Saturday, 0730: targeted ads precede Alis leaving passive mode: a happy young woman singing a song about shaving the bikini line; a trailer for a new album by the winner of an Idol Pursuits show. Feeling the buzz of online traffic, smiling, humming the jingle from the razor ad, Alis cleans up her cache, showers, breakfasts.

The first alert from the media subscription activates at 0745, three mouthfuls into her Special K; frozen, spoon poised halfway to open-mouth, Alis downloads the weather forecast, fashion advice, product promotions, digital special offer tokens, the big events in this week’s and next week’s soaps, the controversies from Dancing On Ice With the Stars, Hell’s Kitchen, the synopses of three other reality shows that Alis has never watched and never will watch, but on which she can talk with authority.

She picks from the menu the details of a celebrity wedding sponsored by a chocolate bar; she receives data updates on the fractious marriage of a rags-to-fabulous girl grouper and a Premier League midfielder; she downloads the three singles that will soundtrack her day.

At 0747 she lifts the spoon the rest of the way to her mouth. She finishes her Special K.

By 0851, Alis is dressing — black skirt, boots (heels are back in), white plastic fitted jacket over low-cut top. She does her make-up in attention mode, allowing the style-manager to handle the application of precise amounts of mascara and liquid eyeliner, with deep red lip-gloss. In normal, she appraises her look, approves: fashionably artificial, but not overdone. She fixes her nails, ties her hair in a high, tight ponytail.

She leaves the house at 0915, swinging her bag over her shoulder and winking at the mirror by the door in exactly the same way as the girl in the ad did — she’s on a late today, giving her time for her appointment at the boutique.

She is happy with the contrast.

Alis shows up at the office at 1053 with a new, still-sore NuSB socket on the back of her neck and another at the top of her sternum, peeking out under the zip of her new jacket; a tattooed brand logo, tiny and slightly holographised, shines on her forehead. In the lift, Alis changes the logo’s colour settings a few times before she gets to the top, until she is happy with the contrast between it and her eyeshadow. The processor only finishes installing the drivers for the last of the hardware she had fitted this morning as she steps out of the lift, which expresses itself as a bdeet stop, judder, restart in her direct path towards her post and her work. She cannot wait. She sits down and gives herself up to the company network two minutes early.

Lunch comes at 1330; she joins Flis, Zoey, Genn and Jaxx at the canteen table, sitting down with her Slimfast shake at the precise moment as the rest of the girls, identical ponytails bobbing as ditdit messages pass around and conversation begins. It makes absolute sense to her; no question exists that she has a right to contribute.

— Janine’s going to kill Bradley. It was in the download today.

— I like the Jade AI. She’s like the real thing.

ditdit

— I sexxed last night.

ditdit

— Oh. Tell us the juicy details!

— Boy or girl? Boy or girl?

— I like the Jade AI. She’s so… real.

— Boy.

ditdit

— Oh! Where did you meet him?

— Did you get some new kit?

— How many times did you orgasm?

Ditditditditditditditdit

(Four texts ask for details of Alis’ new kit; she broadcasts a reply; four texts say, that’s awesome.)

— I dumped my boyfriend yesterday.

ditditditditditditditdit

— Aw, that’s bad news.

ditdit

— It was the right thing to do.

— Five times! Personal best!

— Come out with us tonight.

ditdit

— Ooh! What wares are you using?

— Come out with us tonight.

— SexXbox 6.

ditdit

— I’ve got one of those! They’re great, aren’t they?

— I should have done it ages ago.

— Karl got evicted! It should have been Jorja.

ditdit

— I feel like I started a new life. I feel awesome.

ditdit

— Aw, no. That bastard

— That Brian can still dance.

— I sexxed last night.

The girls go to the Ladies’ in twos and threes; Alis stands next to Zoey and Genn at the basins, and they fix their makeup at the same time, running the same software; each takes exactly one minute and fifteen seconds, working in unison. Three right hands reapply mascara, left eye, right eye; three lipsticks come out, screw open, dab on bottom of lower lip, left, right, left, upper lip, a finger to smudge; three ponytails flip and turn; three women leave the bathroom, one, two, three and return to Slimfast shakes which are and will be only two-thirds drunk.

At 1355, the conversation stops mid-sentence. The women stand, silently, and return to their posts.

Second-last.

