Most people in the city live their lives in the real world. Neurochips and implants are a tool they use. They think of the veil as something external to themselves. Something they might occasionally interface with, or use to supplement their physical life. Transhumanism, such as it is, is still rooted deeply in the physical world for most... But not for you. You are a denizen of two worlds — the physical, and the digital. You are not limited to thinking so conventionally. You can slip between them, or exist simultaneously in them, as you choose. Right now, you're in the physical world, and you've just shut and locked your front door as you enter your home.
Walk me through your abode, Mnemosyne. Trading in secrets can be quite lucrative — do you make enough to live a lavish lifestyle? Or do you lead a more spartan lifestyle, relying instead on virtual/augmented reality to give you comfort? Who is lying in your bed, jacked in, and dazed by your creations?
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It's cold though, impersonal. I do live more than half my subjective life in the digital, due to the side effect of time dilation. It's one of those things that gets to people who've never really been in the deep, that they just spend an hour in a construct and only had a few minutes pass for their bodies... or vice versa if you're so inclined and know what to mess with. But where was I? Right. Cold. So, elegant but impersonal finishings, clean lines and coordinated understated colors, but not a hint of real personality. Something that I'll admit to finding peaceful as the digiscape can be nothing but personality depending on where you are.
I stutter step at the bedroom door seeing Nimitz sprawled in all his delicious glory across my bed.
I sigh to myself thinking it might be time to revoke his codes again.
Not that we don't have fun together. His sheer bodily presence does something amazing to me. No matter how long it's been, he always makes me feel the delicacy and smallness of this sleeve. Makes me feel the lack of height like the ghost of an amputated arm. He envelops me somehow. It's why I took him to bed the first time. It's why I relapse.
I have no idea how long he's been here. I lean against the doorframe a moment,
allowing myself the pleasure of a long, lingering look over his body. I feel a smile curl my lips. I walk over to the bed and start tracing a line with my nail from the inside of his ankle, up a well-formed calf and on to a solid thigh with a particular objective in mind. Let's see if he's set his physio stimulus triggers to bring him out of it.
"just getting caught up on your newest creations. You've been a busy girl, haven't you?"
"Something gets in my head and I have to make it so it will leave me alone and let me focus." It's true enough. My creations almost demand to be born. I've found the quickest way to clear my head is to let them. "What are you doing here, Nimitz? We talked about this. Repeatedly. Unannounced drop-ins? I'm not a fan."
I glance down at my hand as it conjures life into his member. "And I would think about how you answer that as this probably isn't the best time to piss me off. Hm?"
His eyelids flutter and he returns to consciousness – his avatar fading from view. "Do you really want me to stop with the surprises? How long have we been at this? I gave you the codes to my place..."
Is there something special between you two? Or is he reading too much into this?
I mean that literally. Our bodies, pheromones and hormones mesh well. I'm sure he thinks there is something special. Lots of people do when it lines up like we do. But it's an illusion. It's how nature cons us to perpetuate. One of the reasons I like the deep is the muting of all that crap. It's not gone really, it can't be. Wherever the mind is, it's still originating in a physiological soup, or at least a simulated version, but it sure quiets things the fuck down when you're in a dive.
Don't get me wrong, I like the chemistry. I like feeling good as much as the next human, but I'm not fooled by it. Like any drug it's easy to get dependent and tough to break away. And the easiest way to quit, to maintain control is to not be tempted. This? This is like having an injector full of bliss laying there when you've just managed to get clean, and I'm speaking from experience.
Nimitz can be a handful metaphorically, and more than a handful literally, particularly, when you have small hands like I do now. I slide myself onto the bed to sit on his thighs so that my other hand can get involved in the proceedings. I squeeze him firmly. I know I'm mixing signals but lets try the diplomatic approach.
"We went through all this, Mitz." I say, my voice silky but with a bit of an edge to it. "Fun. No strings. You said you understood. You agreed. Having my codes is not an open invite. Besides what happened that lovely little thing you were seeing? Thought for sure you were passing out of my orbit."
I was kind of hoping so, anyway.
Seems like you're not keen on attachments, Nem. What happened with your last partner that ended so poorly? Is that why you're not keen on letting Nimitz in?
It did end badly with Sarah. And really it was nearly the same story as Mitz here. I'm a riddle that people have to solve, a thing they chase. That's what's exciting. Like playing a game where the win is just out of your reach, but you're pretty sure you can get there. Sooner or later they realize that I really won't let them catch me, but it takes a while. I mean, I tell them the deal up front. Or at least not long after the first time we're together. I remind them, too. And they always say they understand, that that's all they want too. But they never really believe me. Not in their hearts. They 'fall in love.' They think I will eventually give in and we'll live all happily ever after.
And it can get bad. There's the sunk cost fallacy. No matter what people tell themselves, they think a relationship is always going to go somewhere. That the effort is going to pay off. Sarah hung on way longer than most. And when she finally accepted the truth, the fallout was pretty ugly. It really hurt to see her fall apart when she realized I meant what I'd told her all along.
