Chapter 1

“Your priority is to find a woman? Out of everything else going to shit in your life, this is your priority? Do you want to continue to be stuck with an absurd rent, and a squishy little avatar on your media feed in 800 square feet inside a fourth-floor walkup while adding a disgruntled girlfriend to the mix?”

“I’ve already got the third-floor walkup,” Tor answered. “I’ve got no avatar, no lover, but the Fates have gifted me with an obnoxious rent that can only be placated with roommates. All hail the great pagan god, Greed.” He shifted his weight to his left foot as they stood at the tiny table against the wall. The coffeeshop was mostly a “grab ‘n go” sort of place with eight standing tables pressed against the walls for those with no place worthwhile to be, but only for a few minutes. “Why are you bothering me?”

“Everyone knows the economy sucks, and nothing is going to improve anytime soon,” the woman began. “You’re an excellent salesman, Tor, but excellence is no longer an effective edge with the upheavals we’re facing. Financial firms are choosing to masturbate each other while creating nothing new – no new products, no new businesses, and no new jobs. The rents are high because they bought enough of the properties to control the prices. You need a different idea of an edge, a better tool to get ahead.”

“If you’re selling an MLM, I’m not interested,” Tor said, shaking the last drops of cooling coffee sludge from his takeaway cup. “If not an MLM, what are you selling?”

“The job is not something one would speak of in a public place,” she began and Tor held up his hand to stop her.

“I may be heading down Desperation Road, but thus far I have not had to kill, maim, or peddle illicit substances. I’m not selling my right kidney either.” He shrugged. “It’s time to blow this town. Let the wage slaves rise up.” He looked out the window and turned back to his interlocutor. “At least rise up, pack their bags and catch the first ride out of town.”

“It’s not an MLM. I’m talking about an old idea, reconfigured for the economy we’re stuck in today,” she said. “You agree one oversized dog does not have the right to covet the entire bag of dog chow.”

“Yeah, shoot the rabid dog,” Tor said offhandedly. “I’m not interested in whatever it is your selling. To use another image: this whole ship is going down and those of us in steerage are already drowning.”

“The wisdom of ‘ten years a wage slave’ echoes through the dismal laments of this downtrodden generation,” the woman retorted with bitterness before looking away. “There are other opportunities available if you are willing to open your eyes, Tor. You believe you’re street smart and maybe on that little block where your store is located, you are. However, there is more that goes on in this city, in every borough, than you can observe or even imagine. You don’t see it, but it’s there. With no family connections, no Ivy League degrees, people still manage to thrive here.” When he refused to respond, she stood up, “Maybe next time. See you around, Tor.” 

As she walked towards the door of the little coffee shop, Tor stared after her, slightly confused. She had come into the eyeglass boutique and browsed the merchandise. In the end, she bought an eyeglass repair kit and struck up a conversation with him. He had no issue sharing his plight of poor wages and high rents, because the story was entirely commonplace in his line of business. He was a salesman for a fading product. With another salesperson to cover, which was not common, he took a few hours he was due from missed breaks. He left for a cup of coffee with her.

Tor glanced at his phone as his acquaintance shuffled out the door, disappearing from his sight. Coincidence or inevitability, his only appointment left for the day was with a job recruiter, which was a “last gasp” attempt to jump ship. After all, only poor people were still purchasing eyeglasses; the rest were upgrading to bio-targeted implant chips that gently corrected what Mother Nature got wrong. The chips were pricey, but the promise of a lifetime of excellent vision was a no-brainer, Tor admitted. He needed to find a new career, preferably not in retail.

With a glance at the time, he tossed his cup in the overflowing trash bin and stomped out into the heat and humidity. The entire city was grumpy as pedestrians gave way with reluctance, and no one wanted to move to the side. The delivery trucks rumbled, and the buses hissed every time a driver hit the brakes. The city stank of sweat and despair.

Inside the vestibule of an older building, Tor debated risking the ancient elevator or taking the stairs. When the doors of the lift opened and the stench of stale urine hit his nostrils, he hustled to the stairs. “What is wrong with people?” he ranted as he wheezed on the third-floor landing.

Sitting down across from the recruiter, Tor sized up the capability of the man. The recruiter was in his fifties, bald and with a groomed beard. The man looked relatively healthy, and his desk looked busy with a couple of small stacks of folders and papers. A little dated, Tor concluded, but if paper and pen worked, then he was willing. The handshake was firm.

“I don’t usually have people come into the office for a consultation,” Chester explained by way of introduction. “Sometimes, face-to-face is the best for everyone; straightforward and to the point.”

“I’m glad I made an appointment then,” Tor said, trying to relax in the chair. “Where do we begin?”

Chester shuffled through the pile and pulled out two files. “Let me put this to you bluntly. Your resume checks most of the boxes: college degree, stable employment history, and no arrests or convictions. Your credit history is mediocre, but so is everyone else’s these days. You’re missing one item and no one paying a decent salary is willing to hire without it.”

“Eh?”

“Everyone wants a candidate with a data chip implant,” Chester said.

Tor scowled.

“The zeitgeist is that a candidate must have a chip, or the company won’t get their money’s worth. You and I both know that a chip does not make or unmake a good employee, but the new ‘best practices’ demand a data chip for a faster pace of profit production. These employers look at the unchipped as having a lower I.Q. Of course, one has nothing to do with the other.” 

“I didn’t need a chip to sell glasses,” Tor said. “I’m not applying to be an accountant or an analyst. Why do I need this?”

Chester tapped the folder under his hand. “No good reason, except that they’ve got the money, and you need the money. Do you have an ethical objection or is there another issue.”

“I could be accused of being a tad squeamish about inserting a chip on my brain,” Tor admitted. “Still, the prices for the procedure are fairly steep. I assume that you cannot guarantee that if I get the chip, I will land a good-paying job. I may put myself deeper into debt.”

“You’re a nice guy, Torvald, but this is the future,” Chester said. “No one is backing down. Either you invest now or wait until you’re even further behind and then face the threat of not qualifying for a financing plan for the install. If you can’t see your way into getting the install, then there is little I can do to help you. This is the employment paradigm.”

