Rewired: A Novel

Author

I.

didn’t know I could see you? not one of your meat toys. come on down, got something for you…

II.

Harry Seldon woke to the sound of giant robots trying to break down his door.

His eyes scanned the dim room. What the hell time was it? BANG, BANG, BANG, there it went again. A steel pole of a headache thrust itself between his eyes, and he struggled to decide if it was wise to answer the door.

He swung his feet from the rusty but warm bed onto the cold linoleum. But there he stopped, as a new wave of pain wracked him. Thousands of tiny nerve endings spoke all at once, informing Harry that not one, but both of his arms had gone numb while he slept off his whiskey & sexstim intoxication.

Sons of bitches. Who the hell was at the door at whatever time this was?

Mr. Seldon? his intercom offered helpfully. BDF, could be. He hadn’t paid his fees, and probably wouldn’t be able to for a while. Still, they would know he was home. Best not to piss them off. Best not to piss them off more…

He swung his torso up into a sitting position and hoisted his left leg up onto the nightstand. An unmanicured toe tapped the talkback switch.

Seldon here, was all he got out before a wave of needle pricks forced him to curse loudly and, fortunately, knock his talkback switch off again.

The speaker answered, Sorry to bother you, Mr. Seldon, but we just had a few questions. Oddly apologetic, for a city agent. He knelt over and nosed the talkback. You’re not BDF?

Sir?

Oh, thank Lilly for that, Harry sighed indiscreetly. Okay, so what the hell would anyone besides Defense or my landlady want with me at…what time is it?

It’s…um…17:00, sir.

Military time.

Okay, so now I know you can’t possibly be over 20. What the hell do you want, kid?

Harry’s arms were slowly materializing back onto his sides. Soon they would have to decide whether to punch the asshole at the door.

Well, sir, I’m with the Disciples of the Vorn…

Oh, for the love of—

—wait, sir, I’m not here to do any recruiting…

You’re just here to ask me a few questions.

If you have a moment, sir.

No.

We just want you to know that we’re looking out for your soul. When you stand before the Vorn, will you—

It was not a voluntary action. Harry’s legs picked him up and stomped him over to the doorway, where his newly awakened arms wrenched open the metal portal and brought him face-to-face with an 18-year-old, black-clad Disciple. Who seemed very surprised indeed.

Harry thundered, If you’re gonna stand there and tell me that my family died horrible deaths in the Secession just so we could replace one catshit religion with another one…

The teen was suddenly speechless. His eyes wouldn’t meet Harry’s.

But of course, Harry ranted on, Worship of the Vorn is based on the seen, not the unseen, right?

The Disciple seemed inordinately shaken, and a bit embarrassed.

Even though the only evidence of the Vorn is in the stories these botched Rewireds tell, which can’t be confirmed by any scientific test? And that’s not faith?

Sir, I really… The boy continued to look away.

What, you didn’t expect an argument? All my fucking polite neighbors said their little piece about the known Vorn?

No, sir, it’s just…

It’s just what? Fascism? No argument there. But dammit, at least look me in the eye before you propose removing my free will and placing it in the hands of the magic fairy people!

Sir, I think you should…

I’m sure you do. But go ahead, tell me. What words of wisdom have you gathered for me over your 18 years?

You’re missing your pants.

It wasn’t that Harry was surprised. As his rage vented, he had begun to suspect that he had in fact answered the door in the nude. That part didn’t actually bother him much. The horror only struck when he realized that he’d left his stimsock on. He reached down, gripped the mechanized latex shaft and its harness beneath his hairy paunch, then shifted everything but his head behind the door.

Thank you, he said, sheepishly. And goodbye.

III.

Fuck, thought Harry, standing by the door. He collapsed into a rickety chair. Fuckity fuck.

From outside came an alarm. The end of the world. Shit, was it Friday night already?

A long, sad wail, up and down. Like the sirens in the old flatscreens. Harry had left the window open, or he would barely have heard it. Type 3, more memo than alert. Shabbat for the Hasidim.

Harry’s head was still in a fog of alcohol and sexstim. He risked cracking the shades open a hair. A bright bird at the feeder by the window. What the hell do they think we are, he thought. Some kind of animal, but different, maybe. Do they know we built all this? Do they give a damn?

This one just stared at him. Somebody’s escaped tropical bird, a cockatiel maybe. Probably wouldn’t last long in Brooklyn, though there were supposedly still a bunch of parrots in Prospect Park who kept warm next to the power boxes in winter.

Why the hell did I leave the window open, he thought. The late fall chill crept in like the tendrils of some sea monster, lost in the…

Dad, Harry blurted out.

A knot in his stomach as he stumbled into the living room. Allmedia player off, no blankets on the couch…

Damn, he spat.

A space on the coat rack where the old man’s fatigue jacket should be. Gone hunting. Harry flipped out his pod and hit his father’s usename. Busy.

I’ll bet he is, cursed Harry. Crazy sonofabitch is going to get us both kicked out of the city walls. His insane father had nearly given an old woman a heart attack last week trying to get one of the damned imaginary things off her shoulder. Goddamned botch job, Harry groused.

