《Mind Prison [A haunting Science Fiction Short Story]》 Chapter 1: A Ruined Evening It¡¯s simple truths that keep me going. ¡°You have to remember, lest you forget¡± is one of them. So I remember. I lie on the floor and remember. For days. For years. ### There I was, I remember, sitting in one of the few reality restaurants left in Boston, overdressed, fidgeting with the velvety box in my pocket. I slid my thumb in and the box nibbled at it like a baby biting his mother¡¯s tit. The ring was still there, and the stone was in place too; the three glittering paychecks of a diamond scratched a bit of comfort into my skin. I left the ring alone for thirty seconds or so and then repeated my neurotic ritual. Normally, I am not like that, but that day, yeah. . . I was OCD in flesh and blood. Where is our goddamn champagne? It¡¯d been fifteen minutes since I slipped a note to our waiter, asking for Dom Perignon. At that point, I was ready to believe he¡¯d missed it. Waiters here didn¡¯t use implants, so one had to mouth-speak the order to them, which they¡¯d scribble on a piece of paper, certain to mess something up. And then you pay tenfold for ¡°authenticity¡±. But, well. . . we all do foolish things for love, and I knew Naomi had a kink for things ¡°real-real.¡± She sat across the table, looking all gorgeous as always, a silvery dress highlighting the deep brown of her skin. ¡°Isn¡¯t it better, babe?¡± she said, gliding her finger along the wooden surface of the table. I tried it too. The finish was rough to maximize the sensation, a cheap trick. I smiled. Vinyl vs digital, tube vs transistor, VR vs R ¨C some people just can¡¯t let go of nostalgia. Dessert was gone; having nothing else to eat, Naomi returned to the remnants of her Caesar salad. All of Caesar¡¯s troops already died a gruesome death, except for the three cherry tomatoes. They slid along the oily plate, escaping the stabs. When they are gone, I thought, waiting will be too obvious. Maybe it¡¯s already too obvious. One of the tomatoes got impaled. Its blood splattered onto the plate, and its mutilated body disappeared between Naomi¡¯s sensual lips. She savored it. As time dragged on, the neighboring table became a bit of a problem. Three aging frat boys around it guffawed louder and louder after each shot. They were at first trying to outquip each other, but as their BAC rose, their jokes disintegrated. ¡°These guys, ¨C¡± one of them said, pointing across the room at an elderly Asian couple. He broke into laughter and slapped the table a few times instead of a punchline. His two buddies were delighted and joined, all three now clacking in unison. One of them pulled the corners of his eyelids to the sides and a new laughter shitbomb exploded. I pretended not to see and was glad Naomi sat with her back to them. Still, the sounds were enough; Naomi tapped her implant as in ¡°let¡¯s get outta here?¡± It was sure tempting to let our chips take over, let them tickle our sensory cortices and make it a normal date where we could revel in gluttony for hours on end, gobble simulated foie gras and caviar without ever getting full. All that with zero calorie consumption and a staggering backdrop of Venus sunset reflected in Naomi¡¯s eyes ¨C what else can you ask for? And yet there was more; with a modest dilation fee, the whole date would take no more than fifteen minutes real-time: less than I¡¯d spent waiting for that accursed champagne. Reality dates suck, no matter how you look at them, but the reservation cost me as much as the ring; might as well enjoy it till the end. Besides, progressive and all, I just can''t see myself as one of those losers who propose in VR. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°Mmm?¡± Naomi tapped her implant again and raised an eyebrow. ¡°Let¡¯s at least wait for the check,¡± I said, faking excitement to make sure she doesn¡¯t feel guilty for dragging us here. As if sharing a precious secret, I leaned forward and added in a half-whisper ¡°they have real paper checks here, have you ever seen one?¡± She laughed at my poor acting but seemed more at ease. Our waiter was finally in sight. He appeared from the kitchen across the hall, carrying a tray with a bottle of champagne, a bunch of fruits, and two pretty-looking desserts. I felt bad for blaming him before ¨C he just added a touch to my special occasion order. I followed the waiter with my gaze which placed my line of sight just above the frat boys'' heads. ¡°Hey, you! Whatcha staring at?¡± one of them spluttered. His buddies giggled in approval. ¡°I¡¯m not staring, I was just ¡ª ¡± ¡°Also what¡¯s that thing you brought?¡± the man interrupted, nodding at Naomi, ¡°You have a fetish or something?