grin and sit down at the table. “Even I like going outside. Beautiful cities bring people to visit them. Neural jacks will never be a perfect replacement for being somewhere in person, and the health effects from staying in a VR tube too long will remain well known.” At the sound of the door opening, they glance away from me. “Not to mention the things you can only do … Oh, hello.” We both stare at the door as a silent droid steps in, clad in a tight jacket and with an angular, stern mask for a face. Stopping just inside the door, the droid inclines their head and shoulders in a brief but smooth bow. “Forgive me, sirs. I would like to thank you in advance for your patronage, but I must admit we are having some difficulty in the kitchen tonight. We can offer you a limited menu if you wish to stay, or if not, I will of course refund your room reservation fee. What would be your preference?”Marc sighs. “Is that so? Xharm won’t be thrilled. What would she -” Pausing to smile at the waiter droid, they ask, “Can we wait a few minutes to decide? Our third member should have a say, and she’ll be back soon.” “Of course, sir. The limited menu is available for perusal and I will be back for your decision.”“Good. Thank you.” Marc drums their fingers on the table, then looks back up. “What is the difficulty, if you don’t mind me asking?” The droid takes a few steps, not speaking until the door behind them opens. “It appears fewer chefs of our quality standard are able and willing to work at our android cook stations this particular evening, which makes several of our dishes difficult to prepare.”My breath stops. I lean forward and clear my throat. “Did any of them collapse while working?”“Collapse, sir? Not at all. They are simply not coming in. Excuse me.”The door to the room closes and we are alone again. I glare at the table, wondering if there could be some connection between this and the disconnected elevator cleaner. Pulling out my cell, I open up my news apps and start scrolling. “Is something wrong,” Marc murmurs, leaning closer to me.“I don’t know. It’s definitely not right.”There’s a few hours until our video goes public, so it’s not like we scared anyone off. The top news stories are the usual mix of celebrity and world events. One story even mentions the newest safety measures in neural jack technology. Searching for ‘job board problem’ brings up a few stories, the top bunch all within twenty-four hours. I’ve never heard of the publications, likely ultra-small news groups or even personal blogs. Checking the first story, I start reading someone’s rant about social problems caused by the job board. Saving that for later and moving to the next, I find yesterday’s public statistical analysis for the board, then an open letter asking for more bug fixes.A few stories down I finally get someone who took a screen capture of a pop up alert in the job board home world about twenty minutes ago. The alert reads, ‘Until otherwise notified, please do not begin or continue neural jack work. A string of disconnections with unknown cause has been reported in this region and others. Call our help line with any related information.’I glance at Marc. “There’s something weird going on with the job board. A lot of disconnections are happening.”They frown back at me. “How many?” Their tone is calm and curious, as if they’re not really asking how many people have died. Does Marc not get the seriousness of this? Staring at my cell for a moment, pretending to look for a number while taking soft, slow breaths, I finally decide how to answer. “Enough for them to put up a warning.”The door opens and Xharm rolls in, returning to her place at the table. Behind her walks the same droid as before, but moving a little faster and carrying a small tray covered in orange plastic flower blossoms. The droid lays a flower on the table, nods to us each in turn, and rushes out. “What is this?” Xharm gestures to the flower blossom. Marc gives a thin sigh and pulls out their cell. “The kitchen is having some difficulty tonight, so they have a smaller menu. We can go somewhere else if you want.” Holding their cell near the flower and staring at the screen, they smirk. “Look at this, they even put a few things on sale. That’s trying a little too hard - oh, but I would like some of those.”“Just our luck.” After waving her cell near the flower, Xharm grunts while scrolling down the screen. “This will be fine.” “Seems we’re staying then.” Marc grins at me. “Order whatever you’d like. I recommend the sweet potato fries, they are quite good here.”I shake my head. “Actually, I’m not feeling very hungry now.” Standing from my chair, I force on a smile and sidle toward the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes - or, maybe text me if you need anything?”Marc nods and winks. I walk out into the hallway and away.