The Shabbat siren wound down for the last time as he dug out his cloakjacket. Thank goodness for the Hasids, he thought. Without them, Brooklyn would be Wired as hell, just like the other boroughs.

Stupid double knots, he griped to himself as his clumsy hands fussed with his shoes. What the hell was wrong with humanity? Could map the brain, but still used these damn things to keep shoes on. As he fumbled with the laces, he glanced toward the open window. The bright bird was gone, leaving only pigeons. He closed the window, startling but not scaring them. Harry’s father once claimed that pigeons could see the Vorn. But then, he claimed that HE could also see them, so Harry had to consider the source.

Out the door and into the gunmetal gray dusk. The sky hung low, making the borough feel smaller. Light from old and safe Allmedia vids peeked out from windows down the block. It was getting cold. He slipped on the gloves, and began to walk hurriedly down the couple of blocks to the train.

IV.

platform’s swarming. stupid meat toys don’t even know. they have to know. my old man didn’t die for this. worse than the Wireds.

next train’s a big one from downtown. i see you.

I…see…you…

V.

The oldtimers said that before Secession, Brooklyn’s streets seemed narrow, cram-packed with parked cars. Since the Wall went up, though, and no one could get out of town, most personal vehicles had long since been dumped into the river, or piled up in empty lots around the borough. A bunch of artists made their living working with the scrap. Now pedestrians got a wide lane to walk or bike in, with only the occasional garbage truck or Defense vehicle to steer clear of. Kids played kickball in the intersections, and graffitists painted murals on the open concrete.

Getting a straight answer about who built the Wall was difficult, in Harry’s experience It was hard to guess, he thought, since the Wireds wanted Rewireds trapped inside as bad as Brooklyn Rewireds wanted the Wireds to stay out. Harry had hacked comm lines to the other Diaspora cities, so he knew it was the same there. SoCentLA had a wall made of burned-out police cars from their secession. The Salisbury sanctuary built an outer henge, and kept their scrambler under the ancient one, so the EU Wireds might be less likely to make a shot at it.

Harry was barely born when the Diaspora began, so he had no memory of the way it used to be. Most people said it was better. It could hardly have been worse.

The Coney Island train ran overhead most of the way through Brooklyn, before plunging into the tunnels and under 4th Avenue all the way to its endpoint downtown. It was still above ground in Harry’s neighborhood, stopping at the Fort Hamilton Parkway station right over the bodega at 11th Avenue and 45th Street. Harry decided he’d better pop in.

Hola, Edwino chimed, grinning from behind the counter. The old Puerto Rican’s windbreaker changed color daily, but was always the same cut, billowing around his plump frame.

Hey, Ed, Harry replied, guardedly. He wasn’t sure what he’d walked out of here with last night.

Good stuff, eh? Edwino offered, raising a thick, dark eyebrow, as if to remind him. Can’t keep enough in stock. I should have some by tomorrow, though.

Yeah, good stuff, Harry nodded, scratching his frazzled beard. Who knew what brand of sexstim it was, or what strength. Must’ve been good, though, to knock him out for nearly 24 hours. Better than a woman, for his money. He wasn’t proud, but he’d long since given up shame. Dropping to a whisper, he changed the subject. Listen, you seen my dad around?

Edwino sighed sympathetically, pressing his wrinkled, shopworn hands against the counter. You know your papi and I go way back, Harry. But I can’t have him around the shop anymore. He’s not good for business.

Harry nodded. I know. I’m sorry.

"I couldn’t believe I actually told him to go shop at Menachem’s instead. Sending business to that pinche cabron…"

Harry shook his head, then looked up sharply. When was that?

About an hour ago. He kept staring at my customers like they were monsters. He even looked at me that way. I asked him what was wrong, but it’s always the same.

Vorn?

Edwino nodded sadly. It’s getting worse. In the old days, he only saw them every now & then. Now he says they’re everywhere, and he can’t stop staring… The old man paused, moved closer to Harry, and spoke under his breath. He had a gun under his jacket. I could tell.

Harry nodded quickly. Which way did he go?

Outside and up the steps to the train station.

Fuck! Harry bit out, slamming his hands against the counter. He turned and burst through the door, nearly plowing down a derelict weaving down the sidewalk between him and the station’s corroded metal staircase.

The sun’s diffused glow was fading, and Harry knew the big trains from downtown would soon be arriving, with their loads of commuters. He also knew what his father would see through his feverish eyes: Gray, spindly, black-eyed humanoids, perched on the shoulders of each and every passenger. Beings which only he and a few others with broken brains claimed to see. The Vorn.

He had just swiped his passcard and cleared the turnstiles when he heard the first shot. His stomach tied itself in a sickening knot, knowing now that this situation had gone from potential to reality. Everything from this point on was damage control.

As he rushed up the last flight of steps, he heard the alarms whoop from the BDF station below, and knew he had only seconds to disarm his father before the army shot the old man dead.

