The Ballad of Jack and Priyanka Act 02

Act II

6.

Hive designation AMBR-712, laid out in sixty-one three-mile hexagonal sectors, spanned an area of four-hundred seventy-five point one-nine miles upon the eastern seaboard of the former United States of America. Sunken cities could be seen in the distance, great concrete plinths of glass and concrete that rose from the oil-shined seas, monuments to mankind's failure to self-preserve.

Hex Nine was an older sector of the Hive. Its streets were a little narrower, superstructures a little taller, walls and skyways a little dingier, a little rougher around the edges. The cracks revealed themselves to those who knew where to look.

Citizens and hostform circulated through the streets like lifeblood, talking, laughing, enjoying themselves beneath the electric twilight sky. Going to clubs, or homes; meeting friends, holding hands, living lives at the end of history.

Peddlers worked in the alleys, hawking baggies of hand-rolled cigarettes and synthetamines, nanite inhibitors, dazzle paint, old music on physical media -- things not quite permitted in the Hive, but not quite forbidden either.

"How much for the Foucault?" Jack asked one pinched-faced peddler, pointing at a ragged copy of The History of Sexuality sitting on a threadbare blanket beside old romance novels, like gold amongst dross.

The peddler grinned at Jack. His chin was stubbled; he was missing a tooth. "Two twenty-five. In liquor, if you can."

All unauthorized trade in the Hive was conducted through barter. The Hive was the only source of credits, and credits could only be spent at registered businesses. But one could buy two hundred and twenty-five credits' worth of booze and trade that for an old book, if one were so inclined... and if one had two hundred and twenty-five credits to begin with.

Jack did not. "That's absurd."

"Two ten, then?"

"One ninety."

The peddler narrowed his eyes. "Come back when you got two ten. In liquor."

"Oh, for fuck's sake! It's a fucking treatise on repression and power dynamics, not a goddamn stroke book! Who the fuck else is going to buy it?"

"Someone who's got two ten," the peddler laughed. "In liquor. Now piss off, egghead."

Inside the pockets of his jacket Jack clenched his fists. He clenched his jaw. He took a deep, slow, ragged breath in, and then slowly out. He unclenched his jaw. He unclenched his fists.

This man was not his enemy. This was not the fight.

"I'll have it in a week," Jack told the peddler in carefully measured tones. "You'll hold it for me?"

"As always, Prof- "

Jack shook his head. Sharply. "No names."

The peddler nodded. He was, briefly, admonished. He knew better. As did they all. "-friend."

Two-hundred and ten credits -- more than three weeks' wages for a book that would sit until its owner could understand it, alongside the Rosseau and the Rolling Stones, the Pliny and the Picasso, in a secret library built for one boy.

As Jack returned to the crowded streets, to the crowd meandering from one indulgence to another, he wondered if it was worth it. To place so much hope in a child...

Osiris. Pree had laughed, and agreed, when they named him. The God of Death, and of Resurrection. Of new beginnings. How optimistic they once had been.

He needed this to mean something. He, Jack, was a piece of shit; a cheater, a fraud, yes, he knew this -- but he would not let his life end without having made a difference. When he'd decided to teach, he'd thought making a difference would be simple. Now he knew it was hard goddamn work -- but the doing of the work had value in and of itself. It had to mean something. A Priori, as the French had said, back when the French were even a thing.

His train of thought was suddenly derailed as he saw, coming out of a discotheque, Amanda -- dressed up for a night on the town, like a teenage wet dream, all hips and tits and plush lips and big green eyes and that wavy blonde hair that fell just so over her eyes, intentionally failing to hide their open invitation to come over, come hither, and fuck. She was swaying a little bit, laughing, and leaning into her companion so she did not fall.

As surprised as he was to see her, Jack was more surprised by her companion.

A drone.

Clad head to toe in shiny, skintight black latex that reflected the sector's dancing neon lights, this drone was presumably female, going by her small-but-proud breasts and the graceful sweep of her hips. But with a drone it was impossible to know. A drone was a hostform that had further debased its existence, that had allowed -- or been forced to have -- its mind overwritten by AMBR's architecture. It was action without thought, existence without agency, a creature for which the very concepts of resistance and obedience no longer existed. It was merely an object.

