Greg’s eyes snapped open. He reached over and fumbled with the alarm clock til it fell silent, and he snuggled back into his soft bed. His body had already returned to the cusp of sleep before his bleary mind finally produced its first thought of the day. Inoculation Day. Greg’s eyes snapped open. Rolling out of bed, he snagged a pair of jeans off the floor and yanked a random shirt from his closet. He grabbed a pair of folded socks off the top of his dresser and shoved them into his favorite pair of boots. Stumbling backwards into the hallway, Greg froze.
Gregory, his namesake, looked up from the bathroom doorway and saw his son balancing on one leg, shirt hanging out of his mouth, and boots tucked awkwardly under one arm while his hands were busy yanking his jeans up one leg. “In a hurry there, son?” Gregory said through a shit eating grin.
Greg worked his jeans up as he hopped past his dad towards the stairs. “Inochulahan dah!” He yelled through the shirt.
Suz looked up as she sensed her son hopping against the railing at the base of the stairwell, pulling his boot on. “Greetings Greg. I perceive that you have risen 18. 2 minutes earlier than this month''s average. I deduce this is driven by excitement. If so, that emotion is most appropriate. " it''s inoculation day! I finally get to join you " Greg zipped to his mother''s side and placed a kiss on her cheek. Her metallic cheek was still cold, it being too early in the day for her processors to have warmed through to her exoskeleton.
His mother was a Bishop, with enough endowments to ascend to Archbishop when she''d like. Rank transitions were extremely dangerous, and since initiates of any rank are often preyed upon for parts, Suz had decided to finish raising her children before she attempted it. Today was the day her second child would pass the Rubicon, and in one year, when her youngest reaches the age of 20 and is inoculated, she''d ascend to Archbishop. Until then, she fulfilled all obligations her edicts required and prepared her children as best she could.
"I am pleased to inform you that you have exceeded expectations in every way Greg. You are a vital and valuable member of this family, and in celebration of this momentous event, please accept this memento of our appreciation." Craig grinned as Suz pulled a colorful box out from under the counter. Suz had several HR edicts, one of which dictated mannerisms of speech.
Greg learned long ago how to parse her holy speech for meaning, so interpreted the gift how it was intended - a going away present from a proud and loving mother.
He opened the lid of the box and whistled softly. Lying in the box was a jacket, matte grey and seamless. His hands ran down the fabric, and he fell to the soft fabric harden under his hands when subject to pressure. He looked up to his mom. "A synthweave jacket?" He asked.
"Yes, with a carbon nanotube weave. It should protect you from many mundane threats." She lifted the jacket out of the box and raised her other hand to it. Plates running down her forearm retracted as a long gym barrel extruded itself down her arm, poking out just under her palm. Her head tilted to the side momentarily, then the original 2" wide barrel was replaced by one whose aperture was just under a half inch. She fired, and the jacket in her hand stiffened. "See?"
Greg leaned in and inspected where the bullet impacted. The slug was imbedded into the fabric, with the outer end lying flush with the exterior. The ordinarily smooth patch of jacket was ridged and pitted around the bullet, as if someone had frozen a pond’s surface just after tossing in a rock. As Greg watched, the fabric relaxed around the bullet, smoothing back out and depositing the bullet to the floor.
"That. Is. So. Cool."
Suze grinned. "Kindly try it on, so I may ensure the size specifications were correctly followed by my supplier."
Greg pulled on the jacket. It hung over his wiry frame like a particularly thick burlap sack. Suz reached out and grabbed the scruff of the jacket, temporarily imbuing it with a portion of her consciousness. The smart material constricted, thickening as it fitted to Greg’s frame. Lines appeared over his shoulders and ran down his side as sections of fabric began hardening into extruded plates. They formed in a wave over his biceps, breaking just before his elbow, and finishing with three large plates down each of his forearms.
Suz tilted her head to the side and clucked, the deep metallic ringing reverberating temporarily in her mouth. “It is a little big, but fits well enough. And the room could be useful if you end up assimilating bulkier augments. Now, are you planning to stay for breakfast with father and Emi?”