Harry was unarmed, of course. All Brooklyn citizens were required to own a gun, but these were kept in secure lockers in their homes until the BDF opened them remotely in the event of an emergency. Where his dad had gotten an unlicensed firearm was quite beyond Harry’s imagination, but that was of scarce importance now. The shots upstairs grew louder as he leapt up the staircase onto the platform, where all hell was breaking loose.

VI.

can’t make ‘em out one by one. i can only graze ’em with this thing, but they’re scared for sure.

the hosts are running. get away!! they can’t drink you any more!

VII.

Frozen.

The passengers were still streaming down the staircase behind Harry, but the shooting had stopped for a moment. His heart thumped wildly in his chest as he watched his dad fumble with the gun, a bootleg rifle from who knew where. Harry stood stock still, hands in the air, as the grizzled old veteran pointed the weapon right at his only son’s head. Then away. Then on Harry again. But his eyes were not on Harry. They were bugged out ferociously, fuming rage at a spot just above the barrel. Thin air.

Yet Harry could sense that there was clearly a struggle going on. Some part of his father’s mind was fighting another, and the winner was far from certain. Harry could only hope that whatever connection was left between the two of them could be strong enough to prevail. If the flood of escaping passengers could delay the troops long enough for that to happen.

Harry!! his father grunted, straining at his invisible foe. Get out of here!!!!

That did it. Receiving an order from his addled old man broke Harry from his terrified stupor. He dropped his hands into fighting position. Dad, put down the gun. There was menace in his voice. Familiar venom.

Harry, goddammit, I know you can’t see this thing, but it’s yours! It’s on me!! Electric fear shone in the craggy soldier’s eyes.

Dad… Harry bit out. A parent’s voice. The last straw. If you don’t put down that gun RIGHT NOW, the motherfucking BDF is going to blow your motherfucking brains through the back of your motherfucking head, you catshit crazy old motherfucker. Now, PUT IT DOWN!!

I can’t!! It’s got hold of me, Harry! They’ve got hold of us all!!!! his father screamed. He was plainly terrified. His mind had cracked.

BullSHIT!!!! spat Harry, and threw himself to the ground. The shreds of his teenage militia training surged forth, and he rolled swiftly up to his twitching father below the line of fire. Throwing his leg up, he kicked the rifle out of the old man’s grip and onto the train tracks just as the first grey-armored BDF soldier burst onto the platform, energy rifle primed and ready to kill.

HE’S DISARMED!!!!! screamed Harry, raising his hands and maneuvering himself between the soldiers and his dad. The gun’s on the tracks, I knocked it out of his hands!! Please don’t kill him, he’s my father, and he’s crazy as shit! Please, please, don’t kill my dad!!

Harry’s father was staggering along the edge of the platform, clawing at the air around him. As more BDF troops arrived and surrounded him, he cursed them.

They’ve got you, too! They’re everywhere, and they’re going to turn us all into THEM!!

He flailed as the men forced his arms behind his back and applied the cuffs. His head twisted wildly, straining against an invisible grip. Trapped in some horrific reality all his own, one which Harry knew was now almost certainly inescapable. Harry offered his wrists to the soldiers. It was time to go downtown.

VIII.

Night had fallen on downtown Brooklyn. The massive gun turrets atop Borough Hall glowered darkly as the armored transport passed through the security gates. Through the trees of Columbus Park and over the Wall, Harry caught a glimpse of the fortified Manhattan Bridge, once a vital link between the boroughs. Now its helicopter landing pads bristled with artillery.

Harry had given up trying to find a comfortable position in the back of the transport. He and his father were cuffed to steel rings at the base of the bench, and he could neither sit upright nor lie down. His dad had finally passed out after fighting empty air all the way to the vehicle. He sat slumped over his knees, saliva pooling between his feet on the floor.

It was only once they’d gotten on the road that it occurred to Harry: Why had there been no stunners? They were common crowd control implements in Brooklyn, and would seem to have made sense against a deranged assailant. It seemed a bit odd, as did the lack of questioning from the soldiers. It was almost as if they were expecting this.

As they got closer to downtown, he did work up the nerve to ask one of the troops if there had been any fatalities. The man shook his head dismissively, and a little too casually for Harry’s taste. Still, he was glad that the only casualties were figments of his father’s unhinged mind.

At last they arrived at the hulking Brooklyn Defense Force headquarters: a thick, featureless, impregnable rectangle of nuke-defying transmetal. It didn’t even need a sign. Everyone knew exactly what it was and how likely you were to make it out of there if you were so unlucky as to raise the ire of the BDF. Which he, Harry Seldon, and his insane father had just done.

It wasn’t as if he had much of a life to leave behind, he thought. Maybe Edwino would lose a few bucks of booze & stim sales. Maybe his unemployment officer would have a little more time on his hands. Maybe his files would move from the active cabinet to the other one, and that would be it.

Still, he didn’t know what awaited him. People he knew, none of whom had ever been inside, said all kinds of things. Torture, rape, underground labor camps, incineration, who knew? It wasn’t that the BDF was crooked. Not any more than other governments, anyway. It had just adopted a no-tolerance policy towards threats to the very fragile existence of the Republic of Brooklyn. They couldn’t afford to fuck around.