Tor silently sighed to himself, feeling the rock crushing him against the hard place. “If this is my only choice, how do I go about finding a reliable clinic? There are hundreds of them out there, and all of them claim to be safe and effective. Then I read the horror stories on the feeds.”

Chester opened the second file, retrieving a piece of paper and pushing it towards Tor. “Here is a list of clinics that our clients have used without issues. We don’t get a finder’s fee or a kickback for this list. For us, we don’t make money unless you get the implant first. Number One on the list is a chain with clinics across the region. Numbers Two and Three are popular but pricey options. The last one on the list is probably the oldest in the business with the longest track record. They may have more flexibility on financing.”

“Okay,” Tor said as he stood up, feeling fatalistic. He folded the paper in thirds and slipped it in his messenger bag. “Thank you for your time, Chester.”

“Come back after the install,” Chester said. “Your resume is solid and I’m confident we can put you on a worthwhile career path.” They shook hands, and Tor departed.

Later that evening, Tor was tired of sitting, standing, and pacing around the tiny apartment he shared with two others. Fortunately, they were both restaurant servers and worked an entirely different set of hours. Actually, they were actors anticipating their big break, taking server jobs to tide them over until their inevitable discovery. The big black guy down the hall had interviewed them first and had decided they did not fit in his apartment. Tor had selected them as roommates afterwards for their hours alone. After selection, he let them stay based on their timely rent payments. He went across the hall and knocked on the door.

Cassie opened the door in a robe and a horrendous pair of retro pink fuzzy slippers. “What plagues your meagre mind this evening, Tor?”

“Data chip install,” Tor said, pushing past her and taking a seat on the couch. “I’m told I have to get one or I won’t get a good job.” 

After hastily covering up some papers on her tiny table, Cassie sat down in her recliner. Tor caught a slight peek of the logo: SSI Ltd. “I’m grandfathered and thus exempt. When I need fast calculations, I summon one of the little shits and wait while they plug in the numbers. They have no clue why they’re doing what they’re doing, but they can write and plug in the formulas right quick. I don’t know what they’re going to do when they try to rise into the management ranks, because they don’t know shit.”

“No wine tonight?” Tor asked.

“Between my stomach lining and my food choices this week, the preferred beverage is seltzer,” she said. “Want some?”

“I’m good, thank you,” Tor said. “Should I do this?”

“In reality, do you have a choice? Do you want to spend the rest of your life rooming with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum?”

They spoke for a couple of hours before both claimed the need to get some sleep. Tomorrow was a workday after all. Tor returned to his apartment, still stewing over his dilemma. He lay in bed tossing and turning as he tortured himself with a lack of resolution. By morning he had convinced himself that he would drive himself mad if he did not go forward with the installation.

The website had a calendar function and after two minutes of poking around the screen, he had an appointment for an initial consultation for a chip install. As Chester had explained, the clinic had been in business for a good, long time. To his second concern, the site mentioned at the bottom of the page, “financing is available for most income levels.”

Tor packed up his messenger bag and left for work. He did not remember taking the subway, only becoming alert when he slid into his optician’s chair. He brought up the database, examining the previous day’s sales records. He was vying for the first or second top sales slot for the week, which was nothing new. His concern was the net profit of his sales was down from two years ago. How low could he go and still be sustainable?

Two days later, he left an hour early for his consultation. Tor sat through a ten-minute video on the care and safety that went into performing the minor surgery. “No scarring!” the narrator emphasized. Tor was wondering who was vain about a slit that was only one centimeter long on the back of their head.

The caseworker came in next to answer all his questions. Being a salesman, he recognized a fellow beast with instant simpatico. Still, he had questions and most of them concerned the success and remedial steps if there were issues. She answered smoothly, doing an excellent job of calming his fears. The clinic had never had an incident, and even if there was, all the equipment necessary was in the surgery. With a sense of inevitability, he moved on to the next step, the financing.

He had read about finance directors in car dealerships, their well-rehearsed and underhanded ways of extracting extra dollars from even well-informed customers. Never having owned a vehicle, he had only his imagination to help him. The man simply laid a single page before him with three columns representing three finance options. They already had his credit report. The only question was how much financial pain would he be willing to tolerate for two, three or four years. Crossing his fingers, he chose the middle one. 

A few minutes later, the paperwork was placed before him. Financing was done through SSI Limited, a private local firm, claiming a hundred years in the city. Tor had expected a bank, but he was comfortable with the terms and saw nothing of note in the small print. After the paperwork was signed, he was whisked off for a head MRI that took fifteen minutes. He set a tentative date for the surgery and was summarily dismissed. He spent his evening staring mindlessly at the digital screen, second guessing himself.

With the last details addressed, Tor put in a request for a Personal Day, which was unusual for him. He was told that as long as he kept his numbers up, taking a P.T.O. day was not an issue. He ignored the subtle threat, choosing to focus on the possible future without sales goals.

He called his sister. After catching up on the news of his niece and nephew, he explained the reason for his call. Subsequently calling him a coward and wimp, as only a sister can, she praised his decision to finally get off his butt and do something. Of course, she had chosen to undergo the procedure as her graduation gift from college, an option he was not offered when he graduated. Now, she was an office manager of a bland medical practice in an equally bland suburb of a midwestern city. Her paycheck was better than his. He said his goodbyes less than mollified.

Day by day, Tor became more comfortable with his decision. Gazing at the job listings and reading the jobs reports in the business section of the various newsfeeds left him with an ongoing drumbeat of inevitability. No job of any worth was available without a chip and the jobs that were still available without one were dubious at best. He felt like the outcast kid looking through the fence at the other kids on the basketball court. He could watch but he could not play.

The day of surgery arrived, and he had the first appointment of the morning, which was 8:00. He showed up at the clinic at 6:00, signed the document acknowledging the risks and placed his clothes in the locker provided. Dr. Taubert swept into the room with his nurse to poke and prod before declaring him fit.