First: 
Mister Dancer - ch 1When did jogging get easy? Okay, not easy, exactly. At some point these sweaty walks got faster, steadier and maybe even routine. The when doesn’t really matter. Now it’s easier than … work, maybe. But work will always be hard. Why else would they pay us. Hustling along the empty sidewalk, the late-morning haze filters the sunlight to a distant warmth. A tiny mail car shoots down the empty street, slowing only when it goes past me. Another streaks through an intersection far ahead. Factory identical houses, one after another. Dirt lots, maybe an unkempt flower bed, empty driveways next to flood floors. Each home has a few visible differences: window curtains, deck furniture and other outdoor garbage mostly. Back when they were built, each of the thousand or so houses in the neighborhood had been painted one of a hundred pastel colors. Are they able to use different colors in other places? I turn at the corner. A few houses down the road, an old lady stands, water can and cutters in hand amid a yard full of vibrant flowers. She smiles and I nod in passing. I don’t know her but I do jog by here often. There’s no one else around. Or rather, no one outside. More come out in the evening, perhaps to walk around in groups, sit on benches and discuss the day’s scores and prizes. Especially couples, young and old alike, spending time together before they go back home to be alone. I jog and think about the evening, when I’ll be off work. Focusing so I can ignore the sights along the way, like … A red and white ambulance parked outside a yellow house. Three medic droids wheel out a blob of flesh in a blue bathrobe, still sitting in their chair. Probably stuck to it. They heft the blob, all three straining, onto the ambulance’s ramp and push the chair up into the back. You sometimes see them use cranes. On the other side of the street, I jog past. Gotta keep moving to reach the destination. Two small faces stare out a window of the yellow house. That’s why you go outside. ~-~ I jog up the stairs of our house. At the door I stop, allow myself to finally relax, and turn to go sit in the porch swing. Nice day after all, even with the haze. My cell has a bunch of message notifications. Most of them are my local IRL group talking about meetup plans, along with some spam and a few automatic reminders. I delete everything else. There’s a bit of a breeze, just enough to keep the air clean. Birds fly by, or drones shaped like birds. Who can tell anymore. A big mail truck rumbles up and parks across the street, the logo for a sports drink on the side. I stand, walk back to the door and tap in the keycode. Dad is in the kitchen, sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee and his newspaper. The ads on every page start moving each time he moves his head. A story on the front page flashes once before updating a few details. “Morn,” I say, walking to the fridge. The paper rustles behind me. “Sup.” My post-jog drink in the fridge is a bright neon green. Real OJ brand Chartreuse Juice. All the added vitamins and minerals a stable body needs. I pour out the remainder in the jug, filling my cup to the brim, then tap the message on the fridge door saying I’d like to order another. Dad tilts his head out from behind the newspaper and eyes my drink, but says nothing. I shrug and take a sip. No matter what he thinks, Chartreuse Juice is better than most of the other stuff on the market. It’s more bitter than sweet. He sighs and puts down his paper. “Good jog?” “The best.” His arms fold over a sugar gut and he smirks. “For real?” The ambulance siren receding in the other direction comes to mind. I grin and twist my hand like I’m shaking off water. “Nice weather.” While I finish my juice, he picks his newspaper back up. I pour egg hashbrown mix into a bowl, sprinkle on some hot sauce and head for the microwave. The kitchen stays quiet for a minute other than the steady cooking buzz. Going to the sink, I rinse and scrub the sticky residue from my cup. “Retirement good?” He chuckles. “The best.” “Can’t wait.” I open up the drawer beside the dishwasher and pull out a fork. The newspaper lowers as his eyes peer over. “Trouble, uh, at work?” “No.” What does he even mean by trouble? “Super boring. Normal.” He clears his throat with a slight cough and says in his deepest tone, “Not much you can do about that now, son.” He’s back to his paper before I can arch an eyebrow at him. The microwave beeps and I pull out my lunch, puffed up to double its liquid size, soft and chunky and bread-like. I stick the fork in and a scent very clearly of cheese wafts from inside. “Gonna work.” “See ya.” As I head up the stairs he calls out, “Dishes, sink.” I tiptoe down the hall to open my door at the end. My two side-by-side windows face our neighbor’s siding. The overheads come on dim - they’re not really necessary with enough sunlight angling in. Setting my bowl on a nearby shelf, I stare at my recliner. Either most chairs look similar or that blob had the same brand as me. I bend down, spot the seam where the base would disconnect, and trace a finger along the groove in the plastic. There’s not really any latch that I can see. After they separate, can a chair reconnect to its base? I lean back, stand up, slide into my chair and flip the power on my rig. The computer hums to