An underground entrance with a door six feet thick yawned open, and harsh white light from inside stung his eyes. They pulled into the most immaculately clean, sterile parking garage Harry had ever seen. The vehicle stopped at a set of sliding doors flanked by two solid blocks of 7-foot-tall uniformed flesh & muscle, who promptly swung the vehicle’s door open and stared, dead-eyed, at their new delivery.

His father was put on a stretcher between the mooks, and Harry was frog-marched behind, through vaulted halls of gleaming gray transmetal. No bolts, no blemishes, nothing but a solid block carved to order. Humanity might one day perish, Harry thought, but this building would be here long after the sun burnt itself out.

Ahead, Harry saw his father’s body disappear into a doorway. Harry’s guards steered him into the next room, where a simple steel table sat betwixt two simple steel chairs. A viewing window into the room where his dad lay was opaqued. He didn’t see any horrible torture implements, but they could well be in some hidden hatch. Or in the room next door.

Without a word, the guards removed Harry’s cuffs and sat him down in the chair facing the window. They exited without comment and stationed themselves outside the doorway. It was at this point, waiting for who knew what, that Harry finally began to freak out a little.

He managed to control his shaking only through grinding his teeth nearly into powder. This was serious shit, he thought. He was no longer in the known universe of experience. The sound of approaching footsteps made him clench his buttocks painfully and become ecstatically grateful that he did not have anything in his stomach at that moment.

When he recognized the face of the man who walked through the door, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

Hello, Harry, said Councilman James Barrett. His thin mouth wasn’t smiling, but neither did he appear angry. He wore a nondescript gray suit, which matched his silver temples and wireframe glasses.

Dr. Barrett! said Harry, who could not conceal his amazement. I can’t believe it’s…I…I didn’t know you were with the BDF!

I’m not, Barrett answered, a little grimly. But Defense does make use of my expertise, as is their right. He stole a glance at the camera over the table, then looked pointedly at Harry.

I know why you’re here. Or rather, I know why your father is here.

Of course you do, Harry replied, grimacing. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know he was that far gone. I CERTAINLY didn’t know he was armed…

You’re not on trial, Harry, Barrett cut in. No one was hurt. If they had been, you and your father would be dead now.

Harry nodded, gulping a little.

However, Barrett continued in his crisp English accent, We are not remotely out of the woods. It would be one thing if it had just been some random maniac shooting up the Fort Hamilton station. That could be easily handled by shipping the poor bastard off to Manhattan in an autopilot boat and hoping he’s a good shot.

Harry noted Barrett’s nonchalance on this topic and again praised his empty stomach.

Barrett circled the table, approaching the opaqued window, then sighed, But the fact that it’s Lars Seldon makes the whole thing rather more complicated.

Harry kept quiet as the window silently shifted into transparency. In the room beyond, his father was stretched on an operating table, his limbs secured tightly. He was still unconscious.

Still facing the window, Barrett spoke.

In the underground vault at the public library there is a 20th century flatscreen archive of President Dwight Eisenhower giving his farewell speech. At the very dawn of the consolidation of state and corporate power—fascism, which the U.S. had ostensibly just fought a war to defeat—the old man saw what was coming.

Harry had heard this speech before, in school. But he wasn’t about to interrupt.

But the newborn beast was already feeling its strength, covering its tracks, creating exciting and fun diversions to make the flatscreen audience’s priorities for them, Barrett continued. "That President was the last remnant of the old guard, and the new guard would already be part of the system.

"It started with Bernays in the 1920s, this science of opinion making. Certainly the idea of controlling public opinion was hardly new. Rulers back to the dawn of civilization tried their hands at it, with varying degrees of success. What no one knew was that it would never completely work as long as it was the product of the state. People are by nature at least a little suspicious of those who govern them. True innovation had to originate in the private sector. By the middle of the scientific age, in the 20th century, advertising and public relations firms were busily coming up with ironclad ways to get it done, in an objective and quantifiable way.

"The efforts among political and industrial entities ran concurrently, and fed each other’s growth. By the mid-21st century, when the difference between public and private blurred to near-nil in most of the world’s nations, their efforts could be concentrated, and were.

Their triumphant result was Lifecasting, a natural next step in personal entertainment. In over a century, mass media had still failed to get audiences as close to their entertainment as they really wanted. Lifecasting put you there, via an implant that brought users the world as they wanted to see it.

Harry nodded cautiously. He knew all this, but was curious where Barrett was going with it.

And of course what they wanted to see could be controlled, as can any desire, using the principles of opinion making, the science of psychiatry and neural influence, Barrett continued, "Get enough people talking about how there’s too much bad news on the Lifecast, suddenly there’s a clamor for censorship. Happy news, little brown puppies, and stories of personal inspiration, and for those who want to feel like rebels, a hefty dollop of pornoviolence, replete with an enticing warning from the Council On Moral Safety and a soundtrack from the latest anarcho band on the corporate payroll.