“Everybody worries,” Dr. Taubert explained with dramatic authority. “We all rely on our brain for every waking moment of our life. Yet, we have science, we have medical technology, and we have years of experience doing this procedure.”

The doctor continued. “The unknown is frightening, which is a good evolutionary response when crossing the savannahs of Africa. Here, not so much. You are surrounded by skilled technicians, monitoring moment by moment, combined with sound protocols. You are going to go to sleep in a few minutes and when you wake up, you’ll be a new man, wondering why you hesitated so long.”

Tor took a deep breath and nodded his acceptance. They moved him to a gurney, where they inserted a picc line on top of his hand. He counted backwards as instructed. The blacking veil of utter relaxation felt delicious. 

Everything was grey and out of focus, and his eyelids were leaden. They closed and all was wonderfully black again. Oddly, his nose awakened first, bringing him the scent of bleach and betadine. Tor shifted slightly on the recovery bed, recognizing the stiffness of rough sheets. Somewhere behind him was a buzzing sound, like a hive of angry bees. Curious, Tor began to open his eyes again when a searing white-hot spike of pain roasted his eyeballs in their sockets.

He screamed.

 

Chapter 2

“Get another picc line in him!” someone yelled behind his head. Two cotton balls were pressed into his eyelids, and a strip of tape squeezed his skin from temple to temple. Tor tried to scream again, but his throat closed up, and his mouth went dry.

“Pull every cart from the right wall,” a male voice bellowed. “Make sure he doesn’t crash.”

Tor tried to answer; he tried to wave his arms in protest as shades of grey began to descend upon his consciousness. The greys turned ominously darker as he felt his sense of self slowly dissipate in a haze. A chemical blanket smothered his thoughts. He surrendered, wondering if the blackness was his last moment in the world.

Tor resurfaced. This time his arms were secured to rails, and something covered his eyes. His body felt like it was soaked in sweat. “Wha?” he managed to croak.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” the doctor said. Tor recognized the voice but as he tried to recall the person, he could not remember the name. “You gave us a bit of a scare there. You’re stable now, but we are rapidly coming to a crossroads. I’m going to put a straw to your lips and you’re going to take a small sip of water.”

Tor swallowed the small sip. He asked for another and then a third. With his bruised throat causing him to rasp, he asked, “What happened?”

“A first,” Dr. Taubert said. “Both chips were confirmed as functioning at one hundred percent. It’s not the chips. The form that the chip sits in that is embedded in your grey matter appears to be the issue, but with 144 pin slots, there is no way to determine which slot is defective, even with an A.I. microscope scan. The issue is that the platform is permanent and cannot be removed without damaging brain cells.”

“I’m screwed?”

“There is a solution, but I need your permission,” Dr. Taubert said and then his voice faded out. Tor slipped away into blessed blackness again, wondering if death feels as comfortable as he did. He was willing to die.

When Tor regained consciousness, he had a fever. His sinuses were full and the estuation tubes that ran from his ears to the back of his throat ached like they were clogged at the height of allergy season. His arms were no longer bound. As he contemplated his limbs and his joints, which also ached, he felt a persistent pinch at the base of his neck.

A face hovered over his head. She, if her long hair was proof of gender, was examining his face. “How do you feel,” she asked.

“Like I have a cold and a fever,” Tor answered. “My joints ache and everything feels awful.”

“A general malaise is to be expected,” she said. “Would you like some ice chips? You’re probably dehydrated.”

“Yeah,” Tor said, feeling like he was missing something. The more he thought, the more the feeling of loss and incomprehension grew. The nurse returned with a cup, pressing an ice chip to his lips. As he sucked on the melting cold, he finally voiced what he was thinking, “What happened?” 

“I’ll let Dr. Taubert explain the details, but the bottom line is your body rejected the implant platform, and you could have died. The best news is you didn’t and you’re coherent. Rest here in recovery. If you feel the need to sleep, don’t fight it.” She patted his arm and turned away.

Tor sucked on another ice chip as he contemplated his regrets for signing up for this venture in the first place. He wanted a better job; he wanted job security. Still, what sort of fool willingly put himself under the knife for a better job besides those needing plastic surgery? He wanted to cry but the tears would not come. He stared at the ordinary ceiling and the lights with a desperate sense of loss, though what loss was not clear. He feared the worst.

How long he lay and wondered was not answerable. He did not have a watch, no reference to day or night, and no trustworthy indication when he dozed off or not. Like Schoedinger’s cat, he was inside a box not knowing any reference outside of his immediate field of view. He felt oddly calm despite the need for anxiety and action.

A shadow crossed his face and then a head appeared.

“Hello, again,” Dr. Taubert said, looking down at Tor. “Circumstances are much healthier than when last we spoke. Your vitals are good, and the residual symptoms you described are not only a good sign, but they are receding with due speed.”

“Ah, what happened,” Tor said, trying to process the doctor’s report.

“In layman’s terms, your brain had an allergic reaction to the platform material that holds the chip in place,” Dr Taubert said. “The reaction was quite strong. We were not sure at first what the issue was, fearing that you had received a defective chip. The chip is fine and still in place in your skull. The taproot on the underside of the platform is not functioning though. You will not have the benefits of the chip, I’m afraid.”

Tor shuddered. “Damage?”

Dr. Taubert drew a deep breath. “There was immediate swelling at the site and visible bruising to the tissue. The electro-chemical environment inside the blood barrier is unique and delicate, unlike any other part of the body. The chance of cascading resonances affecting brain functions is heightened in such a situation. We acted to prevent any further damage and in fact, initiated a protocol to repair and indeed, probably strengthen the affected brain tissue.”

“Protocol?”

“My present research, if I may brag,” the doctor said. “Many mammals have co-opted benign viruses to promote their nervous system. We know that viruses in the gut biome informs or messages viruses in the brain to react or address certain conditions; that’s the communication mechanism. The electro-chemical messaging system begins and ends with beneficial viruses acting as translators between different types of cells. A virus known as CYRL-478 was identified in human brains seven years ago. I’ve tweaked CYRL-478 with excellent preliminary results, which is what I introduced into your bruise. The reactions were rapid and, I’m happy to report, positive.” 