life, lights blinking along the box and up the cables to the head-mount display. I toggle over to screen mode. My old display projector lights up the ceiling and the operating system’s boot process flashes through lines of code faster than I can read them. Still, it’s hard to look away. I pull my left and right hand controllers from their pockets on the sides of the chair and set them in my lap. At the login screen, I tap my password into the controllers and the home page loads. My news feed begins scrolling past with stories about athletes cheating, politicians fighting, NGTOs attacking, and new video games dropping. Finally I dig in to my lunch. The egg hashbrown has cooled enough to not be mouth-blistering hot. I drink some water from the tank beside my recliner before I’m through. Reading through the news, I learn the government is testing atomic bombs in space. Some corporations ordered them to stop. Another company is raising funds to try building a human colony on Mars. This one thinks they can find water deeper under the surface. Someone filed a lawsuit against one-to-one neural jacks. I stare at the headline for a moment before moving on. When I’m done with my lunch, I close the news and toggle back to headset mode. I sink into my recliner and position my legs over the restraint loops, which roll and snap into place. The room lights dim and blinds close over my windows. The shelf beside my chair has a small bowl of oblong pills. I swallow one, sip a little water, and pull the headset down over my face. My home world inside the computer is infinite, bright and uncluttered. A few colorful icons float nearby, all my apps and most used portals. The Bureau of Labor portal waits but first I tap my warmup exercise program. My world disappears. I'm inside a large cube room with the logo Precision Movement Industries plastered everywhere. My virtual skin is the typical fitness guy, probably the same one most freeware action games use. I’m pretty sure I could jog three times a day and never look as fit as he does. A tennis ball bounces nearby. I snag it and throw towards the cement-textured wall. The ball bounces back at a decent simulation of real gravity and I reach up to catch it. Too easy. I open the program’s settings with a button on my hand controller and increase the room’s gravity, making the ball harder to throw and catch. After a few more, I tap the button to move on. The skin’s hand grows a tennis racket and now I have to rebound the ball across the field to a simulated partner. She sends the ball in a new direction every time with the exact same motion. My ankles press against the leg restraints to move in two dimensions, pushing harder as she forces me to go faster. When I tap the button again, the ground disappears and we are free to fly in all three dimensions. The ball travels a little faster with each exchange. After three misses I move on. Floating orbs of different colors appear around me. Instructions scroll below: ‘Touch Red’ ‘Hold Green’ ‘Yellow and Green twist’ ‘Look Blue to Red to Yellow’ ‘Blue and Yellow push then pull’ and more and more, requesting longer series and more complex interactions. The orb test has an actual end and the results screen pops up, graphing my performance over time. The line has almost flattened out; I haven’t gotten much faster for a while. Maybe it’s a slump. Or my limit. A picture of my tennis partner, lean body curved and arm back to hit the ball, asks if I would like to purchase the premium version. I decline and close the program. Time for work. I dive into the Bureau of Labor portal, already wishing I was done. The server recognizes me and logs me in; ‘Wil’ appears at the top of my screen, along with 7429WI and a bunch more numbers I don’t bother to read. Their world is formal and mostly bare, a hall with white marble walls and a few flags fluttering to the side. Four doors appear along the hall with a golden, labeled plaque on each: ‘Janitorial’ ‘Material Handling’ ‘Media Sorting’ and ‘Security’ … the only jobs I got licensed for after my early exit from high school. I’m not feeling like a thinking, waiting type of job today. My hand wavers between the first two doors and my stats at each scroll down. I’ve got more years with Janitorial and I’m closer to a promotion, but my pay is already better with Material Handling. With one long press I’m through, the world transitioning to the basic lobby … for about two seconds. The job’s empty training room appears around me. I lift the hands of my virtual droid skin up to my eyes and inspect the rubbery grips on the palms. A partner droid walks in, sets some kind of clunky object down on a rack, and walks back out. The object is twice the size of my entire home rig but covered in the usual data ports and power jacks of a computer. I check the site details. A medical scanner manufacturer and used device refurbisher. That must explain why their part looks a decade old. The job nav overlay points me toward a stack of cardboard along the wall. I grab one and follow the cues to open the flat box, seal the bottom closed with heat glue from inside my droid’s finger, and flip the box over. A stack of irregular pieces, a mix of foam and pre-folded cardboard with plastic screens, appears nearby stacked one atop the other. One goes into the box, then the computer, and more