Saturday night: it’s the same club she went to on Wednesday. Alis is on the dance floor in a borrowed minidress and strappy heels, multitasking. While the software keeps her dancing and flirting, and accurately feigns mild drunkenness, the plugged-in hemisphere keeps her connected: she subs and lays out seven news stories for tomorrow’s print edition; cuts down the news to preset character maximums for online publication; researches, writes and packages the material for one of tomorrow’s media opinion downloads — one of the ones she’s subscribed to, as it happens — on shows that she’s never watched, supplying the default opinions ready to be programmed into people who never watched them either.

Jaxx pulls, another asset from the tower, and goes home with him; Alis and the others stay until the place closes. They get a minicab, drop each other off, one by one.

— That was awesome.

— You were hott.

— Did you see the bloke Jaxx pulled?

— That was awesome.

— That was hott.

— I did! He was hott!

— So awesome.

— Did you see the bloke Jaxx pulled?

— He was hott.

Once the girls are in the car, the girls’ processors cease to run the fake drunkenness routines, one by one bdeet bdeet bdeet bdeet. No one says anything in the cab, really; only brief directions for the driver and the occasional ditdit punctuate the silence as Alis and Flis — Flis has some of the same hardware as Alis (although, Alis has noted with satisfaction, in an earlier version)— receive, edit, submit and get back notice of receipt of small work assignments.

Alis is the second-last to get out, no goodbyes, still in attention mode, still multitasking, as she signals the door, stands in a lift, gets in, takes off her makeup, puts on her nightdress, lies on top of her duvet, delivers the last content for tomorrow’s download, and goes into passive mode.

She chose the venue.

They’re in Starbucks. Alis chose the venue. Outside, the sun is setting

— We’d been together six years. Nearly seven. I mean, she’d been living in my place maybe five years. But we’d had six years.

— So what happened?

Alis, responding to a software prompt, widens her eyes, puts a finger against her chin as if pointing to her lips.

— She got bored. That’s what she said. She got bored. She said she wanted more. We were in a rut, she said.

Alis says nothing, takes a sip of coffee, leaves a dark red greasy mark on the rim of the cup.

— She wasn’t cheating on me. It wasn’t anything like that. She hadn’t found anyone she liked more. She just…

— What?

— She just wanted to be anywhere else except with me.

— Oh.

— I think if she’d been cheating it’d have been easier. You know?

Alis looks blank.

— Yes.
— Because this way, she’s not to blame. It’s like my fault. She doesn’t love me any more. Because I’m not what she —

— Do you want to sexx with me?

He puts down his coffee, looks left and right as if expecting to see a hidden camera.

— Sorry. What?

— You said — and here Alis pauses as she replays the relevant phrases from her cache — that you were looking for a date. That you wanted companionship. You’d like it if we sexxed.

— Yeah, but I didn’t — I mean, I didn’t intend what I said to mean that. I mean, I’m really sorry I said it. I, ah, felt like a fool.

— There’s no need to apologise.

— I mean, it’s been a long time, and I’d been dumped. I said stupid things because I wasn’t… myself. I am so sorry. So, so sorry, Sarah. Please, please don’t think that I’m only talking to you because I want to —

— But you do.

— I. Um. Look, I’m a fool. I’ll go home. I’m so sorry.

— Come back to my flat. Sexx with me. You’ll enjoy it.

— What?

— I have some awesome new —

— You’re not offended?

— Why would I be offended?

— I thought —

— It’s no big deal. No ties. No emotional involvement. Just sexxing.

A prompt: she lifts her chin to a preset angle, lowers her new eyelashes, parts her lips slightly.

— I don’t know what to —

— Come back to my flat and sexx with me. Now. I’ll pay and order a cab.

He opens his mouth to say something, but she goes bdeet and trances out for a moment, before smiling at him and standing up, zipping up her jacket in a decisive, businesslike manner.

— Let’s go.

Pressure.

They ride, silently, in the back of a Hansom cab. She sits right next to him. Her thigh hard against his.

She looks up at his face as he places a hand on his leg, just below his crotch, exerts pressure with the first three fingers, one at a time, pressing down exactly so, precise distances, the exact locations of nerve endings, causing him suddenly to close his eyes, take a sharp intake of breath.

He turns and looks down at her. The processor prompts. She narrows her eyes, parts her lips again.

ditdit

She straightens, looks ahead.

— What was that?

— An alert. The office. Things to do.

— Um. I can go home instead —

— No. It’s fine. You still get to come home with me. We’ll still sexx.

— Oh.

I hope you have enjoyed me.

She transmits to the lights; they come on, low.

— Take your coat off. Hooks are there.

She hangs up her own coat; her heels clatter across the floorboards clack, clack, clack, like a metronome, leaving him standing by the coat rack.