Of course there were dissenters in the early days, Barrett went on, removing his handkerchief and polishing his spectacles. "But the dirty hippies had already become such a handy strawman template to pillory those who speak truth to power that they were quickly neutralized.

Dissent, of course, is in theory a conscious phenomenon. But the idea of the mind as an independent entity, separate from the mechanical workings of the body, is an old mystical illusion. Thought is tissue meeting electrical synapse meeting tissue. It is an organic process, and a mind can be made to think certain things just as surely as a nerve can be told by the right dosage of aspirin that there is no toothache. Once understood, the mechanics of the brain are identical to those of the rest of the body, albeit more complex. Total Psychology was the melding of the physical and the ideological, and before it, the human mind as originally evolved could not stand.

Enter Rewiring, Barrett said, donning his glasses once again. Bypassing the arcane loops that humans route their psychology through, making Rewireds impervious to media control.

The doctor turned to Harry.

As it turned out, not something the powers that be were terribly keen on.

Everyone in Brooklyn knows the story of Dr. Lilly and his invention, Harry risked interjecting.

Barrett nodded. Then you know he was killed in the Texas Reclamation.

Of course. His death is the biggest holiday of the year in the Wired world. But his lab colleagues escaped…

Barrett smiled.

Including you, Harry finished.

I was lucky enough to be able to bring the technology of Rewiring to Brooklyn, under the protection of the Hasidim.

You were lucky they were so numerous.

And well-connected, Barrett added. They were able to convince most prominent Brooklynites to Rewire, making it fashionable across all classes until it became outlawed.

Then the war came.

Yes, Barrett nodded. That was regrettable, but inevitable. The corporate state relied on its status quo to maintain a predictable economy, and we were throwing too many variables into the equations.

It must have been terrible.

It was, Barrett agreed. Obviously Brooklyn wasn’t completely Rewired by that time, so the war was sometimes neighbor against neighbor. We had sufficient numbers to prevail, but only just.

And the Wall?

A mutual condition of the truce. We built our half. Manhattan, Queens & Staten Island built theirs, and when they were complete, we signed the Non-Contamination Treaty.

No one in or out.

Except emissaries to and from other Rewired enclaves, Barrett corrected him.

How many strongholds are there now?

A mere handful that we know of, Barrett frowned. Most have access to the Rewired net. Once in a while we get an ambassador from the nearest ones.

I assume the Wireds make that as difficult as possible.

Barrett nodded. Originally there were 20. We have regular contact with those who managed to seize their scramblers.

And the rest…

We can guess, Barrett finished. But this does bring us to your father…

Harry stiffened. He sensed a door opening, somewhere in the darkness.

Barrett stood and paced, looking through the window at Harry’s unconscious dad. Our scientists knew how to break the scrambler codes, rendering enemy missiles inoperative. But we had to get to the control bunker. We needed grunts.

Harry’s eyes widened.

Yes, Harry, Barrett confirmed. Your father was on the team that penetrated the bunker. His commander was incapacitated by enemy fire, and Sergeant Seldon assumed command. They got us in.

Harry’s gaze wandered to the window, where his ragged, raving old man was being protected from himself. Why am I only just now learning about this?

Barrett sat down. Because something else happened during that raid. Your father saw his first Vorn.

Harry cursed in spite of himself. He might have known.

Only a few cases of hallucinatory Rewire side-effects were known at that time, Barrett continued, And your father had not exhibited any prior to the raid. But once they were in and had sealed the perimeter, Sergeant Seldon…shot one of his own men.

Harry turned a sickly white.

He claimed the corporal was possessed by a demon of some sort. His comrades were able to subdue Seldon, but they couldn’t save the fallen soldier, who was reported killed by enemy fire, Barrett continued, Your father was locked up here for a time. I studied his brain and behavior personally, and very intensely. In the end, we were not able to duplicate the malfunction.

Harry’s jaw went slack. I thought he was stationed in SoCentLA when I was a kid.

That’s what we told your mother. He was here. Right here, in fact. In that room.

Harry shook with disbelief. So why did you release him?

Barrett looked directly into Harry’s eyes. What do you know about the Vorn?

Harry shifted uncomfortably. Are you serious?

Barrett smiled. No, I don’t believe in them either. But it’s a very interesting side effect. Only one in every quarter million Rewireds exhibits it.

Poor bastards, mumbled Harry. Then they get it reinforced when the Disciples anoint them as prophets.

That’s one of the problems. Among the case studies, there isn’t a lot of variation in experience. But we can’t tell if that’s because of cultural reinforcement or for some other reason.

What other reason could there be? Harry snorted. You’re not suggesting…

Barrett put his hand up, cutting Harry off. Purely scientific reasons, Harry. The Rewiring procedure is identically carried out on each patient, so there must be a consistent variable in these particular subjects that we haven’t accounted for.

So why did you let my dad go?

Barrett shrugged. It was a one-time occurrence. And I was under considerable pressure from the BDF to set their hero free. So we came to a compromise.

It clicked. Surveillance.

Continuously, for the past 28 years, Barrett admitted. Which, of course…

…means that I’ve been on camera, too.