Fuck, It's not like I want to hurt them.
But no, Sarah's not the reason I'm not keen on letting Mitz 'in' or whatever. I used to believe love was more than a neuroreceptive hangover too, once. But that was another time. And I was a different person.
I make a sympathetic noise to his tale of woe. "Well." I say, scooting up so my groin presses against his cock and bending down to kiss his jaw, my hands sliding up his toned chest. He really is very pretty. "I won't complain about you staying around. Just no surprises, okay baby?"
I'll just cancel his codes later.
Maybe.
I take it you're going to sleep with him? Do you mix anything digital into your intimacy? Fire off your intimacy special move.
There is a digital component. Especially if my partner trusts me enough to let me mess with their chip, like 'mitz has. I weave our sensoria together, they sync then split then counterpoint. You can achieve some truly amazing effects when you can feel the other person's response on a visceral level.
This is the intimacy move so I add no state, but you know.
(Rolled: 2d6. Rolls: 3, 6. Total: 9)
He still isn't used to your orgasms. It always sends him into spasms for a few minutes as he comes down – though he's learned to keep up when it comes to round two, and three, etc. In the midst of it, you feel a familiar sensation build between the two of you – a brief blurring of the boundaries between you. If you weren't careful, you might forget where he ends, and you begin. You may never find that line again, either.
Answer honestly:
- What do you think is Nimitz most valuable quality?
- What do you think Nimitz would do if he got you to himself?
The physicality, the sensorium and emotions. It's all so magnificent, drugging and for a few precious moments I forget myself. Nimitz is like a fine guitar, a calligraphy brush, a perfectly made sword. We work together as one and create something beyond ourselves.
Right after, when we're resting together, once again two distinct beings, him passing in and out of a doze, I actually tear up. I keep my face below his, my head tucked under his chin. My hand rests on his chest beside my face. The palm and my cheek feeling the steady beat of his heart. My nose filled with the smell of him and of us together. I make no sound, and do not let myself shudder. The tears will pass.
Valuable is an interesting word to use. If you were to ask his best quality, I would say it's his sort of relentless gentle openness. It's almost Tai Chi as a mode of life. He doesn't hide things in his heart. But most valuable? His inability to comprehend what a selfish, hollow, creature I am. His ability to trust. I know, that's two. Sue me.
As for what he would do if he got me to himself? He's a self described 'pilgrim of beauty' and for a while now I'm his shrine. Or his goddess. Maybe, he thinks, the end of his journey. Honestly I'm not sure. It was my work, you see, that he fell in love with. You heard the talk of art, right? He is a believer in art. Not in the conventionally beautiful, but deep art. The kind that has the stuff of revelation in it be it pretty on the surface, or hideous.
I suppose I should have seen that he wouldn't really connect with that girl. I knew her whole life as soon as I saw them together. Nothing to stick to. Not under the surface. Not for him.
Anyway, He probably doesn't think much beyond some form of happy bliss making beautiful things together. Or at least supporting me while I make my work. it might explain why he puts up with my coldness, my moods, and my demands. It's all part of the stereotype, you know. The Architect. The tortured genius. A vehicle for the voice of God. A conduit of pure creation. His Prima Donna. His Van Gogh. His Mozart. His desire is, I think, to support and serve something he sees as worthy.
Good luck with that.
Sure that he's dozing, I wipe away any remaining moisture and I reluctantly pull away from the cozy heat of his body to attend to the animal functions, and then stand, small and naked, in front of the window wall and the cityscape beyond.
You're never truly alone, are you Mnemosyne? What do you call the voice in your head? How does it appear to you? The voice returns, "kick him out, and come see what I made for you."
What do you do?
"I don't care if you don't like him. He's asleep." I say into the veil. I don't speak out loud. No need to wake Mitz. with talking to myself.
Originally, in a dark mood, I named it Kage, maybe from a case of kage no yamai since it's favorite manifestation is an sort of inverted version of me... or at least of this sleeve.
Is it some remnant of the previous occupant of this sleeve? A ghost pattern? Some side effect of my own consciousness interacting with the cyberbrain? I'm not sure. But it's always there. It talks to me. It manifests in the veil in this or another guise. Sometimes it overwrites my perceptions of peoples faces, causing the illusion of total strangers speaking to me in it's voice. My voice.
"Besides, if I'm diving, I might as well keep the sleeve warm while it rests. He won't bother me."
I move towards the bed again.
It wasn't always that easy of course. It's not a natural thing to do and people seem to fight it on an instinctual level making the passage unpleasant, but now, for me, it's like slipping into a bath.
I emerge into a large space that reaches to the heavens. A cross between a late gothic cathedral, like Reims or the Duomo de Milan, and the hall of mirrors at Versailles. Under the soaring groin vault festooned with small sculptures that do not retain one pose from glance to glace, is a roughly circular space with a sort of large dais in the middle. The space is surrounded by mirrors half again as tall as me, in densely ornate gilded frames that peak in a gothic arch at the top. They are spaced evenly in a large circle around the dias, alternating with empty spaces as wide as they are. The walls behind them feature large stained glass windows that also freely move.