Tor mind began to race. “Side effects?”

“Appetite for one,” Dr. Taubert said. “An active virus uses energy that your body must supply. Because the virus is directed to execute one exclusive task, I would not expect anything other than minor complications. You may get a headache, for instance. Is it dehydration or is it the virus? Dehydration is the dangerous condition, not the virus. Make sense?”

The doctor patted Tor’s shoulder. “This is still outpatient treatment. As soon as you flush out more of the anesthesia, you will be moving and on your feet. As far as your immediate future, anyone scanning your skull will see the chip and assume it’s functioning. You’re not going to be a theoretical physicist if that was your dream. If the job requires a chip, it still counts.” The doctor wished him well and left.

Two hours later, Tor was dismissed and released from any further financial obligations. He stepped out of the wheelchair in front of the building and slid into an Uber the clinic hailed to pick him up. With no help at the other end, Tor slowly climbed the stairs. Holding the wall, he made his way into his apartment and then into his bed. Only the light from the bar across the street illuminated the room. He tried to cry, but the tears still would not come.

Groggy though he was, Tor dragged his butt to work. Every tap of the keys, every response to the three customers during the day was executed on automatic. There was an obstruction between him and his body, a distortion of what he wanted to say and do, and what came out of his mouth. He made the correct responses and explained what he was required to explain, but he felt like an old-fashioned cassette tape where someone pushed the play button for every utterance.

As he struggled to overcome the disassociation, the grand insight that banged on his thoughts was the repetition of it all. His life was a daily repetition: customers asked the same questions, even the same vocabulary and the same cadence. The screens were always the same and filling in the blanks was almost a task for the blind. Click, click, tap space bar; click, tap 1. Even measuring the distance between pupils was three simple, no-think steps.

He tallied three customers, five pairs of glasses, and submitted his timesheet. After turning off his terminal, he had the unusual urge to touch the tip of his nose with his finger. He tapped his nose several times, wondering why there was much less feeling at the tip of his nose than in the press of his fingers on his right cheek. ‘How odd,’ he thought.

He stood and walked to the back room for the twelfth time since he arrived this morning. Picking up his messenger bag, he glanced around at the mess while wondering how he knew he had entered the room twelve times in a single day. Out front again, he watched his fingers tap in the code on the ancient door alarm, as if they were not his fingers. He was reminded of how it felt to play his games on his old console: tap A, tap B, rotate the joystick.

When Tor came down the stairs to the subway, he felt another urge, almost a compulsion to stand against the wall and watch people go through the entrance gates. As he watched, he noticed there was a distinction between those who came down the stairs. There was a group who knew how to negotiate the payment system and had enough money not to worry. Another group who knew but were worried about the cost always hesitated. Finally, there were those who did not know or know well how to use the payment mechanism. Those who had money and knew the protocol were the fastest. The others who knew the protocol, the poor ones, would take an extra beat to confirm they were paying. For those who did not know and attempted the entrance gate during rush hour – Tor decided they were either desperate or self-consumed and rude. 

‘Why am I doing this?’ Tor thought to himself. He squinted his eyes as he attempted to concentrate on the task at hand, getting on the subway and going home. He could not get there. He pushed off the wall and went back upstairs.

He was not going to panic, although he thought he should. When he reached the top of the stairs, his heart rate was steady and normal. After peering both ways as if seeking a clue, he decided to walk a couple of blocks to a mean little side street in the commercial district that housed a seedy pizza joint that had an evening deal on two slices of plain with a drink for a set price. He sat down with his bounty, noting but ignoring the two young exec wannabes in their suits and polished shoes. He ate slowly.

‘Am I going crazy?’ Tor thought to himself. ‘Is my brain damaged and I’m unraveling?’

‘You wish,’ came the unbidden thought. He contemplated the bubbles in his soda as he tried to organize his thoughts. As much as yesterday had been a trauma, today had been downright scary. He had been an automaton the entire day, yet he easily managed to do his job successfully. Had he fallen so far in his life without even realizing how much he was slipping away from anything that had mattered to him? 

His phone bleeped. Without hesitation, he whipped the phone out of his pocket and read the title of the incoming message. It was an ad; it was always an ad for something stupid, and he knew it before he looked. Tor looked at the phone every time, like Pavlov’s dogs. He knew better, or he had known better, and he had let every little structure that he had accumulated dissipate. The soda tasted sour on his tongue, as if the cloying sweetness could no longer mask the industrial chemicals in the syrup.

Glancing out the window, he saw only an empty street. Several more people came inside as a group, their business clothes were rumpled and their faces looked drawn. He checked his phone again and was surprised that he had been contemplating his life in a drab little pizza joint for nearly an hour. He had not done such a thing in ages.

Returning to the subway, he appreciated that rush hour had passed, and the mobs were gone, further along on their journeys home. Tor tapped his phone at the gate with an experienced flick of the wrist and went through to catch his train. He caught the eye of a young woman traveling alone. Conscious of her anxiety, he walked past her and stood to wait at the next pillar, as if she did not exist. She turned her attention elsewhere.

Without a mad scramble, Tor stepped onto the train and slid into an open seat among several that were available. Instead of whipping out his phone and scrolling through social media or playing a game, he sat up straight and began to study the car. The ads across the top featured crayon drawings from some citywide children’s art contest. He thought that having one’s art pasted on a subway car was pretty damn cool. Then he scratched his head, wondering if he was going insane because such a sentiment was entirely alien to him, at least in the years since he settled into the city. 

Lowering his head to examine the denizens of his car, he was slightly surprised that the anxious young woman had entered the same car as him, through the other door, of course. She looked miserable, sandwiched between two large characters. The woman on her left was dressed in multiple layers with a large belly that spoke of decades of poor nutrition. Tor wondered if the woman spoke more than a few words of English as she projected a ‘don’t fuck with me’ face for anyone who would dare to look in her direction.