I’m afraid so.

But why was there no mention of this hero stuff? All we knew was that he had been a soldier.

Again, part of the compromise. We couldn’t risk a high-profile citizen exhibiting bizarre Rewiring side-effects, so we kept him ordinary. He got an early discharge and a modest pension, enough to keep him out of trouble. We advised him to keep quiet about the raid, the better to preserve the illusion for the family of his shooting victim.

Corporal Clegg.

The same, Barrett acknowledged, waving vaguely in the direction of Columbus Park, site of the immense statue of the corporal. He died so that we may live free.

A pretty story.

Much prettier than the truth.

So, Harry frowned, You must’ve known about the gun. The one Dad used today.

Barrett simply nodded.

And?

Barrett spoke carefully. You may have noticed that your father has become rather more…vocal lately, regarding his theories.

Harry looked him in the eye. And?

We have only barely managed to keep his behavior under the radar. Brooklyn is a big place, but word travels quickly these days. He has been in contact with the Vorn Elimination Front.

Harry’s face sank. That’s worse than the Disciples.

In many ways, yes. They’re the ones who provided him with the gun. Their stated aim is the illumination of the Vorn threat, and they have some…interesting ideas about spreading awareness.

Like shooting up train stations?

Not as an end in itself. They believe that seers, and only seers, can separate the Vorn from their hosts.

By blasting them.

This is all anecdotal, Barrett put in, swatting the idea like a bothersome gnat. No laboratory evidence of such separation exists, but there are seers who suggest it works, at least momentarily. Throwing the symbiosis out of complacency, they believe can break the connection to those hosts, allowing the humans, in their Vorn-free state, to realize that they have been the victims of pan-dimensional parasites.

So you decided to let him give it a shot? Harry asked, his temper getting the best of him despite the potential consequences. He wasn’t sure what he had to lose at this point.

The BDF wouldn’t let us lock him up preventatively. Now we have sufficient cause.

’We’?

There are those on the Council who believe that Rewire malfunctions constitute a significant threat to the security of the Republic.

Shattering the illusion of perfection?

Barrett smiled patiently. I seem to remember that you wanted him locked up.

Yes, to solve his malfunction. But not for propaganda reasons. Otherwise, what separates us from the Wireds?

Barrett’s smile disappeared abruptly. The game of power is always afoot, Mr. Seldon. Either we have it or the Wireds do. Here, we have created a world where even the lowliest citizen has a fighting chance for success. The Wired world stacks the deck.

Altering history and concealing public health threats seems like stacking the deck to me.

Barrett’s demeanor darkened in an instant. You are free to return to the Wired world anytime you wish, Mr. Seldon. I assure you I can arrange it. If you do not appreciate the gift I have given you to improve your miserable, depraved little life, it can be taken back at a moment’s notice. Now sit down.

Harry shrank back, shame descending on him like a lead mosquito net. This had not gone the way he’d intended.

From today on, your father is in the care of the Republic of Brooklyn, Barrett bit out. I intend to get to the bottom of the Vorn malfunction, in order to perfect the Rewiring process for future generations.

Barrett turned to go, then stopped. Without turning his head, he spoke. As you are in possession of sensitive state secrets, you will be a permanent guest here at BDF headquarters. I have arranged your accommodations, which I trust you will find satisfactory. Goodbye, Harry.

With that, Harry was left alone. Likely for the rest of his days on earth. Too much information, all at once, swirling around his bewildered brain. It pushed against the weight of his history to date, and displaced it all too easily. If there remained any doubt, it was now extinguished: His life was over. And it hadn’t really ever begun.

Mr. Seldon? a crisp voice spoke up.

Harry jerked back and saw a short, trim, red-suited young man standing pertly at his side. In his misery, he hadn’t noticed the man’s arrival.

I’m Mr. Foch, psychology department clerk, the man recited, clearly and with businesslike friendliness. His name made an ‘eausch’ sound, as dapper as its owner. Your room is waiting. If you’ll follow me?

Harry gave his poor, unconscious father a sad look through the window, then stood to leave. Foch spun neatly on his heel and led the way out the door and into the corridor. Harry had no choice but to follow.

They proceeded up a flight of stairs and down another long hall lined with opaqued and numbered glass doors. At number 6, Foch stopped so abruptly that Harry nearly ran him over.

The little man spun around efficiently on his heel, meeting Harry’s eyes and taking him aback. Breakfast is served at 7:00 in the cafeteria at the end of the hall. Lunch is at 11:30. Dinner at 18:00. The library, gym and Allmedia rooms adjacent to the cafeteria are open to you at all hours. You are not to leave this floor unless accompanied by authorized staff. Surveillance is 24/7/360. If you have any needs, dial 1 on your commpad to summon me.

Okay, Harry managed. Look, Mr. Foch…

Foch raised his chin, his eyes locked to those of his charge. It unnerved Harry immensely. He wondered if guys like this had real people underneath.

The thing is… Harry spoke conspiratorially, trying a knowing smile, I haven’t had anything to eat since last night. This whole thing kinda sprung up on me, you know what I mean?