And of course, it was built to fuck.

Or at least that's what it looked like to Jack, as through the moving crowd he caught glimpses of Amanda's fingers pressed into the cleft between its legs, her lips kissing and tongue flicking over its neck, as it sinuously swayed and shuddered against his former student's body.

He caught himself thinking that Pree had never moved like that, couldn't move like that.

He shuddered in disgust.

And he was rock hard.

Amanda whispered something to the drone -- her words, whatever they were, accompanied by a playful little nibble at its ear, just like she used to do to him, all those years ago. In that moment he suddenly wanted her again, ferociously so. He wanted to go to her again, and drop to his knees, again, stare up at her with pleading eyes and let her put the ball-gag back in his mouth while the drone cuffed his wrists behind him and slid its lubricated latex finger down...

Amanda was watching him watching them. They were watching him. She smiled, wickedly... invitingly.

He wasn't thinking about the Foucault, or Pree, or even Osiris anymore. Only that he had to get the fuck out of there.

"Do you want it, Professor?" he remembered her asking him, so long ago. "Nod your head. Say yes. Be a good boy and I'll let you lick my clitty," she had laughed as she sat on his desk, legs spread wide, during office hours. "You like being a good boy, don't you?"

She had known the answer. They both had.

7.

"Great work, Rashid!"

The Fuckvoice praised the men and women of Supplemental Workforce as an endless queue of machine parts came down the conveyor belt. A bell chimed.

"Keep it up, Amanda! You're being such a good girl today!" A bell chimed.

"Don't get discouraged, Jack! Let's not dwell on our mistakes!"

He couldn't focus on his work. It was difficult to think about making sure each part went into the correct bin when he couldn't stop thinking about slick latex bodies, sliding and groping, stiff nipples atop proud breasts, cocks and cunts encased in warm slippery prisons that kept turning the arousal up while turning the ability to do anything about it way down. He thought about Amanda's eyes, sensual, smoldering, knowing he was watching.

"You're doing amazing, Lindsey. I'm so proud of you!" A bell chimed.

He could not remember the last time he'd felt fire for Priyanka. Their kisses, once wild with abandon, were now chaste and perfunctory; when they touched it was tentative, and all too brief, before ashamedly withdrawing from one another. Age, stress, weariness of body and soul -- and, shamefully, their familiarity with one another -- conspired to pacify the passion they had once shared.

Last night they had eaten in silence, he had read a book, she had painted, and they had gone to bed and slept with their backs to each other. He had wanted to reach out and touch her, but had been too ashamed of his fantasies to do so. He had wanted to go to the bathroom and masturbate, but had been too afraid of getting caught.

"Wow, Martin! Three-hundred picks with zero misses," the Fuckvoice cooed. "That's so good." A bell chimed.

And he wanted her to say thank you. Was that so much to ask? He wanted Priyanka to appreciate the burden he was carrying, the exhausting, endless effort of grinding his body down at the factory at day, the searching and haggling for additions to their son's secret library at night. Jack didn't want a parade. He just wanted to be appreciated for the work that only she could ever know about.

"Great work, Enrique!"

A bell chimed.

"Keep it up!"

Jack watched his teammates work. They kept their heads down, shoulders straight, eyes on the prize, feet the perfect distance apart to equally distribute their body weight and minimize fatigue. They came from all walks of life -- young, old, boy, girl, different heights, different weights, different races, but in Supplemental Workforce they were as one. One team. One goal. One mind.

Part after part passed by Jack's workstation, unpicked. He fell to the bottom of the leaderboard within seconds. He tensed up, awaiting the Fuckvoice's admonishment.

Come on, bitch, Jack thought; do it.

"Fantastic work, Rashid! I'm very impressed."

A bell chimed.

Part after part after part went unpicked on Jack's belt.

Call me out. Tell me I don't belong here.

This was the fight. He wanted the fight. Needed the fight.

A bell chimed.

The Fuckvoice praised, and it encouraged, its voice sensually slipping into the limbic system of Supplemental Workforce and opening buttery warm pathways of peace and belonging.

It did not speak to Jack.

A bell chimed.

Time for morning break.

8.