packaging to sandwich the device inside. I close the box with another swipe of glue and the cues direct me to slide the completed package out through another door. My skin walks back to the center of the room and the training continues. The partner brings in two more objects, one a bit smaller and angular like a machine attachment, the other a much larger and heavier monitor screen. The first gets stretched plastic and cardboard, the latter a few large pieces of foam. Halfway through packaging a part identical to the first, a large red ‘5’ appears on my screen. ‘4’ ‘3’ ‘2’ My screen goes dark. Somewhere in the real world, an empty droid recalibrates to my settings as I'm sent in. The room is bright from the LED+S bulbs above. I’m in some kind of warehouse, or rather a side-room of a much larger building. The racks of parts waiting to be packaged sit along one wall, and the stacks of cardboard packaging on the other. The instruction overlay returns - though the arrows and lines don’t fit the real world as neatly as in the training room - and I head for my first flat box. “Hi, Wil,” someone calls out from ahead of me. Another droid stands in the corner, cardboard packaging flipping and twisting in their hands to form the insert pieces, which they stack in a tower beside them. “Welcome to the crew.” I nod and grab the box I need. Above the other droid’s head floats ‘Tiyr’ and a shield medal symbol with a ‘5’ in the center. I speak into my mic, “Glad to be hired, Tiyr.” My droid body has a bit of a crackle to its speakers. “How is the work here going?” “Busy as can be.” He - I’m guessing - flips the insert around like he’s juggling, fingers darting and catching the side to slap the piece down and fold the other edge. “That droid’s been running for at least an hour straight. You might be ported to the backup at some point.” One finger extends, gesturing behind me. I seal the box’s underside just like in the training. The hot glue almost spills over the edge but I smooth down the drips before getting any on the floor. “Busy is great. Means no waiting.” I turn the box over and go toward the parts shelf, then turn as the overlay flashes, pointing me toward an insert first. “Good point.” The dull monotone seems to suggest otherwise. With the insert in, I place the part inside and close the box - the overlay again reminds me about an insert. I add that, pushing to get a tight fit before the lid goes down. With no more warnings I can seal the top and push the box out. At most places the part comes prepped ready to go into the box, but everywhere is different. The next room is a huge warehouse space with aisles of racks going up to the ceiling, a couple of droid sleep closets at the ends, and several droid-forklifts driving around storing and retrieving the boxes. One beeps at me and scoops up my finished product without a word. I glance to my left and see a long row of other packing rooms like mine along the wall. No time for gawking. I go back inside and pull my next box. “If I may ask, where are you?” There’s no response as I seal the box, flip it and drop in an insert. I look over and see the droid in the corner, hands frozen idle at its side. The stack of insert pieces he made stands within my reach. I get the part, lower it into the box, sandwich down the second insert and seal the box shut. ~-~ I’m pushing out my tenth or eleventh part for the forklifts when a droid walks out from a room two down from mine and yells, “We are not machines! We are people, we deserve the rights of -” They’re cut off as the droid powers down. A second or two later, the droid stands up straight, turns around and reenters its packing room. My instructions overlay says, ‘Your shift is not over. Please return to work.’ I go back in and continue packing. ~-~ Another droid, piloted by a ten-year veteran named Greag, brings a cart full of parts at some point during the shift. They don’t say anything but wave once before focusing on moving the parts to racks. A true professional. Tiyr returns a few times, always folding me a stack of the inserts before porting off to some other droid. He’s in Germany and likes metal bands. We talk about rhythm games and he gives me a few track recommendations. After a long two hours, the overlay says, ‘Break time. Please finish current operations.’ I seal up the box, push it out, walk back to the center of the packaging room and stand still. Nothing happens for a moment, then the large red ‘5’ appears. ‘4’ ‘3’ ‘2’ My view of the real world freezes and my score scrolls down the screen: forty-six parts in one hour and fifty-three minutes. They probably took off ten minutes for that disruption. The average for the position is fifty-three parts in two hours. I get a Good Worker rank and my promotion experience bar updates with a few more points. The screen cascades and I am back in the lobby. I sip some water and for a moment consider going back and doing Janitorial after all. The words ‘Please enjoy a fun game on us during your break’ slide across the screen. Ten icons appear in front of me, most of them popular VR sims and micro-action games. On the bottom row I spot Dance Kings. I tap the icon and the lobby disappears. If their copy comes with Elvis unlocked, I might stick around. ~-~ After my break, I’m dropped somewhere with snow drifting against the windows. The