The clerk’s expression did not move a millimeter. It took him a moment to arrive at an answer, its arrival signaled by a tiny blink. It is outside of protocol, but as you have only just entered our system, we can make a one-time accommodation. I will send something to your room.

Harry tilted his head. ’Something?’

A slight twitch at the corner of Foch’s eye. Harry smiled a little inside. At last Foch replied, Do you have a meal preference, Mr. Seldon?

Not really, Harry confessed. Surprise me.

The clerk blinked, then stepped to one side, indicating the door behind him. Your room, Mr. Seldon. Then, turning on his heel, he was off.

Harry approached the door, which slid aside for him. Inside, a reasonably-sized studio apartment, only barely furnished. Bed, bathroom, desk, couch; just the necessities.

It occurred to him then: His stimsock. He’d left it at home. Well, of course he had. But he hadn’t known that today was the last day of his life outside this giant metal box. And what would happen to their old apartment? Even now, the BDF was probably confiscating his hackbox, his vintage Allmedia player, even his great-grandfather’s books.

He jabbed the commpad. Foch’s voice jabbed back. Your meal is being prepared, Mr. Seldon.

I know, I know…Mr. Foch… Harry sighed, in what he hoped sounded like a deferential tone. It’s just, I…do you know whether any of my personal effects from outside will be brought here?

Possibly, Foch replied, disinterested. Is there any item in particular you would like to request BDF inventory control to forward?

Harry’s heart sank. I’m going to have to ask for it, he thought. He dodged first. Well, there are some books. Paper books, pre-Allmedia.

After scanning, their retrieval should pose no security risk. I will forward your request.

Right, right, Harry agreed, Good. That’s good. But there’s one more thing… No way they’d allow his hackbox, and there was plenty of Allmedia to be had in the library. And none of his clothes were worth anything. No, it came down to one thing.

Yes, Mr. Seldon? Foch replied. Harry thought he heard a trace of exasperation in the little uniformed monkey’s voice. Pity he had gotten behind the façade so soon.

I had a…it’s a…well, it’s very valuable to me, and if it’s not too much trouble, I’d really like to have it…

Have what, Mr. Seldon?

Look, I don’t know what people around here do for stimulation, apart from watching Allmedia and eating, but there are things that I really can’t get anywhere else, and I doubt seriously that the BDF has this sort of thing laying around…I mean, maybe they do, but they wouldn’t tell anyone about it…at least I don’t think they would…

Foch sighed, audibly. Are you referring to a penile stimulation interface?

It really did sound terrible when Foch said it. That’s…yes. That’s the one. After all these years, he suddenly felt guilty.

Foch took a deep breath. Mr. Seldon, the BDF is not responsible for satisfying all the various predilections of its guests.

Harry saw where this was going, and he had to head it off at the pass. Wait, wait…Mr. Foch, I mean, come on…everyone has to do something about…things sometimes, right?

Mr. Seldon, I make no representations as to the bodily habits of BDF personnel…

No, that’s not what I meant—

…nor indeed of the public at large. It is both the cost and the benefit of an open society that citizens may do as they please in the privacy of their own homes.

Right!

But as you may have noticed, BDF headquarters is not a private residence.

…right.

Will there be anything else, Mr. Seldon?

Harry thought for a moment. This was his last chance.

Mr. Seldon?

No. Thank you, Mr. Foch.

You’re quite welcome.

Little bastard. Payday BDSM dungeoneer if he’d ever seen one. Still, it didn’t pay to shit in his new bed already. A bed which was looking a little more comfortable now that all the excitement, terror, and general mind-fucking had worn off. Harry was dimly aware of a tuna melt with chips and a pickle being shoved through a slot in his door, just before sleep took him.

IX.

they keep bringing me back.

X.

Harry wasn’t sure how long it had been. He had become one with inertia. Every day was the same; meals, reading, Allmedia tunes or shows, sleeping.

It was the sleeping that proved difficult. He hadn’t gone to bed without stim since his early teens. Worse, his body had come to expect the high doses, so even getting it up for manual relief was a chore. Was this how normal people lived?

There was, of course, nothing normal about BDF headquarters. No sun, no trips to the bodega, no booze, and certainly no sex. At least none that he wanted any part of.

His neighbors were all mental patients; those who were not violent, but were just enough off-center to make them unfit for public interaction. One of them, Nina, befriended him on his first morning in the cafeteria. She lived in room 2, and had big, brown eyes set within soft ebony skin, and a curving, ample build only partially hidden beneath her standard-issue white sweatsuit. Much too attractive to be a loony, in Harry’s opinion. She invited him to sit with her by the holographic fireplace, where they both dug into egg-&-cheese bagels.

So…I’m going to go ahead and ask, Harry ventured, after they’d gotten through a half-hour of pleasantries which included a few old movies they both liked. Why on earth are you in here?

Nina’s gaze rose to meet his, and stayed there. After a few moments, he tried waving his hand in front of her to get a reaction, but instead only saw a line of saliva begin dripping down from the left corner of her mouth. He positioned a receiving napkin out of consideration and left her to her private oblivion. It was a damned shame.