¡± All three¡¯d lost it, one of them choked on his beer and spat it over the table. Something snapped as months of pent-up jittery anticipation, planning, saving, and hoping were trampled on and smeared in shit by some random asshole. It was so absurd and unfair I had to either act or break in tears. I stood up. Out of fear or anger, my knees trembled; I hoped Naomi didn¡¯t notice. I wished I¡¯d stayed seated and found a nice retort to shut the frat boys up. I even wished I could sit back down, but to fold in like that is not something a man can live off in his woman¡¯s eyes. So I did the only thing left to me and approached the guy. ¡°What?¡± he said with a broad smile. ¡°Say that again,¡± I said, barely forming words in my dry mouth, pushing myself deeper into the corner. What do I do if he does say it again? Can¡¯t let it slide, can¡¯t stand here getting laughed at, and brawling with three bigger guys would only get me humiliated¡­ ¡°Oh I said nothing, buddy,¡± the frat boy said, struggling to keep a straight face. I prayed for him to stop there, but he went on, ¡°it¡¯s just that a Western man must have some standards where to shove his di¡ª¡± The waiter approached just in time for me to reach the bottle. The frat boy collapsed, a dark streak of blood oozed from his temple where the implant once was. A bloody chunk of hair and skin was stuck to the bottom of Dom Perignon that I held in my hand. The other two frat boys kept laughing. The waiter stood with a smile, his tray empty. I looked at Naomi, but somehow she did not look right. I could barely recognize her, I just knew it must be her. But it was not her, it was some beautiful lady looking exactly like Naomi, with Naomi¡¯s face and body, but¡­ not¡­ Naomi. I don¡¯t know how else to explain it. I looked back at the waiter and did not recognize him either. His tray was gone. The frat boys were gone. All around me turned soft, plasticky, strange. My hands, feet, and the tongue in my mouth felt as if they were made of rubber, they were not mine. My vision faded. Chapter 2: Housewarming I woke up here, where I lie on the floor and remember. ¡°Here¡± is a uniform white from all around, but I discovered by touch that it has four walls and a floor. The light comes from everywhere, from every point in space. When I cover my eyes, there is no darkness ¨C I see my palms as clearly as always. There might be a ceiling, but I couldn¡¯t see the seam that separates it from the walls. For the first week or so, I could not accept this ignorance. I ripped strips from my clothing (a white jumpsuit I¡¯d never seen before) and rolled them into balls about one inch in diameter. I moistened them with saliva for added weight and threw them up to see if they hit anything. They never did. To this day, I still don¡¯t know if there is a ceiling or not. If there is, it¡¯s at least forty feet high. Eventually, I gave up, or, rather, gave in to another obsession. I wanted to change something, anything in this place. The room did not allow me. Everything was absolute, permanent. Even the jumpsuit. I ripped it to pieces, threw it into a corner, ate it ¨C it always reappeared on me whenever I closed my eyes or lost concentration, new and pristinely clean. I soon discovered I was permanent too. I ran headlong into a wall, jumped up and landed onto my head at all possible angles, trying to break my neck. It hurt, but nothing changed. If I broke my teeth or gouged my eyes out, they, too, came back. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. ¡°Convict N9156536,¡± a robotic voice boomed from all around as I lay on the floor after one of such attempts. I jumped up. ¡°For a crime of second-degree murder, you have been sentenced to ten years in mind prison without the possibility of parole. Do you understand your sentence?¡± ¡°Fuck,¡± I yelled. The voice distracted me, so the thick wad of hair which I¡¯d been forming into a doll for the last few hours disappeared from my hand. With a strange tingling sensation, each follicle I¡¯d pulled out for this art project returned to its proper position on my scalp. ¡°Convict N9156536, for contempt of court your sentence is increased by one day in mind prison. Your current sentence is nine years, ten months, three days, five hours, thirteen minutes, and thirty-five seconds. Do you understand your sentence?¡° ¡°Get me the hell out of here!¡± ¡°Convict N9156536, for contempt of court your sentence is increased by one day in mind prison. Your current sentence is nine years, ten months, four days, five hours, twelve minutes, and fifty-four seconds. Do you understand your sentence?" I kept silent. ¡°Do you understand your sentence? Do you understand your sentence? Do you understand your sentence?¡± the voice droned every few seconds. I covered my ears, but it only got louder. ¡°Yes!¡± I said when it became unbearable. ¡°Good,¡± the room answered, now in a softer, feminine voice. I know this voice, I thought, but I could not recall where from. ¡°I am glad to see you have acquainted yourself with your cell. We will soon begin reformative training.¡± Chapter 3: Reformative training The training began. The walls of the room expanded and ripped into floating chunks of matter that morphed into people and tables, waiters, chairs, and walls of the Boston restaurant where it all started. ¡°Do you want to get out?