Nothing in his facial expressions suggests there is any problem. We don’t speak for severalminutes. The growing discomfort in the room is evident. I decide to break the silence with a whispered inquiry.
‘Do you know who Miller’s last client was?’
Tweek shoots me a stern look. Solace Strategies vehemently discourages employees from talking about work outside of what is absolutely necessary. Gossip regarding clients and sessions is strictly forbidden. Every pimp comes down hard on theirhookers for disobedience, and we’re no different. I don’t care though. I return Tweek’s stern look, wanting a reply. Enough seconds go by for me to realize that he doesn’t know the answer to the question. Solace keeps the company compartmentalized, protecting client confidentiality even more so.
‘Horseshit,’ I snarl. ‘Poor Miller buys the farm, and the bastard renting him gets to live on.’
‘That’s not possible, Rhodes. You know that.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Who says it’s living anyway?’ Tweek says with a grim smile. ‘The Post-Mortems certainly don’t.’
Post-Mortems: our name for those that cheat death by digitally converting and uploading their consciousness. It’s probably the world’s biggest and best-kept secret, but Tweek will tell you that virtual living ain’t all that shit hot. Tweekwill tell you that those in the VR worlds, designed by the best computer programmers on the planet, aren’t having the time of their lives. Get a few drinks in him and Tweek will tell you that some Post-Mortems can’t handle more than six months on a hard drive before requesting permanent deletion.
Tweek will also tell you that the more time a Post-Mortem spends in virtual reality, the less recognizablethey become. After a few years of living in a server system, a Post-Mortem can often seem more like a bot than a person if they don’t get out and interact with the real world enough. With a Husk, they do whatever they have to do in order to feel alive again. My job is about conforming and complying with what is desired of me. Show up and shut up for down payment and download, that’s a Husk’sday in a nutshell. In the past I haven’t asked too many questions. Lately, I’ve been more inclined to.
‘What’s it really like?’ I ask.
‘What is what like?’
‘Being Post-Mortem.’
Tweek hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his lab coat and searches his head for an appropriate answer. Few of the living really know for sure, and Post-Mortems don’t care to discuss it much. They see it as being partofanother of their many exclusive clubs or societies, membership required for knowledge. Digitization of the human brain is a one-way trip, a conversion of consciousness following a decision that must be made before flat-lining. After the process is complete, it’s not your real brain any more. It’s a recursive real-time copy that allows you to keep thinking, keep conscious via computer supportand algorithms designed to mimic your original self from a mass of collected data. The only way Post-Mortems are able to upload to the living is through the Ouija; the converter mechanism that allows them limited visitations in the flesh.
The Ouija is one of the reasons not just anyone can Husk. Biological and digital can’t work together without the right grease. That grease costs more than yourbachelor’s degree in whatever the fuck you thought was a good idea at the time, and three to four hours of high-risk black-market brain surgery. Just like pimps don’t pay for breast implants or chemical peels, Husks have to invest in their own tech, paying out of their own pocket to put themselves on the operating table. Survive the operation, and you can work off the debt afterwards. More thana few aspiring Husks have gone no further than under the knife.
‘I’ve heard it’s like video games,’ Tweek says finally. ‘Y’know when you grab a five-star title and you sit down to play it and it’s frigging awesome and
‘Do you know who Miller’s last client was?’
Tweek shoots me a stern look. Solace Strategies vehemently discourages employees from talking about work outside of what is absolutely necessary. Gossip regarding clients and sessions is strictly forbidden. Every pimp comes down hard on theirhookers for disobedience, and we’re no different. I don’t care though. I return Tweek’s stern look, wanting a reply. Enough seconds go by for me to realize that he doesn’t know the answer to the question. Solace keeps the company compartmentalized, protecting client confidentiality even more so.
‘Horseshit,’ I snarl. ‘Poor Miller buys the farm, and the bastard renting him gets to live on.’
‘That’s not possible, Rhodes. You know that.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Who says it’s living anyway?’ Tweek says with a grim smile. ‘The Post-Mortems certainly don’t.’
Post-Mortems: our name for those that cheat death by digitally converting and uploading their consciousness. It’s probably the world’s biggest and best-kept secret, but Tweek will tell you that virtual living ain’t all that shit hot. Tweekwill tell you that those in the VR worlds, designed by the best computer programmers on the planet, aren’t having the time of their lives. Get a few drinks in him and Tweek will tell you that some Post-Mortems can’t handle more than six months on a hard drive before requesting permanent deletion.
Tweek will also tell you that the more time a Post-Mortem spends in virtual reality, the less recognizablethey become. After a few years of living in a server system, a Post-Mortem can often seem more like a bot than a person if they don’t get out and interact with the real world enough. With a Husk, they do whatever they have to do in order to feel alive again. My job is about conforming and complying with what is desired of me. Show up and shut up for down payment and download, that’s a Husk’sday in a nutshell. In the past I haven’t asked too many questions. Lately, I’ve been more inclined to.
‘What’s it really like?’ I ask.
‘What is what like?’
‘Being Post-Mortem.’
Tweek hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his lab coat and searches his head for an appropriate answer. Few of the living really know for sure, and Post-Mortems don’t care to discuss it much. They see it as being partofanother of their many exclusive clubs or societies, membership required for knowledge. Digitization of the human brain is a one-way trip, a conversion of consciousness following a decision that must be made before flat-lining. After the process is complete, it’s not your real brain any more. It’s a recursive real-time copy that allows you to keep thinking, keep conscious via computer supportand algorithms designed to mimic your original self from a mass of collected data. The only way Post-Mortems are able to upload to the living is through the Ouija; the converter mechanism that allows them limited visitations in the flesh.
The Ouija is one of the reasons not just anyone can Husk. Biological and digital can’t work together without the right grease. That grease costs more than yourbachelor’s degree in whatever the fuck you thought was a good idea at the time, and three to four hours of high-risk black-market brain surgery. Just like pimps don’t pay for breast implants or chemical peels, Husks have to invest in their own tech, paying out of their own pocket to put themselves on the operating table. Survive the operation, and you can work off the debt afterwards. More thana few aspiring Husks have gone no further than under the knife.
‘I’ve heard it’s like video games,’ Tweek says finally. ‘Y’know when you grab a five-star title and you sit down to play it and it’s frigging awesome and
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