The library and Allmedia archives were well-stocked, as he suspected they would be. All old, of course. It wasn’t that no one was making new things, but the landscape for the Rewired world’s entertainment artisans was tricky. No one would watch a film made post-Secession, for fear it had been seeded by spies. Recorded music tracked in the past three decades was similarly suspect. Thus, theatre and live concerts were the popular outlets, and Harry certainly wasn’t going to be able to partake in those activities anymore. Not that he ever had much. In the cave of his apartment, he had effectively time-warped his cultural awareness back over 40 years. It hadn’t held him back much.

He was impressed that the ward had some old rock albums—on vinyl—that he’d only seen at collector’s shops. But sadly, nothing like his Wish You Were Here/Good Witch-Bad Witch stimvid that was probably hitting the government auction net about now. He settled down with a queue of Beatles & Nirvana classics and stayed in his cube till lunchtime. After lunch, some John Wayne & Tarantino. Pity the two never worked together, he thought. Then dinner, followed by hours-long, vain attempts to sleep. Morning usually found him in an Allmedia cube, drooling on the control pad.

Every day since had been some variation of that one. On the occasions when he saw Foch on the floor, he would ask about his father’s status, but got little in return. He was in the care of Dr. Barrett, and that was the best place he could possibly be, blah, blah. A few weeks ago, Harry would have agreed with that assessment. Now he wasn’t sure. He and his father were not friends. But it bothered him that someone else was now in charge of the old bastard. What if they were fucking it up?

He sat on his couch, defeated, in the middle of some nameless day. He needed something new. Nina had offered him what sounded like a date in her room. That was something he’d scarcely managed in normal life, and the idea of trying it in here filled him with overwhelming anxiety, so he hadn’t answered yet. He thought about shaving his beard, now midway down his chest, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to see his face anymore. Maybe he should grow his hair out, too, so no one could make out an expression behind the hairy curtain. Maybe he could start working out, but what for? He wasn’t going anywhere that he couldn’t get to in a wheelchair.

Harry Seldon was finished.

A beep from the commpad nearly knocked him onto the floor.

Mr. Seldon? Foch. The bastard.

Eugene? Harry replied. That much he had found out. It was all he had, and by Lilly, he was going to use it.

Foch ignored him, with some effort. Please report to the the main staircase. Dr. Vinson will meet you there.

Harry’s eyes boggled. He had no idea what a Dr. Vinson was, but it had to be more interesting than the rest of this day. He put on his pants—which definitely needed a size upgrade soon—and stumbled out the door.

As he approached the end of the hallway through which he had entered this nightmarish nothing umpteen eons ago, he saw a short, stout figure in a lab coat waiting for him. Upon closer examination, it was a woman. Maybe late forties, blonde spike cut with white streaks, and biceps visibly bulging beneath her white jacket. A placid expression, the type one gets when they know they can kick your ass.

Good morning, Mr. Seldon, she spoke, in a cigarette rasp that was nonetheless pleasant.

I’m glad one of us knows what time it is, Harry replied.

Dr. Vinson smiled, a few wrinkles showing up around her ice-blue eyes. It looked sincere, at least. Let’s go visit your father, she offered.

Slightly stunned, Harry nodded and followed her down the staircase.

All this time, it had seemed like his father was being kept in a far-off castle beyond a moat, but in truth it was less than a five-minute walk to his room on the floor below Harry’s. As before, they didn’t enter the room itself, but the adjacent viewing room, through whose transparent window Harry saw the unconscious form of his father, laid out just as before on the examination table.

Has he moved since we got here? Harry wondered aloud.

Dr. Vinson nodded. The table adjusts into a physical therapy module, which we use while he’s unconscious. She looked sadly at Harry. He’s not awake often, and when he is, no one can enter the room without provoking a violent reaction.

Harry shook his head. I knew it would happen one day. He’s finally cracked.

The doctor pulled out a small notepod. We’ve got the surveillance vids, but I’d like to know your experience regarding your father’s condition.

I dunno, he’d been seeing them every now & then for most of my life, Harry sighed, slumping down into the steel chair. I just put it down to one more thing that pissed me off about him.

Dr. Vinson nodded. He’s a difficult man to live with?

He’s an asshole, Harry replied. Always was. Has to do everything better than everyone else. Given what Dr. Barrett told me about his whole Secession experience, I guess he had some unresolved pride issues. I brought home a blue ribbon from a science fair in junior high, and he pinned me to the ground. Said until I could defend myself from a miserable old man, I was worthless. I kicked him in the nuts later that night, and he grounded me for a week.

The doctor let a moment go by. When did the hallucinations increase?

A few months before the train incident. I couldn’t take him anywhere, he’d curse at everyone and threaten to kill their ‘little puppetmasters.’ I hid his key and only let him go out with me in the middle of the night, when there weren’t as many people around. He tried to fight me about it, but I guess I wasn’t worthless anymore. Or at least he was older and more arthritic. Pretty depressing.

What did he claim to see?

"Same