¡± Naomi asked, tapping her implant. It was her voice! I tried to nod ¡°yes, let¡¯s get out,¡± but could not; my memories played like a movie all the way until the fratboy repeated his words. I did the same as before. The guy died, the restaurant dissolved. I got ten years on top, it was now nineteen. I lay on the floor, deciding what was more atrocious: the room that stole Naomi¡¯s voice, or I, who forgot it. Sworn to never let it happen again, I gave up on art and self-mutilation and began to remember. I lay on the floor for weeks on end, remembering. It never hurts. The floor here is not hard, but it is not soft either. It is nothing. I never eat, but I am never hungry. The place is not real and does not even pretend to be. For that, I am grateful. I¡¯ve spent years concentrating on the past. Bit by bit, I recalled every detail, every taste of every bite of food we ate that day, every joke, every smell, and every touch. I know them all now, I remember the day more vividly than when I lived through it. The room ¡°reformed¡± me once a month. I cracked the guy¡¯s skull a few more times, but when the sentence got over sixty years, I stopped. What¡¯s the point? Who can I impress here? The chip that simulates these skulls in my brain? Myself? What is so honorable about cracking virtual skulls while I, real I, stand there with my eyes wide open, zapped by military-grade time dilation? From time to time the room threw a curveball. No restaurant, somebody just punches me in the face, and I have to not stab them, and so on. It was mostly grotesque and stupid, but I slipped once: the three fratboys did unspeakable things to Naomi as I stood and watched with a revolver in my hand. I snapped and shot all three. Got thirty years and had to watch that sim only for ten years or so. Stolen story; please report. ### I need to get out. I don¡¯t know what will happen if I live here forever, and I don¡¯t want to find out. Nobody talks much about mind prisons. Everybody just knows they exist, like Alcatraz did. Some philosophers, I heard, love them. Mind-prisons are somehow more ethical, forward simulation ensures no false convictions, no free will debates, no minority report-like conundrums, wada-wada. Politicians are fond of them also ¡ª no wonder ¡ª with mind prison algorithms in place, petty crimes now make national news; nothing violent to report on. That¡¯s progress, that¡¯s measurable. But then whenever anyone gets out, they refuse to speak. ¡°It will break you¡± is all they say. I don¡¯t know about that. It¡¯s not too bad when you get used to it, when you have a purpose. I do: to get out and land my strike, this time for real. I won''t kill the brat though, only break his jaw, teach him a lesson. I want to get back to Naomi, after all, not into real prison for murder. Assault is fine though; a few hundred hours of community service is a fair price to stay a man in my woman¡¯s eyes. Besides, we''d make headlines: the first violent crime in decades done in the name of love. Interviews, talk shows, a bestseller autobiography. Naomi gets the first copy, reads the first scene, finds out I was about to propose; just then, I drop on one knee, ring in hand. Quite a story for our grandkids. My plan is simple. I don¡¯t know when the chip caught me, where was the touted "seamless transition from real criminal intent to simulated criminal action," but it can''t be too early: I myself didn''t know what my intent was before I grabbed the bottle. I¡¯ll probably be back in the middle of the swing, like in most sims. Pretending to avert the blow as I am trained to do, I will instead redirect it into the jaw and hope the implant won''t have the time to react. As for the room ¨C I figured out what it wants. It drills me to act properly when I¡¯m released. It never tells me how much time is left anymore. It hopes I¡¯ll grow complacent. It hopes I won¡¯t recognize the ¡°real-real¡± when it comes. Well. . . it is wrong. Chapter 4: The Struggle Memory is my weapon. I remember some things the room does not know. The ring, for example, has seven smaller gems, but the room thinks it¡¯s five. I can count to see if I¡¯m in a sim. The ring box too, the room messes it up, gives it a smooth surface, but I remember it was velvet. I only have ten such clues left, although I had many more. The room is smart. I was reckless at first and looked at Naomi¡¯s fork every time. In the sims, tomatoes were always impaled at once. They could still slip along the plate, the physics were perfect, it was Naomi that was messed up. She struck them with too much precision, applying force exactly at the center of mass, not a micron off. Tomatoes died without a fight, unable to break the symmetry. The room fixed it. The sims got better. Naomi now struggles as the real one did. The room, I think, notices somehow what I look for when I try to tell if the sim is real or not, and adjusts it. I began hiding the clues I had. In the sims, I looked