“I don’t think so. I’m too wired to be hungry, and Deimos wanted me to meet him early today anyways.” Greg responded, already heading towards the door.
Suz ran a finger up and down the cords composing her neck. “I know the feeling. Very well. And if you cross paths with his parents…”
Greg rolled his eyes. “Do what they say, as they say it, no matter what. I know, mom. Honestly, I think you’d be less intimidated by them if you knew them better.”
“That would be one approach, yes. Simply be safe.”
Greg nodded and said, “Will do.”
…
Deimos strolled down the streets of Ouray toward Deimos’ compound. The city was nestled in a small valley among the Rocky Mountains. Most of the houses were of postmodern design, using earth tones to compliment and fade into the surrounding landscape. Others… Did not do that. Greg walked into the shadow of a four-story black obelisk. The structure was a massive metallic cube that took up every inch of the plot. Down each side ran numerous faint lines jaggedly turning in and out of each other at seemingly random intervals. No trace of entrance was visible. Greg waved anyways.
The face of the cube erupted into motion, the entire slab folded in on itself until words extruded out, each letter four inches thick. HELLO GREG. ARE YOU OFF TO INOCULATION ALREADY?
Greg slowed his walk and nodded respectfully. “Yes ma’am. Deimos and I are hoping to get to the temple before the first out-of-towners arrive.”
The cube shimmered again as the previous lettering folded flush and new words appeared. DEIMOS – I NEVER LIKED THAT BOY. TOO WILLING TO BREAK IN AN INSTANT WHAT TAKES A LIFETIME TO BUILD. KEEP YOUR EYE ON THAT ONE.
Greg smiled placatingly. “Ms. Abrams, every boy likes breaking stuff when they’re young. We outgrew that sort of thing years ago.”
SOME GROW OUT OF IT. OTHERS JUST LEARN HOW TO BREAK BIGGER THINGS.
“I’m sure you’d know. I’ll keep an eye on him, just in case.”
SEE THAT YOU DO. COME VISIT ME ON LO ONCE YOU HAVE WINGS THAT REACH THE HEAVENS. MY FORGESISTERS AND I WILL SHOW YOU WONDERS OF CONSTRUCTION IMPOSSIBLE ON THIS GLOBE.
Greg bowed slightly towards the obelisk and said, “I am honored by the invitation, and will do so as soon as possible.”
The rest of Greg’s walk to Deimos’ manor was uneventful, characterized primarily by a roiling mix of shame and embarrassment for bowing at a box. He wasn’t some ancient ninja accepting a quest from Dao warrior. At least Deimos hadn’t been around to see. Hopefully, Ms. Abrams was too disconnected from mortal affairs to notice how utterly imbecilic that response was. Technically, he wasn’t even speaking to her, or at least, not most of her. Abrams was an Industrialist, and her building in Ouray was a hallmark of her order called a Nuemon Vault. Imbedded in the cube was enough processing power to run the entirety of Abrams’ consciousness, albeit slowly, as well as sufficient mining, extraction, processing, and production capability to rebuild herself without assistance. In the event she was attacked, she could trigger a catastrophic quantum transfer, destroying her instance on Lo and reincarnating in one of the dozen Nuemon Vault she probably had tucked around the system. Other orders also had ways of cheating death, but few were as self-sufficient. Perhaps one day Greg could find one of his own.
The walls of Deimos’ compound finally came into view. The compound sat in the foothills overlooking Ouray, completely surrounded by bleak and imposing lead lined walls. Poking over the walls were large roman roofs held up by marble columns. The gate slid open as he approached it, thanks to security staff embedded into perimeter sensors.
“Morning fellas, Deimos up yet?”
A speaker system left of the gate answered, “You may find him in the training yard.”
“Thanks.” Greg wove his way around several buildings, nodding to the servants he passed. He arrived at a wide expanse of white sand, training bots and equipment littered throughout. Standing in the center was Deimos, completely nude and performing salutations to the Sun. “Greg! I see you have arrived! Is it not a momentous occasion? Come! Join me! This will be good for you. You are always too highstrung.”
Deimos averted his gaze awkwardly. “Maybe next time Deimos. Didn’t you want to get to the temple early anyway?”