She stops by the bookshelf, takes from the rack the secure access drive, plugs it in at the new socket on the back of her neck so that the grey plastic hemisphere sits at her hairline, its blue LED blinking standby. She opens a drawer on her make-up table and takes a small plastic bag from a packet. She folds the bag neatly and places it on her bedside table. Then she turns and clatters back to Jon, who stands where she left him, looking around, hand on back of head.

She takes his hand.

— This way.

She leads him to the bedroom, relaxes allows the processor bdeet control, bringing two brand-new pieces of software and two impants together without conflict, interfacing them together through neural pathways and nerve endings for the first time. She feels a thrill: she loves it. She’s programmed to.

She hands him a condom.

— Please use this.

He looks down at the little silver packet in his hand.

She sets to work. His clothes come off in a pre-set order. The implant erases her memory of the removal of his socks as he does it, the original developers having recognised that no adequately sexy way exists to take them off. He removes her clothes at her direction. She kisses him, inserts her tongue at the software prompt, puts her hand on his groin, applies gentle pressure at exact points like she’s working the number pad. Trusting in her systems, she opens the multitasker and ditdit connects to the company net, starts the LED on the hemisphere flashing, downloads a story she’s been alerted to; it needs fixing. She defers it until a suitable time.

She loses time. Her consciousness cuts to the bed; he lies on his back. She removes her mouth and sits up; his body judders. She applies the condom. This done, she parts her legs and straddles him. He puts his hands on her waist; his fingeers spasm as the implant activates; the stimulators vibrate in regular pulses, one point three seconds apart, making a sound like a mobile on silent receiving a call. She bounces up and down in times with the pulses, her arms straight, hands out like a ballerina doll, eyes staring ahead, mouth open, ponytail fluttering slightly.

She gives control of her body to the system.

She has things to do. Editorial were unhappy with the tenor of the Grimslade interview; it needs to be positive, reverential. She fixes it, changes word order, removes inferences, applying alterations in time with the pulses. It takes about nine minutes.

Alis temporarily shuts off her hearing; the creaking of the bed and Jon’s cries and grunts are getting distracting.

Job completed, she submits it. She takes a moment to log onto IKEA online, orders a new bed. Seventeen seconds. Back to work: she checks the queue, takes on a few extra jobs to pass the time, another four minutes. Her processor alerts her that the routine is nearing completion. She logs the work time and signs out. The processor activates the neural stim and the reward centres of her brain light up. She orgasms, briefly, lets out a single ah.

And she’s back in the room, just as Jon finishes too. She deactivates the implant, and gets off him, leaving him lying spreadeagled on the bed, mouth open, eyes screwed shut, breathing raggedly. With a swift, precise movement she removes the condom, pops it into the disposal bag and bins it. Jon sits up, hand on forehead. He lets out a little groan.

She sits on the side of the bed and removes the access drive, puts it on the bedside table. He turns and touches her shoulder.

— I, um. That was —

— The shower is through to the left.

She motions, smiling like an in-flight attendant.

— Oh. Thanks.

He stands up. In one smooth motion, Alis brings her legs up onto the bed, folds her hands in her lap, her back against the headboard.

— I’m going to clean out my cache and go into passive mode now. Feel free to help yourself to drinks and snacks in the kitchen before you go. The door will lock itself automatically when you leave.

— Oh, I thought —

— I hope you have enjoyed me this evening. Good night.

He gets half a syllable into whatever it is he wants to say before bdeet she’s in attention mode and not listening. She reviews her evening cache. Memory is an important resource, and a girl absolutely must conserve it. Alis runs her diagnostic. On the Cosmopolitan Satisfaction Index (v6.1, The only CSI a girl needs), his performance rated a 3.8. The recommendation: ditch. She edits the evening cache, deletes him and his contact details. She saves the act, the work and her orgasm. Nothing else.

Alis does not hear the door shut. She enters passive mode, shut down, free of thought or decision or memory.

Everything is blue, and stays that way.

© HD Ingham 2009

Memory Sticks is now available to buy at Lulu in print or PDF from Room 207 Press.

On my way to work I drive down past Ashbrook Lane. I go past that little yellow real estate office with the guy out front dressed like a dollar sign. I pass by the party supply store and the Pet Palace.

Somewhere along the way, every day, I see this guy. Something isn’t right with this guy. He’s maybe sick or got some other problem. He wears a pair of jeans all torn up and fringy at the bottom. Even now, with that October cold coming in, he wears a flannel shirt, unbuttoned, a gray-belly paunch sticking out.