I'm standing in front of one of the mirrors that I emerged from. It's never the same one twice, and walk towards the center dias, my hard heels echoing on the stone, looking for Kage. Golden light streaming in from a clerestory high above glints off white and gilded glittering surfaces.
How do you remember her? What was she like?
My mother was a hard-eyed pragmatist to her very core. From the beginning she taught me that to know things, secret things, was to survive. That so much of the things between people were games and to know how to rig the game gave you power, or at least how to play with a cool head and a cooler heart. I didn't want to listen to her, really. The innocence of youth, I suppose.
I pause to blink at the sculpture, at the spike of sadness, then pass through the mirror.
When the world returns to normal, you find yourself in a cold, dark room. No Kage, no mother, no nothing. The silence lingers long enough that your brain starts to crave noise. Eventually, you hear a heartbeat. You hear the rushing of blood through what should be your veins and the gurgling of various juices in your stomach. Is your sleeve largely organic? Or is it a construct, emulating organic life with near-perfect similarity? Are there any biological functions you've expressly excluded from your sleeve?
Kage speaks up, if only to keep you from freaking out. "Maddening, isn't it? Total deprivation from your senses... Trapped in your body with nobody but yourself... I came across these reports online of this guy who doesn't even have an implant. It kind of scared the shit out of me, you know? I'll never know that person... Not like I know you... Rostam," she whispers, the name dripping with sensuality, "I had to make this place. I want to fill this room with him. You need to help me."
This is the first time Kage's ever even mentioned being scared of anything before... What are you afraid of?
The initial experience here begins to summarize my fears. Being helpless frightens me. My nightmares are of being trapped in a body, unable to escape into the veil. Unable to make the body move. Unable to hide or defend. Worse still to have that body controlled by another. Terrifying.
I shudder at the initial experience of the construct.
As for my sleeve, there are some who wouldn’t make much of a distinction between a genetically engineered organic sleeve and an actual synthetic. I do, however. This body does not emulate. It breathes, it sweats, it eats, it shits. This sleeve is in fact a human body, albeit one originally spliced together by a genetic designer and grown in a test tube. There were certain genetic modifications made to the spine, nerves and brain necessary to integrate with the cyberbrain.
The designer clearly had an aesthetic, as well. Whether that was dictated to them by a client or their own creative expression, I don’t know, but there was a great deal of care put into the crafting. The voice is pure dark silk. The natural postures and movement are a smooth as glass. Studying it in a mirror I can’t help but think of it as some kind of homage. While idealized, it’s too specific aesthetically, to not be modeled on someone. A lost love? A family member? Who knows, but it was someone. Perhaps the records of the cyberbrain project would tell me more, but they have so far proved elusive.
The sleeve works as human bodies work. It is a bit stronger and faster than most naturally occurring female sleeves of similar size and build. A few things are offline. Reproduction for example, which is just as well as I needn’t repeat my mother’s folly.
Kage mentions Rostam, and I flash back to exposing at Seigi’s request, the poorly constructed holos that stood as evidence against him. Kage was in a sulk that week and refused to manifest. I remember studying those holos closely, from every angle, with appreciation. There is something he brings to the honest wear of a sleeve. Scars and wear not smoothed out and disguised, but accepted as marks of character.
“And how will you do that? What do you need me to do?” I ask, turning to her, actually curious.
She sighs, pushes him aside, and makes her way over to you. She slides in behind you, resting her chin on your shoulder, and guiding your gaze to the holo of Rostam – hoping to help you see him through her eyes. "Look at that man! I bet he's hung like a horse..." She laughs, "I'd have his babies, if I could..."
As for reproduction... well I couldn't start it on demand. All the necessary parts are in the right place, so no surgery would be necessary, but they are held inactive by some of the neurochem in this sleeve. There would need to be a treatment of activating hormones for the whole system to come online.
I don't quite know if she's serious or not. It's best to assume that she means what she says. I turn to her, folding my arms and looking at her sternly.
"And just how am I supposed to do that, force him to get a chip? You joyride me anyway-- don't deny it. Why don't I just fuck him? Isn't that enough?"
Not that it would be a burden, mind you.
"I didn't change the subject. And you didn't answer the question. The man has no implants at all. None. It's not as if he hasn't had the opportunity. So what is it you suggest that I do to accomplish this little meet cute you want? Implanting without consent is frowned upon. I'm assuming the primitive external interface he uses occasionally would be insufficient?
I look again at the holo. "And how am I supposed to frame this. My psychosis/AI wants to be your friend?"
"And perhaps he shall. I'm not suggesting you give up your goal, but I think that it's probably the best opening move in what may be a game of uncertain length. Perhaps we will find a way to circumvent his resistance to our world, but we can't do so without intelligence at the least." I walk around the holo again, slowly. "And it's worth considering that in bringing him over, you may lose what you find most compelling."
"Maybe — but I love a good game of conquest. Don't you?" Her eyes are filled with hunger as she looks the holo over one last time.