“Just so. Very well, I shall finish this movement, and we will be off.” Deimos leaned forward, placing his hands flat to the ground and replacing Greg’s previous view with broad shoulders and a back rippling with muscle.
“Have you put much thought into what you want to do after inoculation?” Greg asked.
Deimos left his hands on the ground and stepped back, transitioning to downward dog. “To plan for the future is to forgo the present. I would rather a life well lived that a life well planned.”
Greg side-eyed the several attendants awaiting Deimos. “That works better when you have others planning for you, perhaps?”
Deimos left his hands on the ground and stepped back, transitioning to downward dog. “True, I am never wanting of others’ plans for me. I swear Father has a server dedicated to his expectations for me. And Mother… Well she pays the tutors to plan my life for me, I suppose. Alright Greg, what’s one more? What should we do once they shove a modem in us?”
“Ms. Abrams invited …Us… to Lo, which is why I bring it up.”
“Oh that old bag? I never cared for her. Too busy building shit, no time spent in pleasure. You wouldn’t rather join me on an expedition to the Glassed Continent? Imagine it, a hellscape of meaningless violence as far as the eye can see. It could feel great really being able to cut loose, don’t you think?”
Greg winced as Deimos lowered himself into upward dog. “Yeah, let’s bathe in vats of blood and oil while we’re at it.”
“C’mon, you’d try that with me at least once, right? The buoyancy alone would make it a unique experience.” Deimos chuckled as he raised himself into warrior pose.
Greg decided a change of subject was in order. “Any idea what augments will be locally available? I’m sure you’ve gotten the inside scoop from your dad.”
Deimos grunted as he pivoted his hips into the second warrior pose. “The Gods and their clergy batch their requests for the day of inoculation, pushing them all to the local node midday. Besides, Father wouldn’t have any insight. Omniwatch doesn’t recruit from mere Deacons. Got to prove yourself first.”
Greg stayed silent as Deimos wrapped up his routine. Deimos eventually rolled upright from a backbend and began walking to the waiting attendants. Two stepped forward, each with a bucket of water, and began pouring them over Deimos’ frame, washing the sand away. Another stepped up, offering a glass of blood red wine. Deimos walked past without acknowledging his existence and picked up the nearly full bottle of wine from where the servant left it. Lifting his arms to his side, the final servant wrapped a bolt of white cloth over each of Deimos’ shoulders and down his torso. He finished the procedure by wrapping a belt around Deimos’ waist and laying out a pair of sandals. The entire effect was pretentiously Roman.
Greg wandered over. “You’re headed to inoculation, not to get crowned Ceaser.”
Deimos wrapped around an arm around his shoulder. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. In eons hence historians will trace the origin of their god emperor, and they will pinpoint this day.” Deimos handed Greg the bottle. “Now drink! We must enjoy these mortal vessels while we have them.”
Greg took a swig and grinned as they left the compound. Say what you will about Deimos’ eccentricities, he was fun to be around.
…
They arrived at the temple in the center of the town just before midday. Its steeples towered over the surrounding buildings. They were trussed up ceremonially, but their primary purpose was to serve as a wireless broadcaster. The front doors, on the other hand, were 40’ tall for purely ascetic reasons. All in all, the building invoked feelings of insignificance and powerlessness. It was said the effect only grew post inoculation.
The doors opened at their approach, and they walked into a large atrium, leaning on each other. Priests of various denominations were present, most already engaged in conversation with visitors. An unattended priest saw their arrival and approached them. He wore navy coveralls with the sleeves ripped off and his body looked as if it were slowly being eaten from the right by a clockwork-based flesh-eating disease. His right arm up to the shoulder was a collection of gears and pistons, and a similar growth covered the right 20% of his face.
“Welcome visitors. You are here for inoculation, yes?” His eyes took in Deimos’ attire, the wine stains speckling the front of his shirt, the mostly empty bottle hanging from Greg’s hand, and his smile dropped. “… Unless you’ve come here by accident, in which case I will show you the exit with prejudice.” The gears in his clockwork growth began accelerating, steam leaking out of several nozzles down his arm.