time zone also appears to be different, a deep black dark outside rather than early afternoon. They put me at an assembly table packing small parts into larger boxes: ten of some kind of cable into a tray which goes into a shipping box and then those into a larger container. Next to me is a woman named Yeara who has no achievements. She chats on and off in a language I don’t know with Regin, the five-year veteran who brings us everything. I turn on some music and tune them out. At some point, Yeara taps the table in front of me. “It is good working. Bye now.” She waves and then stands still. A second later, the name above the droid swaps to Qris. Their hands move, settling on the table, as their head tilts to look around. I turn down my music. “Hi, Qris. Welcome to the crew.” Their gaze settles on me. “Eh, we’ll see. No promises, okay?” They grunt, short and dry, perhaps as a laugh. Masculine? Older, but not retired? And no achievements? Regin hands me the next shipping box tray. I continue stuffing cables inside trays, layering the ends so they won’t tangle. We all go back to work and Qris fits in like Yeara never left - except for the silence. When I’m jogging, music is a distraction. Even if I never went by another house with flowers, even if I saw ambulances on every street, I can't listen to music while I jog. But at work, I need the distraction. Between trays, I turn my music back up. ~-~ My score for the second shift isn’t quite as good, but my Teamwork stat received a credit from someone, maybe Tiyr. The day’s salary transfers to my account and I pay my daily bills at the same time. They portal me back to my home world. I stare into the empty infinity, letting my hands rest, wondering … At work I only need some of my attention for the tasks, like a really grindy video game. Music helps keep me sane. Yet when I jog, music doesn’t feel necessary. Jogging became easy at some point, which is kind of cool now that I think about it. There’s not a single job I could say the same about. Then again, I get paid to work. No one pays me to jog; I go outside for my own benefit. Speaking of which ... I sigh and push the headset away from my face. My closed blinds glow green and lilac from the chemical sunset outside. Pressing a button on my chair releases the leg restraints and I sit up. My hand hesitates for a moment but then I flip the rig’s power off. Walking across the room, my legs buckle and pop like Elvis. How does he make it look cool? I bend my knees and squint at the wall. “Thank you very much.” ~-~ On my way down the stairs, I smell something cooking well before I spot Dad at the stove. He’s actually using flame, like a caveman. But the smell is rich and strong and smoky. Red rice and synth-meat. He turns and eyes me. “Evening. Dinner?” “Yeah,” I reply. “Gonna jog.” I stop and lean against the door frame. “Can I, uh, ask you something?” His eyes widen but he nods. “What?” “Did you like working?” He goes back to the stove and stirs a spatula through the rice. “Uh, sure.” His voice deepens, “In my dad’s day, they didn’t have all that fancy droid work.” I smirk, even though he can’t see. “Uphill both ways?” “Through snow,” he adds with a chuckle. After another glance back at me, he returns to the rice. “Why?” Where would I even begin? “Wondering.” I open the door. “Back soon.” The sunset looks like a painting, streaks of color layering in bands across the clouds. Many-hued light covers the landscape around me, a rainbow spread across everything. These are the sights I go outside to see. A steady traffic of mail cars drive by, along with a few auto-vans and one silent ambulance. As I jog, the sunset begins to fade and each house I pass looks more muted and somber than the last - yet a few have lights on. There’s even people coming outside.

Believe it or not but this is the beginning of the story's finale. This last evening for the story follows Wil playing wingman to his boss as they enjoy the town, which turns into a whole situation as the video Wil is waiting for coincides with an unexpected situation. I have mixed feelings about making the end into a sort of spy thriller save the world thing, but I think I did a good job using that as a vehicle for the personal human stories. Thanks for reading this far and I hope you enjoy the conclusion!

So let's talk about Marc's plan. As a kid, he thought it was really unfair that so many people don't get to try every job and find their favorite. After all, if everyone was doing what they wanted in life, they'd be happier and work better too. Of course Marc thinks that because he's rich and he's always been able to do whatever he wanted. He's free to do anything because of his wealth and doesn't understand life for people who aren't as free as he is. But despite his ambition toward his dream, he's also kind of unambitious for things he doesn't want to do. He never tried the doctor job or lawyer job himself because they didn't interest him, and he thinks only the people who enjoy those jobs would do them. In other words, he's kind of innocent about real life. Things might have stayed that way, but then Ned came into his life – along with other free minds – and that gave Marc a super-hacker army which could make his dreams a reality. So what might Ned's dream be?
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