this world will break your heart

Part 1: Garbage City - Chapter 16

I actually feel something. Tessa's introduction gnaws at my brainstem. Could there be a better way? Would it be worth it to remove myself from the society that I had been unleashed upon? I knew that if I joined the Real Humans that would be it. If I looked at my life, I was always trying to connect and change things—often through illegal activity. Sonny's gang had led me down the path. Maybe we weren't revolutionaries but we were doing things our way. We were saying a big fuck you to the implant establishment. I feel rudderless, disconnected, and like I could sink into the conveyor sidewalks and be transported everywhere and nowhere.

Am I even free to do that? The real power to make a decision has left me when I signed that paperwork and swapped my meat heart for a metal one. And what about trying to be good? Is that so bad? What is it about fitting in and just getting one with things, having an "easy life" that makes me feel trapped? I wouldn't be spending the rest of my life at Garbage City. I could get a better job. I could go back to school and study to be a medical/dental technician or Skyway repair. I could meet someone: someone richer than me. And I could petition to move in with him. We could start a family—lining up those little test tubes containing our baby clones on the windowsill and watching them grow. I would have to explain to him that I could only be cloned because of the prison operation and he would understand. "Cloning isn't that weird," he would say. In fact, three of his best friends were clones and they turned out just fine. I could be all of those things. I have the potential to be this person: normal, happy, and productive.

Except I don't want that. My anger would only allow those test tubes to grow so big before I smashed them all. I don't want to bring another life into this world—cloned or otherwise. And nobody would really ever love me. They may treat me as a curiosity for a while, but when it comes to actually petitioning a change in habitation, I would be left standing there in front of the magistrate machine waiting. He wouldn't show up. Why would he? I am not worth it. Everyone knows that. I just have trouble accepting it.

Because every time I see those little handmade signs, I feel a hit of adrenalin. They are positioned just above eyeline so people who don't look up, who keep their eyes down or straight ahead won't see them. People too absorbed in their match-5 games and sleeve texting won't notice how they hang on the hydro poles—small and handmade, tattered edges, and wood finishing:

Your puppet days are over.

Are you ready to be real?

Can you live a day without your implants?

Should a human require charging?

What will be left of you when your body is gone?

And so on. Messages that questioned everything we were taught to accept about ourselves. Just seeing these options, I feel that snapping feeling of a world slightly askew fixing into focus. I am again impressed by the brazenness of this so-called underground group. They are responsible for the destruction of plastic surgery, stem cell labs, amputations parlors, and body modification centers, but they spend money to create handmade calls to arms and scatter their manifesto in bad neighborhoods.

I need to actually think about my next steps and not just space out into crumbled nothing, pretending that I wasn't indulging in some heavy open lid dreams. Tessa has offered to help me, however begrudgingly. She could give me that key that would help me take back control. Or it could be a total disaster. I duck into a nearby mall for some quiet. Each level is teaming with people, each moving silently, all plugged in. They clutter in groups all utterly absorbed by their own soundtrack. Not talking but moving as teams, using some modified sign language and gestures to communicate, wrapped in the silence. Ever so often someone would nod and little packs would switch directions, swimming up the escalator in roller boots and slipper flippers. Sitting in the glow of the food court with over 10,000 vending options and salad bots busily preparing selections of delicacies, I could finally think. The stillness was a comfort and the smells of ultra bleach engulfed me and burned my membranes.

I notice a line of people forming around the vending booths. When I switch off my speakers, it's the only sound. It's a buzz of human activity and dialogue. I wander over, equally curious but always just bored enough to investigate. An escape from the hard work of figuring myself and my life out. "The Truth by Neufchatel" the machine announces. It is a booth with bright colors. The privacy screen and a small stool remind me of the photo booths of the olden times—before you could capture an image by blinking and have it appear on the internet within minutes.

I have actually heard of The Truth—most people have. Prototypes are usually launched in larger markets. Cities that are less prone to poverty and more spiritual in nature. The idea that Amaltheia has its own version of The Truth is pretty surprising. The Truth could scan you, read your biometrics rhythms, use light, use smells, and then tell you the answers to your problems. All of them. The Truth is used by celebrities and politicians to decide their next move. Important people are shipped The Truth for free. It sits in their entrance ways and bedrooms, waiting to provide counsel and comfort. For the rest of us, we are required to swipe for insights. I feel this pull to The Truth. It reaches inside me and I realize I should ask The Truth what I need to do.

The Truth will help me.

Pushing my way through the crowd of randos, I calculate my credits against a list of truth options. If I swiped everything, I could learn my entire destiny. I would be broke, but enlightened. If I swipe half my credits, I may learn some facts but will be ultimately unsatisfied. I will feel like I could have done more to help myself. It actually says this on the side of the booth, so it must be true. I definitely don't want this. I decide to go for broke and eat nutrition paste until payday.

I stick my arm under the scanner and step into The Truth booth. What happens next can only be described as the world's lamest light show. Some randomly generated sounds that feel like they were collected from the background tracks of an old plasma about the secret life of whales complete the experience. When all this is done, the solid wall in front of me transforms into a mirror. "Behold your Truth!" a voice announces. And I waited to behold it. After the appropriate time for a dramatic effect, the pause has long past, and nothing happens, I get up from the stool. The Truth is broken. No...actually, even worse, The Truth is probably a knockoff. "Stupid machine. Fuck you, The Truth. I'm done with this garbage. Eating nutrition paste until payday, for what?"

I announced to no-one in particular.

"I'm done!"

And The Truth springs back to life. "Thank you for using The Truth. It was in you the whole time. Please exit to your left and don't forget to tell all your friends about The Truth...by Neufchatel."

I am ready to be real. Maybe The Truth works after all.