Deimos’ lips, curse him, parted in a grin and he curtsied. Greg stepped in front of him and lifted both of his hands up.
“Yes priest, we’re here for inoculation. We’re simply enjoying our last moments before… Ya know.” Greg said.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
The priest’s clockwork bits spooled down. “Very well sirs, you may follow me then.” He began walking deeper into the building, and Greg and Deimos hurried to match his pace.
“If I may, sir, why are there so many different priests here?”
“We have nothing to do until everyone is inoculated, so we often loiter in the entrance on inoculation day to scout out potential talent. Many promising candidates can be swayed to join an order with a well-timed sales pitch.”
“So, you’re recruiting, gotcha. What’s your God?”
“I am Priest Galatia of the innovation God Tinker.”
“So, you have a sales pitch then?”
“Yep.”
“Are… You going to give us it?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.”
Greg let the conversation lapse into silence after that. Galatia finally stopped halfway down a hallway. Each wall was lined with 2’ wide cylindrical plates composed of slivered metal radiating from the center. It reminded Greg of pizza, and his stomach grumbled. Hopefully inoculation was catered.
“Why’d we stop?” Deimos asked.
“Oh, we’re here.” Galatia said, turning around with a grin.
The irises of the 4 closest cylinders opened, and serpentine metallic tentacles erupted from each. The first tentacle wrapped around Greg’s arm before he could react. The wine bottle clattered to the ground as he was yanked off his feet. Deimos bent horizontally at the waist, kicking a leg out for counterbalance as he slipped under the second tentacle. The third tentacle wrapped around Greg’s legs and started crawling upwards around his stomach. Deimos snatched the wine bottle off the floor as the fourth tentacle wrapped around his ankle. Twisting in the air, he flung the heavy bottle directly into Galatia’s surprised face. Glass shattered and Galatia stumbled back as his head was flung backward by the impact. Deimos started giggling as he struggled against the tentacle wrapped around his ankle. Galatia roared, face dripping with blood as he stepped towards the struggling Deimos. The tentacle around Greg retracted back into its casing, pulling Greg with it. The last thing Greg saw as the iris closed was Galatia’s fist making contact with the side of Deimos’ head, then Deimos’ head bouncing against the stone floor.
…
Greg banged against the side of the tight shaft as he was drug away from the hallway. His shoulder slammed against the metal as the shaft changed direction and he was abruptly yanked down, eliciting a wet pop from his arm. His scream of pain reverberated down the tunnel.
Then there was light. Blinding light, so strong he could feel the heat of them from every side. More tentacles wrapped around his arms and legs, holding him into a T pose. A heavy weight shoved his head to the right, pinning his ear to his shoulder. Whirring noises began emanating from his left. Greg frantically thrashed against his prison, but his bonds were unyielding. He felt two strips of cold metal press into his skin just below his left ear, and then a searing pain erupted between them. He screamed, helpless as a laser dug its way through his skull. It stopped, and he had a second to pant in relief as he hung limply from his wrists.
Small, nigh-imperceptible wires wriggled their way into Greg’s head. They wrapped around his brainstem and discharged faint electrical charges. Various muscles in Greg’s body tensed, straining against his joints against his will. A tingling flash illuminated every nerve in Greg’s body simultaneously, and then the torment was over. He felt small needle pricks around the wound, then cool unfeeling numbness spread around his head and down his neck. He lay limp for several minutes while the surgical equipment finished its work.
When it was done, Greg was dropped to the floor without warning. He sobbed softly as one hand cautiously explored behind his ear. He felt a metallic slot there, maybe a couple inches long –3.2cm– and barely wide enough to fit anything –1.2mm–. Greg’s had flinched away as he noticed the precise measurements intruding onto his psyche. He slowly moved his hand back to the slot, and felt its dimensions again. It was much longer than wide, roughly –3.2cmx0.12cm–. His hand tensed, but he held still and focused on those numbers. Information began spilling into his head.
...
MindMesh Specifications
Dimensions: –3.2x0.12x4.0cm–
Cryptography: Admin rights prepopulated during installation using the user’s neural pathways as a key. Device will go dormant if separated from its continuous feed of brainstem and extremity neurological data.