Every day, I catch him before he makes it to the China Skillet, that little fast-foody, can’t-sit-down joint with the greasy Tso’s chicken. I wait in the alley between China Skillet and the Kinko’s clone. The guy passes by me, and I drag him into the alleyway, and I beat him with a tire iron. Sometimes, I stab him with a kitchen knife.

I do this every day.

I think it’s starting to affect me.

2.

It was two Tuesdays ago that Mary asked me if I was doing okay. I told her I was.

“You don’t look so good,” she said.

“I feel fine.”

“I had to wash your pants again.” She sounded a little annoyed. Sometimes, when I destroy the guy, he gets stuff on me. Yellow stuff. Kind of like butterscotch pudding, but with veins of red in it.

“I know. I tried to wipe it off, but…”

“And it’s just mud?”

“Just mud,” I said. “The parking lot at work is falling apart, and they won’t pay to fix it. It’s muddy. I step in mud.”

And she left it at that, but I caught her looking at me strange a few times before bed.

3.

It’s maybe like that movie with Bill Murray and the groundhog. Not the golf one. The other one.

He’s out there again.

I catch him at the mouth of the alley and drag him in. The dumpster smells like rotten garlic and ginger.

“Guh!” he says to me. He can’t talk. He opens his fishy mouth and clacks those moldy chompers at me.

I kick him in the knee and the cap pops like rotten wood. The leg folds backward and he topples. I hit him in the head with the tire iron. It’s easier than squashing a pumpkin.

4.

I watch TV every night – Wheel of Fortune, Jeopardy, and the news. I always wait for the news to say something about this guy. But nobody ever does. I don’t think people can even see what I’m doing. He passes them by and they don’t look at him. They walk right by the alley as I beat him or cut him into pieces and leave him there. The first few times, I moved the parts. But that was too messy. Plus, they’re usually gone by the next day anyway.

Nobody cares.

“What’s this?” Mary asks.

I look up and find her holding a sandwich baggy. In it is a sandwich. My sandwich.

“Oh,” I say.

“You didn’t eat it?”

“Guess not.”

“It’s ham and swiss. Why didn’t you eat it?”

“Wasn’t hungry.”

I wonder if the guy would eat the sandwich. I consider trying to feed it to him the next day, but I just end up cutting his head off with a camper hatchet.

5.

I decide not to drag him into the alley. Instead, I beat him into a paste right out on the sidewalk. I step on his hand, and it doesn’t crunch as hard as it should. Bones should crunch. This just feels like Styrofoam peanuts in a sock full of jelly.

People move around us, like we’re doing construction work or something.

6.

“You missed work,” Mary says.

“No, I went,” I say. I can’t really remember going. But I know I went. It was part of my routine. Work was part of me.

“They called looking for you. Where’d you go today?”

“I don’t know.” Shit. This wasn’t good.

“This isn’t good,” she says, echoing my brain.

“I’ll go tomorrow.”

7.

I don’t go to work the next day.

It’s weird. I do my business with the guy. I just use my hands this time and it’s not really that effective. It works, but it’s too much trouble to pull him apart like that. He just keeps wanting to move away from me, even when I’m grabbing handfuls of gut flesh and just pulling it away from him like it was moist pot roast.

And then I stay in the alley.

I don’t go to my car.

I don’t go to work.

An hour later, the guy shows up again. He looks the same. Purpled tongue jutting from gray lips. Sores all over. Same drunken stagger, same throat-buried grunts and groans.

And I slam his head in the dumpster. It pops off and lands on a bed of rancid bok choy.

8.

Mary cries when I get home. The sun is coming up. She’s weeping and beating my chest, then she’s hugging me and asking me where I’ve been. I just move past her and get out the set of golf clubs from the bedroom closet.

She says something about me being gone for days, but I know that’s not possible. Mary is maybe a little crazy sometimes.

9.

I sit in the driver’s side, and I think about the guy for a little while. Who is he? Why does he do this every day? He’s fallen into such an awful routine. How did he get this way? How does he keep coming back?

For a little while, I think maybe about asking him these questions. It’s rare that I give him any chance to say anything at all. Maybe I should, I think. Maybe I need to give him the opportunity to explain himself. I look over at the passenger side and see several baggies of sandwiches sitting there. On half of them, the bread is green. Could be the guy is hungry. I itch a sore on my hand and lick it. It tastes funky, but it isn’t the worst. Mary’s right. I don’t look so good.

This time, I decide I’m going to ask him what’s up. I’m going to talk to this guy, find out everything I need to know. And I’m going to give him a sandwich.

As I think this, I go to my trunk and get out a nine-iron. I leave the sandwiches behind.

© Chuck Wendig 2009