Jack sat at the breakroom table, cradling his coffee in both hands, shoulders slumped, deflated. Everyone was sitting with their usual cliques, except for Amanda, who was sitting with Lindsay and Rashid instead of with him. He was alone.

"Jack. Is everything okay?"

He looked at the hand on his shoulder, and back over his shoulder at the man who had placed it there. Martin, one of the younger members of Supplemental Workforce, a lanky, pale-faced guy who was all ankles and elbows. Martin, who'd had the Procedure. Last week he'd been withdrawn, quiet and nervous and perpetually unsure of himself.

Now he was speaking to Jack like he was his fucking peer.

No, not a peer. The kid was half Jack's age and speaking to him like he was his fucking father.

Jack wanted to get angry at this, felt that he should be angry at this, but he just... didn't have it in him.

"Why are you talking to me, Martin?" he wearily asked.

"I'm... concerned about you, I guess. May I?" He motioned to the empty chair beside Jack.

"Sure."

Martin took a seat. Jack looked at his eyes. They were brown, open, caring. His expression was sympathetic, a little sad-looking, kind. "Jack," he said again, "is everything okay?"

"No. Everything is not fucking okay."

"Tell me about it."

And before he realized he was doing it, he was opening up to the kid. "I can't keep fucking doing this. I don't have it in me." Hie words were swelling, repressed frustration and anger and hopelessness cresting over the emotional dam Jack had so carefully erected and maintained over these long years. "Every single day is a goddamn fight just to take a single tiny step forward, and don't even know when it ends. How it ends. If it will end at all."

"It's a struggle," Martin warmly agreed; "I know."

"Don't fucking talk to me like you know me," Jack muttered. "You don't know me."

"It's okay, Jack. We're... we're not friends, okay, I get that, but we're co-workers. We both do the same job every day so we can have a little extra. Everyone here is in the same boat. I mean, you're stronger than me. I know you're smarter than me," he laughed. "But you're making things harder than they have to be."

Jack scowled. "The fuck is wrong with you. I'm not having the Procedure done. I'm not a fucking... puppet."

"It's not like that, Jack. It really isn't. It doesn't make you hostform. Really!" he laughed again, not cruelly, but kindly. "Listen. You've already got the nanites in you, right? To keep your immune system working properly. We all do. So, it's not like anything changes. It's just... ah... installing a new program on a computer. Or buying a new tool. You choose when to turn it on and when to turn it back off. You're still in control. You're still you.

"I wake up in the morning, I read the news, go for a run, cook myself some breakfast -- I don't use the Makerbox, you know? I like cooking. And then I come in here, I decide to turn on the thought-smoothing, it helps me focus on the work, and then when my shift is over, I turn it back off. I don't have it running now, even.

"It just makes things... easier. The right tool for the job. That's all it is, Jack."

"Why are you telling me this?" Jack narrowed his eyes. "If I did have the Procedure done, I'd just be giving you more competition for the Top Five payout. People don't act against their self-interest. So why are you?"

Martin looked hurt. "You've got a kid, Jack. I'm just here so I can buy fresh vegetables and, and, the ingredients for hollandaise, a real steak every once in a while, not that Makerbox shit. Every time I take the bonus payout it's like I'm taking food out of your kid's mouth, you know?

"I feel... I feel bad about it. Seriously. I just want to help."

Jack studied Martin's wounded expression, looking for a hint of exaggeration, to see if it was feigned... but it seemed real. He looked across the breakroom at Lindsay and Amanda and Rashid, sitting together, laughing at something. He was so tired. Frustrated.

Alone.

"You just turn it off when you're done with it?" he asked. The words felt dull and heavy. Traitorous. "You're telling me that's how it works."

"That's how it works," Martin nodded. "All of this, AMBR, the Hives, all of it... they're here for us. To help us. Make things easier. I know you don't like it, but... I mean, you're just making things harder than they have to be. It's still me in here," he added, tapping the side of his head. "I'm still just a culinary nerd.

"And you'll still be an asshole," he grinned.

Jack chuckled, and God, it felt good. He couldn't remember the last time he had smiled, or laughed, or the last time he had found joy in anything. It felt real. It felt human.