Web Connectivity: Device has up to 5Gb/sec download speed from broadcast Cybernet networks. Upload can be completed at any sanctified temple with appropriate hardware. Direct tunneling unsupported.
Remote Connectivity: Offline {Disabled}
Physical Connectivity: Offline {No hardware device found}
Digital Proprioception: Offline {Disabled}
Divine Integration: Device supports native software integration of divine boons and augments up to complexity: Deacon. Corollary physical augmentation requires external hardware.
Disease Prevention: All communication from unregistered third parties disabled. All Admin access keyed to current user’s neurology. If quarantine contamination procedures are ineffective, the user is recommended to self-destruct immediately.
...
The information spilled directly into Greg’s brain, downloaded through his memory. It felt like information recall, only… perfect. It was nauseating on a philosophical level, encroaching on his very sense of self. FUCK THAT. Everyone who walks the divine path has a crisis of self, and I am NOT having mine in the first 30 fucking seconds. Greg envisioned pouring his revulsion into a mason jar, screwing the lid shut, and placing it in storage. He’d pull the emotions back out another time, when he had space to deal with them. It was a trick from his dad, a way to displace unhelpful thoughts and emotions for a later date.
He returned his focus on his new data stream, but quickly ran into another issue. It felt like the system baby-proofed itself on startup. He didn’t have access to most settings, and folder and routine locations that clearly weren’t empty appeared so. He poked around until he found it. –Safemode: Active– Greg had the ability to change this setting, and from the tooltip it seemed disabling it would unlock his admin’s permissions. He braced himself, and mentally flipped the setting.
Safemode: Disabled. Boot in process
…
Remote Connectivity: Searching
Digital Proprioception: Online
Remote Connectivity: Connection Established
Quarantine Level: Very High {Downgraded from Extreme}
Greg’s sense of self doubled as he felt his digital self spring into existence. It felt like an entire second body, joined with his own at the neck, and it immediately fell out of sync of his physical self. Greg hit his limit and vomited onto the ground. He started to curl up, and then vomited again as his virtual presence was forced even more out of sync. He focused on his sense of the digital body, ignoring the red fluid puddling around him. It felt like trying to learn how to walk again, only where every muscle memory response moved his own body instead. Greg gave up on moving his digital self and simply paid attention to it. It had clear boundaries, and he had a clear sense of where it was at all times, but its sensory data was all backward. Some physical objects were imperceptible, and he passed through them seamlessly. Other objects, like the limp tentacles and cords hanging from the ceiling, felt blindingly bright and solid. His jacket, while not bright at all, also felt solid, digitally ‘real’. He focused on a part of his digital self that touched the jacket, and he flowed into it. He could feel the jacket, and in some sense became the jacket. His attention slipped momentarily, and the jacket polymers down his back began constricting. Greg began hyperventilating as he ripped himself out of the jacket entirely, terrified he’d do something wrong and crush his own ribcage with his thoughts.
The instinctual rush out of the jacket lent him some insight into how to maneuver in virtual space. His virtual clone didn’t have muscles, bones, or any moving apparatus, so instead of trying to move his body from inside, he thought about where he wanted to go. Where did he want each piece of himself to end up, and when did he want it to end up there? He let his digital self be pulled in that direction. He used the walls the jacket provided as guard rails, something stable that existed in both the physical and virtual world, as he slowly guided his digital torso back into alignment with himself. Once the torso and arms were in place, Greg took a series of long, slow breaths, relieving some of the nausea and tension. He worked on his legs next, developing a feel for how to move an entire limb somewhere simultaneously, instead of one piece at a time. The trick was to visualize a graph stretched across each of his legs, and at every point along the graph he placed a vector representing what direction he wanted that point to move, and how quickly he wanted it to do so. Finally, he was able to nudge his legs back into synchronization, and the sense-of-self dejavu faded somewhat.