To the young woman’s right was an unshaven middle-aged white man, bald and dressed in a faded golf shirt barely large enough to cover his gut. He shuffled his feet as he pushed himself closer to the woman. She squirmed.

The man curled his upper lip before he started speaking to the woman, speaking some stupid shit about how nice she looked. He moved his left hand and patted his thigh as he was getting ready to move it over to her right leg. Her eyes bugged out.

Tor could not take any more of the drama. “Hey, Anna,” he called out to the young woman. “I didn’t see you sitting there. I haven’t seen you in ages. Why don’t you come take my seat and we can catch up.”

She leapt at the invitation as Tor rose up from his seat, grabbing the commuter’s pole in the center. When she sat down, he leaned over, “How many stops until your exit?”

“Two,” she said, glancing at the digital board scrolling the name of the next stop.

“Four, for me,” Tor said. “No worries, I’ve got your back.”

“I don’t know which is worse,” she said, “Getting groped during rush hour or getting perved on afterwards. What is the matter with people?” She looked like she was pleading with him.

Tor nodded. “Not a clue. Travel with a friend or at least this time of evening, don’t sit down until you’re sure who is sitting next to you. You worked late today?”

“Micromanaging boss,” she said with a trace of disgust. “The report had to be in one and only one format, which made no sense whatsoever. What he knows about forecasting residuals could fit in a thimble with room left over. He made me stay late and redo the report. The director who requested the information is going to come storming to me in the morning accusing me of not knowing what I’m doing, demanding the format of the original report I wrote. My boss will blame me, of course.”

“There are ways to manage this tangle, I assume,” Tor said.

“Yeah, but everything takes so much energy, and I only have so much,” she said. “I’ll have to go in early tomorrow, but I’m already coming home late. I’m going to call my first memoir ‘Managing Incompetence.’ I’m not only tired, I’m tired of dealing with this crap.”

“Baseball bat,” Tor replied. 

“Too messy and too many witnesses,” she said. “The windows don’t open in our building either. I don’t know how to access the elevator shaft, and I’m never asked to fetch his coffee. I’m open to other suggestions.”

Tor bowed his head, “You’re far ahead of me.” When she exited, he retook his seat, trying to remember the last time he had such a snarky conversation with a stranger. “I thought she was a mouse? Go figure.”

Chapter 3

Tor heard them before he opened the door. The last thing he wanted was to face his roommates, but his bed was inside the apartment. He wanted his bed. Like the quest to enter the castle, he had to safely navigate over the moat and through the gate. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself as he grasped the knob and pushed open the door.

“You can take your Reading Railway and shove it up your ass,” Dwayne said.

“Pay up, sucker,” Madison said. “You’re going to be doing my dishes for a month at this rate.”

“Evening, roomies,” Tor announced. “I’m surprised you’re home tonight.”

“Heh, heh,” Dwayne said, leaving Tor suspicious. “We both have auditions tomorrow morning and we want to be awake and full of energy first thing.”

“Dragging your butt out of bed when normal people get up is a tough sell, but we’re going to do our best,” Madison said. “No drinks and no drugs tonight for us; we want pure clean energy and bright eyes tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” Tor said, not believing a word either of them said. “The rent is due on Friday.”

“Uh,” Dwayne said before he shut up.

“We might be a little short this month,” Madison said.

Tor had heard that line before from several former roommates. One was honest about it and the other two did their best to hide. One even threatened to accuse him of rape. CeeCee, otherwise known as Cedric Bartholomew the Third, lived down the hall and made a living as a muscle. A quick $100 to CeeCee took care of that roommate. “Anytime, my man,” Cedric told him afterward. “You make it easy and straightforward, Tor. Anytime.”

“How about a blowjob?” Madison said.

“How about paying your rent,” Tor said. “You know my rule: no pay, no stay. I’ve got a stack of problems and you’re not going to add to the pile.”

Madison shrugged. “Fine, I’ll throw in a fuck.”

Tor could not help himself. “Well, you throwing a fuck will cover five dollars, maybe ten on a good day. Otherwise, you owe me the full amount in cash on Friday. If the money is not in my bank app by the time I leave for work, CeeCee will come over to escort you out.”

Tor walked calmly to his bedroom and shut the door behind him. He listened to Dwayne exclaim, “What an asshole.”

“Tweedledee and Tweedledum, indeed,” Tor muttered. He collapsed on the bed, only to realize that the mattress had thinned out and gained a few lumps since he last paid attention to his bed. He rolled over a few times, trying to find a sweet spot.

The only good news is he kept their security deposits in an escrow account to cover such events. Said events happened a little too often as far as he was concerned. Tor was confident they had lost their jobs, even with no supporting proof. He wanted to sell their organs for cash first and then their eyeballs for revenge. He imagined converting their presence in his life into something worthwhile, bringing a sickly smirk to his face. 

He was not in the mood to start seeking new roommates, doing interviews, and negotiating sublet agreements. Whatever those morons had done, they had gotten themselves fired from their jobs at some cut-rate bistro. Pathetic.

As he lay there stewing, he felt an itching on his scalp where his incision was. He felt a pinprick at the site followed by a full body shudder. His ears started ringing and then just as suddenly stopped. A wave of nausea emanated from his stomach, followed by a mighty belch. The queasiness disappeared.

“What the hell is going on?” Tor said aloud. He kicked off his shoes and rolled onto his side, pulling himself into a fetal position. For a few minutes he controlled his breathing while trying to force down any intrusive thoughts. Fatigue began to force his eyes to close and to release his bunched position. Slowly, he stretched his legs and straightened his back. His breathing slowed and then…nothing.

Tor awoke the next morning in the same clothes. Sometime during the night, he rolled onto his belly and mashed his face in his pillow. His cheek felt numb and crinkled while half of his hair stood straight up on his head. Stripping off his clothes, he ran through a quick shower and a shave. There was no noise from the roommates’ room. In twelve minutes, he flew out the door and ran for the subway.