around, I looked at everything and at nothing at all so that the room couldn¡¯t tell what I was looking for. The room went wild in response. The restaurants were a little different every time, some details were absent, some were added, some sims only had one thing in common with the original, some none. The room hoped to figure it out one thing at a time, but I prevailed. It got tough though. Things morphed a little too smoothly. The faces, the temperature, the food taste, shades of Naomi¡¯s hair, undertones in frat boys'' voices ¨C the room changed them from sim to sim so subtly it was hard to keep my memories pure. The sims seeped into them, distorted them. I could not rely on anything vague anymore, only things with names, things concrete. Like the champagne which the room thought was Chardonnay, like the sharp bevels on the ring which the room thought were smooth, like the velvet box which the room thought was glossy. Those can not merge. It¡¯s either Dom Perignon or Chardonnay, either velvet or gloss, there is no in-between. ### I held on. I cherished the few clues I had, I never relied on any one of them alone, not to give myself away. One I haven¡¯t used at all, the velvet box. I checked on it from time to time to see if the room still gets it wrong, but never based my decision on it. And yet, year by year, no matter how careful I was, the sims were zeroing in on reality. I¡¯d even lost Dom Perignon, the room figured it out. Don¡¯t ask me how. With only nine clues left, I felt like it might get me, after all. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. But then I won. I don¡¯t know what happened. Maybe it short-circuited, divided by zero, I don¡¯t know¡­ But the room gave up, and the sims went all over the place, not even close to what they mimic. Now, for example, it again threw me into something bizarre. The woman across the table does not even look like Naomi ¨C she¡¯s younger, but has no class; a piece of flesh to spend a night with, if that. Perhaps not ¨C she has nowhere to rest eyes on, let alone find beauty. No matter where the sim makes me look, there is something repulsive: the fake lashes and a mindless gooey stare, a thick layer of tonal that fails to cover acne, a desperate push-up bra under a gaudy see-through blouse. None of it says woman. The frat boys laugh ¨C thank God, I¡¯m glad to be distracted ¨C but it¡¯s not a guffaw it was, more of a chuckle, and the three of them are not the bratty muscular types with chiseled jaws and imposing forearms, but balding middle-aged men with beer bellies. One of them looks at me and says his lines. This time I can¡¯t even blame him ¡ª this ¡°Naomi¡± looks like an underage drug addict: one must have some kind of fetish to date that. The sim walks me to the man, makes me reach for the bottle. Control comes back a bit later than usual, in the middle of the swing. I redirect the bottle away, it chinks, brushing against his hairless crown. The swing leaves me open. The guy grabs a steak-knife from the table and lunges forward. He limps in the midst of the strike and I only feel a feeble poke against my ribs which does not even cut my shirt. The man hugs me and clings to my jacket to keep his balance. Automatically, I help him upright. He looks at me, and, I swear, there are tears in his eyes. He sobs and borrows his head into my chest. A muffled ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡± comes with bits of snot and tears, leaving a wet spot on my shirt. His buddies stop laughing and stare at us. ¡°What next?¡± I ask the ceiling. ¡°Are they going to be kindergartners? Naomi will be a mannequin? This is pathetic, you¡¯re out of ideas!¡± I look around, waiting for the restaurant to disintegrate, but the sim drags on. The sobbing man pulls me by the sleeve to sit down in his chair, pours me a shot. His buddies cling to their beer bottles as if needing some support to go through with what they are seeing. Naomi, or whatever this teenage slut is called, approaches me and runs her bony hand along my back. ¡°How many?¡± the frat-man asks, struggling with his drunken tongue. ¡°How many what?¡± ¡°I got ten, thirth¡ª thirthy total,¡± he whimpers, ignoring my question. ¡°I''m sorry for all that, I really am, man,¡± he says, leaning onto my shoulder, breathing his confession into my face. ¡°What is it?¡± I yell, spreading my arms and looking up ¡°What do I need to do to pass? Give him a fucking therapy session?¡± The guy squeezes my hand and takes a long look into my eyes. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry,¡± he says and bursts into sobs again. All of this gets on my nerves. Something is off with this sim. Everything feels sticky, gross; I want to vomit. I fidget on the chair, I sweat, my pants stick to my legs, it itches. The girl rubs my damp back, trying to make her clumsy touch alluring. I shiver in disgust. Something is very off. Long-abandoned neurotic habit trumps all precautions. I reach into my pocket. The box is there. Velvet.