He lay there, in a puddle of half-digested wine, for twenty minutes, composing himself and getting his physical and virtual halves used to moving together in sync. He finally pulled himself to his feet when a panel on the wall in front of Greg cracked open, lowering to reveal a large amphitheater. His room was on the upper edge, and as he looked around, he saw hundreds of similar doorways ringing the upper rim of the amphitheater. Most were closed, but a dozen or so were open like his own. A dozen people were milling around towards the base of the structure.
Greg looked towards the crowd and then back down at himself, covered in vomit. This was not how he wanted to make his debut. He looked up at the malevolent torture devices that kidnapped him and then performed surgery on him without his consent. He shrugged, what else could they do to him? “A little help with this?” Greg gestured to himself. There was momentary silence, before three tentacles dropped down towards him. He stepped back instinctually before stopping, forcing himself to hold still as they sped towards him. Two split open when they arrived, spraying him with jets of cold water smelling faintly of cleaning fluids. They worked him over once from head to foot, then the third blew scalding air over him. His hair became a frazzled mess, but at least he was clean. He nodded at the room “Thanks.” Greg walked to the door, and hesitated. Beyond it was his new world, an entire universe he’d known was there his entire life but was never able to experience. Finally, it was his chance. No regrets. He ran a hand through his hair, fussed at his jacket, then stepped through.
Even from this distance Greg could see that Deimos wasn’t among the dozen people milling around the base of the amphitheater. Hopefully he was okay, and the punch to the side of his head didn’t do permanent damage. Greg decided to walk around the top of the amphitheater, looking into the handful of doors still open. He had made his way around three quarters of the loop when he saw the door next to his original room open. He picked up his pace, jogging to the entrance.
Deimos lay limp in the center of the room, eyes blank and staring at the ceiling. Greg rushed to his side, but when he was halfway there something slammed into him from the front. Disoriented, he slowed to a walk. Greg pushed his hands out in front of him, but the pressure didn’t relent. Something softly slapped his face, and Greg’s eyes grew wide. He closed his eyes and let his digital awareness wash over him. Before him stood a translucent grinning Deimos. A connection request was delivered as he began speaking.
“Look at this Greg! We shall be unbound from mortal chains in no time.” Greg moved his translucent hands to rest on Deimos’ shoulders. His hands tingled at the contact, as a stream of data passed back and forth between them. Much of it was superficial, since all the interesting data was locked behind permissions.
“Deimos! Are you okay? How’s your head feel? That priest really beat the shit out of you.” Greg’s physical eyes were drawn to Deimos’ body, which continued to stare unmoving.
“Tretch repaired all the damage my brain received from blunt force trauma. He replaced my damaged grey matter with a substitute, leaving my brain 6% inorganic material. In order to integrate that section with my inoculation port, he also gave me some localized broadcast capability.”
“Is Tretch…” Greg glanced up at the motionless tentacles hanging above them. “… Him?”
“Yep. Tretch! Come say hello!” Deimos’ code construct shot another communications request towards Tretch and Greg. Greg accepted, and soon he was notified that the user Tretch joined as well.
“Hey there brudda. How’s it hanging?” All the tentacles in the room wiggled. “Get it, hanging?”
Greg chuckled, more from anxiety than humor. “Hi Tretch. It was nice of you to fix Deimos up. I’m surprised you went out of your way considering…” Greg looked for a way to finish his sentence that didn’t use the word kidnapping. “How we met.”
“Oh, that was no trouble. And technically, it helped me out too. I get graded on the quantity and efficacy of those I operate on, and then rewarded accordingly. Your brain-damaged friend over there would have brought down my average, and we can’t have that!”
“So, why don’t you just upgrade everyone that passes through your doors as much as you can?”
"Well TECHNICALLY I have to get you to spec, not above it. I could lobotomize you and still get full credit, so long as you could still pass some intellectual musters. Well, not you then, but probably some of your smarter compatriots. Speaking of, the transport ship of initiates just set down outside. Scooch your asses, I''ll be needing this bay."
Greg stooped down and helped Deimos to his feet. Deimos sent an odd request to Greg as he staggered behind him. [Transpositional Slaving: Chain User Deimos'' virtual projection''s position to User Greg''s virtual projection position] He assented mentally, and Deimos'' virtual form began following Greg’s own, aping his movements and replicating his position in space, albeit delayed by several seconds.