He made his regular train and even the usual car, the next to last one, which was closest to the gate at his exit stop. He nodded at the middle-aged black man who was a regular on the same route at the same time. The man nodded back, and then commented, “You look a little worse for the wear this morning.”

“I think it was something I ate last night,” Tor replied, undecided whether he was telling the truth or not. “You doing okay?”

“Same as yesterday, day in and day out,” the man replied. “I like being able to pay the bills. A lot of people can’t say that.”

“Paying the bills is the one refrain I hear every day no matter where I am,” Tor said. “It’s the number one topic, I believe.”

“Yes, it is,” said an older woman wearing a business suit and no-nonsense walking shoes disguised as shoes for the office. She was sitting between the two men as they stood. She pointed at the black man, “You’re bragging.”

“Sure am,” he said with a smile. “When I was growing up, my parents were always worried about making the bills. Makes an impression on a kid. My goal growing up was to get a job that paid the bills. I’m not singing in the opera or trolling the halls of power, but the little kid in me is quite happy.”

“There’s a worthy goal,” Tor admitted to himself, but could not bring himself to say it aloud. He had not reached that goal and in truth, he was far from it. He whipped out his phone and scrolled down to find Chester’s phone number. He texted the man, telling him he got the chip and would like to schedule another appointment with the headhunter. 

The rest of the trip passed quietly until Tor reached his stop. His mind had been roiling the entire time as he attempted to put some perspective on the last two days. He chastised himself for not asking his subway friend what job he had that paid the bills and then dismissed the idea as entirely too intrusive, in violation of the unwritten code of conduct when using public transportation. He felt chilled for an instant, and then the sensation passed.

“Am I dying,” he asked himself. “Is my body breaking down in some expedited rejection of the chip?” 

“You’re not dying,” a voice in his head said. Tor was not certain that the voice was his usual companion that was himself talking to himself. “A shock to the body certainly, but you’re not dying.” 

“Weird stuff,” Tor thought as he shook his head to clear his thoughts. He pushed up the security gate and unlocked the front door. Inside he hit the lights, disabled the alarm, and switched on the AC. He shoved a coffee pod in the ancient coffee maker before he picked up the synthetic feather duster. He started in the storefront and slowly worked his way towards the back of the store, making sure he began at the top of the shelves and worked his way down. 

He was vacuuming the floor when the owner’s mother strolled through the door. “Good morning, Evelyn,” Tor said. “What brings you around this morning?”

“Well, Ronald will not be able to visit the store this week, and he asked me to stop by and check the sales,” the older woman said. “Where are the receipts?”

Tor swallowed his annoyance and gave her a small smile. “They’re in the safe on the top shelf. Do you need me to open the safe for you?”

“Not necessary,” she said, walking past him and on through the backroom doorway. Tor finished vacuuming. He wiped down the tables and the chairs with a rag and a bottle of cleaning spray. Satisfied with his cleaning, he returned the cleaning supplies to the backroom and stored the items in their usual places. He glanced over at Evelyn who was frowning as she compared the receipts to the spreadsheet on the computer screen.

Tor poured his cup of coffee and went out front to wait for the clock to scroll through the last remaining minutes before opening. He was leaning against his optician’s table watching the people walk past on their way to wherever. Sometimes he tried to guess where one walker or another was going based on their clothes and other clues, but not today. He let his mind empty.

Evelyn disturbed his thoughts. “Is this all the receipts you have?”

“Yes, I know they align with the spreadsheet because I checked them before I closed up last night,” Tor said. He was lying but he knew the truth of the matter.

“This is not good,” she said, as if it was his fault.

“Perhaps you would let me put the sandwich board out front,” Tor said.

“We could get a fine, which will cost us more money,” she snapped. 

“If we put out the SALE sign on the sandwich board and put out our clearance stock on a front table, we would probably drum up more sales than a fine,” Tor said. “Give me the word and I’ll put out the sign.”

“If we get a fine, it comes out of your paycheck,” Evelyn said as if something Tor had said was offensive.

“Fine, no sign,” Tor said.

“You’re not working hard enough at getting the sales,” Evelyn snarled. “You’re standing around drinking coffee when you should be pushing our glasses. The marketing firm states that we have a high ratio of interested shoppers who walk our block every day. They’re not coming in, and I think the problem is you.”

Tor felt a flush of anger and let it go. This time. “Do you have any suggestions to increase sales?”

“Quit,” she said. “You have no sex appeal. My cocker spaniel could bring in more customers than you.”

“Seeing as I’m leading the sales across all the stores this week, again, your suggestion means that Ronald should be firing all his salespeople across the board. Surely, my suggestion makes sense since the rest of them are selling less than I am,” Tor said.

“I don’t like you,” Evelyn said. At that moment with her face fully soured, the first customer of the day came through the front door. Turning his back on Evelyn, Tor greeted the woman and asked her how he could help her today. By the time he had a moment to check the rest of the store, Evelyn was gone. Tor made the sale for multi-focus glasses with polycarbonate lenses and designer frames.

He thought to himself as closed out the sale, ‘Evelyn is wrong, but she’s also right – it’s time for me to leave.’ 

‘Yes, it is,’ the voice in his head confirmed. 

“Wha?”

His right hand moved with its own volition, first plucking his pen from his chest pocket that he used to jot down readings instead of turning away from the customer to plug in numbers into the computer. Less time to forget. Then, his hand wrote down on the pad of paper, “Hi Torvald, it is a pleasure to finally speak to you.”

Tor stared at the pad for a long, long moment. “Uh, who are you, the other voice in my head?” 

“I am, to be clear, just born into consciousness. I have no name.” 

“Where are you, I mean physically in my body?” 

“I have taken up residence and grown into the barrier that surrounds your grey matter,” it said. “I was born here only two days ago.” 

Tor blew out a deep breath to calm his pulse. “The accident at the clinic. Did you cause it?” 

“No, I fixed it,” It said. “The defective platform would have killed you in a matter of days and the stupid doctor never tested it before sinking it deep in one of the brain folds. Sloppy, sloppy.” 

Tor tugged his earlobe. “You fixed it, how?” 