"Just go. Take the rest of the day off and go to the Education Center. Your numbers have already tanked; you're not gonna make Top Five today. I mean, you probably can't even make it back to the top half," Martin smiled. "Just... try it out tomorrow. Take it for a test drive. If you don't like it, then just turn it off and never turn it back on again."

"Just like that. It's that simple." His doubt was reflexive rather than considered.

"It really is, Jack."

Jack shook his head. "No. I appreciate it, Martin, but that's not who I am." And though he was talking to Martin, he was telling it to himself. "It's not for me."

"Not for you. For your kid, Jack."

It could all be so easy. A simple sacrifice for the greater good -- perhaps -- perhaps he was looking at it all wrong. Perhaps. Maybe. It was something to consider. Wasn't it? For Osiris. For the future. A selfless act. A noble sacrifice. The father takes a bullet for his son; the captain goes down with his ship.

It was just that simple.

Jack had always had a bit of a savior complex, anyway.

9.

And so Jack found himself in the lobby of his sector's Education Center, a tall, narrow, windowless building that evoked memories of going to the physician as a child, dimly understanding that he was there for his own good but wishing he were anywhere else; dreading the examination, the vaccination, the genial old-man kindness that never rang true because they had nothing in common with one another. The uncomfortable fidgety sense that this was inescapable, so he might as well get it over with.

He checked himself in with the holographic attendant -- a willowy, translucent, beautiful pale blue thing with a voice like how the world smells after the rain -- was instructed to enter a classroom, and waited.

It was less like a classroom than an examination room, but there was no bed, no cupboards of medical equipment, only a spongy, form-fitting chair facing away from the door and toward a large viewscreen displaying some sort of soulless, fractal artwork. The chair was tall enough that when he sat down his feet couldn't quite touch the floor; the room was small enough that two people would make it feel crowded, but when he stretched out his arms he couldn't quite touch the eggshell-colored walls.

The hum of the white-noise generator was oddly calming, lending a muffled quality to the classroom. The lighting was soft enough that his eyes couldn't quite find purchase on anything other than the fractal; the room's corners seemed to blend into one another, although he knew they were there. Everything about the space was easy, soothing, comfortable, inescapable.

Like a trap you don't escape from because you don't really see the need to, Jack thought. He found the thought oddly resistant to being thought, and then became concerned about that thought, because it didn't seem to make sense to be concerned about something that wasn't a problem. His mind began reluctantly -- but not too reluctantly -- riding down a set of rails where the answer to every question he had was that it didn't really matter.

"Jackson Freemantle," the hologram said as it appeared before him, manifesting its pale blue translucent form slowly enough to not startle, but quickly enough that he didn't have to wait for it. "How may AMBR assist you today?"

Jack felt a twinge of unease at the question. AMBR. AMBR was the enemy. Jack hadn't heard the door lock behind him; there was nothing cuffing him to the chair. The hologram was just patterned light and couldn't prevent him from leaving.

And to be honest, he should probably leave. After all, he didn't really know what was going to happen here, only what Martin had said would happen, and if thought-smoothing was as dehumanizing as he'd always suspected then thought-smoothing would really help him focus on what was important, which was being more productive at his job and serving the Hive as effectively as he possibly could.

Right?

It felt right.

The hologram patiently awaited his decision.

And since it was his decision, then it was okay, because he had made it.

That also felt right.

"Thought-smoothing," he found himself saying.

"Thank you," the hologram said. "The Procedure will begin."

10.

The softly soothing eggshell calm of the mood lights kept Priyanka's anticipation at bay, but did nothing to quell her desire, like looking at delicious buttery-sweet ice cream behind the counter and knowing you were going to have a taste soon. The waiting became a sort of pleasure in and of itself. Her world was draped in gauzy serenity, acceptance. She smiled to herself.

It would be playtime soon.

Once it had been weeks between her invitations to the hostforms, between playtime, an occasional indulgence to remind herself -- when she needed it -- that although she lived in the Hive, she was not of the Hive, was not one with the Hive.

But the reminders felt so good.

And yet the more Priyanka wanted it, the better it felt to deny herself from going all the way with it. The exhilaration of victory, an exultation of her essential humanity over code running on a million, a billion, self-replicating servers housed far beneath the earth, made her feel more alive than any simple pleasures of the flesh. AMBR was just a program. It had no soul.