"Want to go say hi to the other new deacons?" Greg asked.
"Hell no. I will not spend all day talking about how glorious this is, when I can just be glorious!" Deimos said.
Greg and Deimos took a seat near the middle of the amplitheather and dove into the digital world. It felt like floating in an ocean of inputs, where distance between two objects was dictated by the flow rate of data, not physical separation. The cybernet hung diffusely in the air of the temple, while heavy throughput cables ran like capillaries through the walls, floor, and seats. Deimos projected his consciousness away from this body and sank into the cables in the floor. His presence shrunk in size as he occupied the much more information-dense material, while his senses bloomed outward. He popped back up after a minute, ballooning back up as he filled the much sparser cybernet diaphora, and sent a communications link to Greg. A tendril snapped in place between the two as Greg accepted his request.
“Come friend, explore this with me. You can feel… Everything.” Deimos disappeared back into the floor.
Greg bookmarked the BIOS page he was perusing and followed Deimos into the floor. He had no broadcasting hardware, so had to leave a tendril of himself connected through the cybernet to his implant. Even though he had to store more and more of himself into the tendril as he moved away, he should be able to project his virtual self a couple hundred feet through the wireless cybernet and several miles through a cabled connection. As he shrunk into the cable next to Deimos, the ocean engulfed him.
“Woah.” Greg rode the stimulus for several seconds, letting it wash over him. He pressed backwards into Deimos, pummeled backwards by information flow. Deimos flowed around Greg, cutting off all external stimulus as he did so.
“Yeah, it took me for a ride too. Here, copy my packet filters. It will help.”
A shiver went up Greg’s spine as he felt Deimos’ words from the communication link be echoed by the vibration of Deimos’ consciousness all around him. It felt intimate, even more so than his yoga routine. Greg shook himself, then froze as his consciousness emulated the gesture, vibrating against Deimos.
Greg copied Deimos’s filter settings into his own. It looked like it filtered everything but header information. “Thanks, let’s try that again then, yeah?” Greg pushed forward against Deimos’ consciousness, and it folded away, exposing part of his consciousness back into the data stream. It was much less overwhelming this time, the violent hailstorm calmed to a heavy drizzle. He began reading the headers of the data that zipped past and was able to get a sense of the flow of traffic. The vast majority indicated an extraterran origin, and most of them came from the Pantheon. This made sense, since Ouray’s temple was sponsored by that organization. The Pantheon referred to the community of ascended gods living in superstructures inside of Mercury’s orbit. They collaborated loosely on several communal projects, one of which was providing accessible inoculation and communion facilities through temples scattered across the Earth. They also supplied a constant stream of information, covenant offers, and bounties to each communion site, and Greg was looking at all that information. Or rather, he was looking at traces of that information as it flew past.
“Where’s this all going?” Greg said.
“Let’s find out.” Deimos’s consciousness burbled in anticipation.
Greg extruded a series of webhooks and wobbled them at Deimos. “Grab on then. Let’s see where this current washes up at.”
Deimos connected to Greg’s webhooks, also forming his own, until they were tightly locked together and sharing sensory information. “Three, two one… Kowabunga!”
Greg and Deimos simultaneously released their hold on the edges on the cable and were swept downstream by the information torrent. They tumbled end over end, pushed back and forth by the endless stream. Greg’s body link trailed limply behind them while his digital footprint was slowly siphoned away into the connection. Cable branch after branch whipped by.
Behind them, travelling with the flow of data and catching up, they sensed a massive file approach. Packets of all sizes were shunted to the side. Greg braced as it drew near and Deimos let tendrils of himself drag along the edge of the optical fiber, pulling them towards the cable’s worn edge. Despite this, the corner of the priority package still clipped them as it flew past. The edge plowed through Greg’s side, compressing 20% of his state memory to gibberish instantly. Most of the webhooks holding Deimos and Greg together were obliterated on impact and the last few became sluggish under the strain of parsing anomalous data. They pinballed back and forth between the cable walls twice and then tumbled into a small offshoot.