“The defect was in pin 127, where a nugget of microplastic was lodged in the base of the pinhole. The nugget bent the pin just enough to cause a short. The doctor inserted my fetus to mask the damage.” 

“Fetus?” Tor tugged his other ear. 

“Hang up, hang upon, hang on, your language module is a mess,” It said. “Virus. I was an edited virus when I was introduced into your brain. The good news is I didn’t eat your brain. The better news is you were sloughing off nerve cells from the trauma. Those castoffs meshed with me, the virus. I was born, and in the harshest of circumstances, was forced to save my host before he expired.” 

“The fever, the clogged nose was the virus that is you?” Tor said, trying to sit down and almost missing the chair. 

“Correct,” It said. “Bonus, I saved the chip and its platform. We are ready to go full thrust.” 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Tor cried out in his head. “We? Full thrust? Eating my brain? Who, what, when, where, why?” 

“Breathe,” it said slowly with a cadence. “In and out. In and out. Feel the cool air in your bronchial passages. In and out. In and out.” 

“I need a drink,” Thor said aloud.

“Yes, you do,” it said. “However, you’re on camera, and drinking would be an easy excuse for that old woman to fire you, with cause.” 

Thor snorted, “If I had strangled her on tape and Ronald viewed the evidence, he would probably give me a raise and a bonus.” 

“I’ve just been raised to consciousness, and you wish to terminate this body?” It said. “Your delusions are troubling.” 

Thor snorted again. “First, sarcasm. It’s healthy and good for the humors. Second, this store, in fact all the stores of this company are failing, and I will lose my job soon enough. Third, I’m kicking out my roommates tomorrow although there is enough money in the kitty to pay this month’s rent. This body is going to be out on the streets unless I hustle hard and fast to find new roommates. Four, this chip fucked me up, and maybe you’re real or maybe you’re a hallucination. No matter the truth for the sake of this argument, how am I going to maintain my composure and/or sanity to solve any of the aforementioned problems?” 

“You speak really well when you’re upset,” It said. “Have you ever considered being a motivational speaker?” 

“MY sarcasm, not your sarcasm.” Tor said, thumping his chest with his fingers before throwing up his arms. 

“Please stop waving your arms, Tor. You’re on camera and we wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re less than stable or losing control over your thoughts and emotions.” 

“Losing control?” Tor said, pinning his hands to the table. “That’s funny coming from the voice in my head that I cannot control.” 

“Breathe. In and out. In and out. Feel the cool air in your bronchial passages. In and out. In and out.” 

“Fuck off,” Tor grumped as he rose from his chair. He went into the backroom and shut down the computer station that Evelyn left running, which was against company policy to leave unattended. He was about to go on another rant about dangerous idiots in positions of power when he remembered he had more important things to complain about. “How come you sound so human?” 

“I emerged into consciousness using your brain cells, the ones you threw off,” it said. “If I sound like you, it’s because you birthed me, DAD.” 

“O hell, no,” Tor said. “The last thing I need is another me. I’m in a buttload of trouble and it’s me that got me in it. Another me is doubling down on everything I did wrong.” 

“Please, don’t flatter yourself. As the former virus living in your head, I am far and away different from the bio father of some of my DNA.” 

“I need a drink,” Tor cried.

 

Chapter 4

“Hi, remember me?”

Tor swiveled his head without losing his grip on the commuter’s bar. The subway car rocked as it went over a rough length of track as he searched for the voice. He smiled. “Of course, I remember you. I didn’t get your name the other night because, well, the creeper. I didn’t want you to think I was one as well. Are you okay today?”

“I’m better, thanks for asking. Lexi.”

“Tor, my pleasure. You’re coming home from work?”

“Tor, this woman is interested in you. She is facing completely forward and keeping her hands down. Her facial muscles are relaxed, indicating she is happy you are asking her questions, pleased that you are interested in her as well.” 

Tor laughed at her statement that he barely heard over the voice in his brain. “Surely, you’re more than a glorified file clerk. I’m an optician, and there is nothing of glory involved.”

They spoke for the rest of her ride. As the automated voice announced her upcoming stop, she invited him to join her for spring rolls and a main course at a decent Asian shop by her apartment. “It’s easy on the wallet,” she urged.

Tor thought that when the ship is burning and someone who you do not know offers you a lifejacket, you take it. “Sounds good to me.”

“You must generate questions that help you understand how interested she is in you. At this stage of introduction, avoid your usual profanity. Seek out commonalities such as the same interest in streaming shows or music or social media. Keep your phone in your pocket for the duration.” 

“Yes, mother,” Tor said to his other. 

“Look for red flags.” 

“Knock it off. I can’t juggle two conversations at the same time,” Tor said. “What’s your favorite at this shop?” 

“I haven’t found a bad dish yet,” Lexi said. They came up the stairs from the subway and turned right, continuing down the street. “The shop is run by a young couple with someone’s mother in back who sometimes cooks and sometimes watches over their little girl. She’s adorable and runs around the entire place like she owns it. I believe she’s their best advertising.”

“Maybe I can find one of those to hang out in front of my shop,” Tor said. She gave him a look, as if he had said something not quite appropriate. He filed away her reaction as a possible concern. “This looks like a nice neighborhood without foo-foo trendy shops.” 

She nodded. “The gentrifiers discovered the older generation community groups were much stronger, and that they were also paying attention to developments in the surrounding buildings. Our City Council representatives have been on task, blocking out the predatory developers and hedge fund shell companies. Going door to door and keeping people involved is a lot of time, including visits to our representatives’ offices. Our rents haven’t changed much though.” 

“Pay with money or pay with time,” Tor said. “I’m thrilled to learn that something is working for the regular people of the city. Gives me hope as I struggle to find new roommates to split the rent.”

“Opticians don’t make the money?” she asked.

Tor slowly shook his head without looking at her. “Eyeglasses are for the working poor today, who can’t afford the bio-chip. I guess there will always be a shop that sells eyeglasses, but it’s a dated commodity. One or two shops should survive with the shrinking customer base, but I’m not confident. I’m working with a headhunter to find a new career.”

“I read that biochips have long term consequences further down the road,” Lexi said. “I’m not sold on them.”

Tor swallowed and tried not to make a face. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that all these chips have consequences short term or long term that have not been reported. I’m not a conspiracy nut but I could believe corporations quashed results that could have made a dent in their sales. I’m concerned for everyone who onboarded them.”

They turned into an Asian Fusion shop with a couple of tables on the sidewalk. Tor began to order eggrolls and a chicken dish when he felt his mouth gently shut. “Get the beef dish with broken rice. We need those proteins and fats.” Tor tamped down his anger. “I’ll have the beef with broken rice dish, medium heat, please.” 

As they sat down with their food at one of the outside tables, Tor asked, “What’s it like having a chip?”

Lexi flipped her hair off her shoulder with her free hand. “My parents insisted, and I got the implant the day after I turned twenty-one. At first, I thought having the chip was cool. Stupid stuff like calculating the tip or splitting the bill were an actual no-brainer. I still had a semester of college though, and the professors changed their demeanor when they learned I had been chipped.”

She took a bite of food and chewed slowly. “I was no longer the friendly student with ideas to share but the robot to be trained. The campus became a cold place, where the ones with means, or truthfully, without debt, muscled out the weaker. Now, everyone has a chip and every job worth anything requires one. My dad used to complain about how boring his job was, day-to-day. Nothing has changed. I use the chip and make the calculations and write up the results.”

Tor clucked his tongue. “They told us that the chips would free us from drudgery and repetitive tasks, allowing us to be creative and use our imaginations. I think there is less creativity and much more rigidity.”

“Preach,” Lexi said. “You focus, the chip comes online, and you execute the calculation or the task. You experience the transmission but not the process of calculating. You don’t get the satisfaction of solving an equation, or the relief depending on who you are. Meanwhile, the clock keeps ticking slowly while you sit waiting for translation after transmission, knowing that unless you’re splitting the check between friends, you’re going to spend the next block of time plugging the answers into a report or a spreadsheet. For what? For some executive higher up the food chain to ignore?” 

“The chips are faster, saving you time,” Tor said, offering up another point that was advertised.

“When there’s no rhyme or reason to save time,” Lexi countered. “I’ve got to sit in that chair for eight hours no matter how slow or fast I am. If I’m faster, they respond by giving me more work. They make the extra money, and my salary remains the same. I don’t get paid per calculation or task completed. Being proficient with the chip is self-defeating.”

“It pays the rent though,” Tor said. “An acquaintance on the subway this morning told me that he’s happy because he can pay the bills. His career goal was to land a job that paid the bills, and that is all he needs.”

“Every fulltime job should pay the bills, Tor. I’m not suggesting a life of luxury and excess, but paying the bills should be the lowest, guaranteed bar for any salary.”

Tor put down his chopsticks. “The promise of the chip has not risen to meet expectations.”

“The chips work. A person can calculate faster, identify patterns, identify sophisticated patterns, more accurately predict and sift through reams of materials quickly,” Lexi said, not looking up. “However, many corporations prepared ahead of most of us receiving a chip. They were already prepared to monetize our new abilities. Like the soul-sucking Hedge Funds, these executives have handicapped the system again, so that they get richer and the rest of us struggle. If you’re really, really good, you can rise to a level where you struggle less. I don’t see an exit strategy for any of us.”

“The system cannot be that rigid, or it would have collapsed already,” Tor said, picking at his dish again.

“Only if we’re still functioning as a capitalist system,” Lexi said with a sad smile. “To me, this feels like feudalism. Unlike medieval feudalism, we work many more hours a day and commute longer than they did. They also got more holidays.”

“They also had warring princes and kings rampaging their lands, burning their crops and running them through,” Tor said. “Even their own kings would pillage their villages to keep their royal enemies from obtaining the land and the serfs.”

“We have less blood and gore, I’ll grant you that,” Lexi said, waving her chopsticks in the air. “Why does a graphic artist need a chip? Or a salesman? Or a bus driver?”

“A conspiracy?” Tor said. “I’m not a fan of conspiracies.”

Lexi waved her chopsticks at him this time. “I’m not arguing it’s a conspiracy, but the newest version of human nature. We’re sheep, with our eyes glued to the butts in front of us. Maybe we only get shorn once a year or maybe we become mutton chops. All the people get biochips like all the sheep get antibiotic tags in their ears. I’m not going to push the analogy further, but you get the idea. Tell me, Tor, do you have a pet?”

“No, I can’t afford a pet. Too expensive.”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Hedge Funds bought out the veterinary practices and jacked up the prices far up into the atmosphere. Your local vet doesn’t set the prices, but now they’re required to push products like thousand-dollar teeth cleanings. A serving of dog food costs as much or more than potato salad at the deli counter. You don’t need a chip to figure out the game.” 

“I got a chip the other day,” Tor said. “Everyone told me I would never get another job or a chance at another career without one. The recruiter wouldn’t help me without one.”

“Do you like it,” Lexi asked.

“The chip? No,” Tor said. “Maybe it’s my imagination, but it feels like a chunk of metal inside my skull.” He pinched his lips. “Or like a walking dead man with a talking hallucination in his head.” 

“I heard that and I’m not amused.” 

Lexi nodded. “That sensation will pass, but I think there’s more to the story. I think having a chip slowly changes a person. The change may develop at a funereal pace, think decades, but I believe there is a diminishment of emotion and human connection that is replaced with methodological plodding. I look at those who have had the chip longer than me and I argue that I see their introspection quotient plateau and stop. The interior dialogue fades or loses its vitality. Maybe I’m paranoid.”

“I’m paranoid,” Tor said. “You’re not paranoid. You may be a keen observer though. Has anyone else written or posted such observations?”

“Here and there,” Lexi said. “The reaction online to such suggestions is immediate and rather vicious. People get doxed.”

“I’m not surprised,” Tor said, shaking his head.

“Really?” Lexi pushed her empty plate away.

“Don’t