The Beam: Season One by Sean Platt, Johnny B. Truant Page A
Authors: Sean Platt, Johnny B. Truant
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radial grass cutters and plenty on nanobots, but nothing related to both. He peeled the web and looked inside for the hell of it, but knew there was no point.
“Search BioFi 7.6.”
This time, the results were even less relevant. There was nothing at all on BioFi (except for one weblog in which the teen author had written that she’d scored poorly on a test in bio and then had run-on with the next sentence, about a friend named Fi) and a few useless hits that included the number 7.6. Doc exploded the BioFi weblog just to be sure, but the creator was a nondescript kid whose network pages held nothing. Even her parents seemed unremarkable.
“Visit Utopior Enhancements.”
Utopior’s virtual storefront appeared before him in a window, complete with a ping asking if he’d care for immersion. Doc touched the ping and his apartment became ghosts of furniture buried in a life-sized holo. Doc stood and wandered the exclusive shop’s aisles, paddling at his sides to scroll the store underfoot. He picked up holo objects and tapped a few for detail. Each time, an enhanced holo of the upgrade appeared in his hands, each time disappointing. Utopior was the most borderline-illegal shop he knew, and the kind of place he could get tossed in jail for visiting. This was supposed to be what the law was keeping from Doc, but even the fanciest upgrades here were nothing compared to what he’d seen at Xenia.
Doc sighed, swiped to close the store, and visited the other shops he’d hacked into over the years: Gillead, Philharmonic, even Fremd Geshenk, which trafficked with Eurasia and was home to any number of biological perversions. If you wanted an ear that could listen to seventy simultaneous pieces of music, you visited Philharmonic, but if you wanted a double cock or an asshole that could shrink to carry a pin or expand to swallow a bookcase, you went to FG. But in all of the stores, what he found paled in comparison to the equipment at Xenia by a factor of ten.
Doc shook his head, annoyed. Then he swiped the search away, rose, and circled the room snuffing lights by pinching his fingers at them. A tune rose as his canvas recognized his movements, and after that, Doc let the computers do the rest. The light in his bedroom came on low. The music was mellow, almost hypnotic, filled with subaural reverberations that would tune his CNS neurons while he slept. The bathroom light came on, beckoning him. Doc washed his face, changed, and tapped the mirror to bring up the next day’s weather. Much of the weather was artificial inside the NAU’s protective lattice, so predictions were usually accurate and conditions fairly good. Doc called up the report and swore. They were letting it rain tomorrow. He’d probably end up hiking through the city and getting soaked on his usual rounds, thanks to the fucking protestors.
Doc shook his head, left the bathroom without swiping the lights off, then watched as they went off anyway. He climbed into his bed, feeling it adjust to his body and warm beneath him. The music and lights dimmed. In ten minutes, they’d both be off, and so would Doc. After the same routine night after night, sleep came easy no matter the preoccupation of his mind.
But after just a few minutes, when the lights and music were only down to half volume, Doc heard a noise in the living room. He stopped and listened, then heard the noise again.
“Canvas,” he said.
He heard no answering chirp.
“Canvas.”
Nothing.
Doc turned, keyed at the headboard of his bed. When nothing happened, he felt his heart pound. Like almost every non-Organa citizen of the NAU (and, let’s be honest, plenty of Organa citizens, too), Doc wasn’t comfortable when severed from The Beam. The Beam comprised Doc’s extra senses. Since it was always there, he’d gotten used to knowing anything he wanted to know, being able to see wherever he wanted to see, and being able to tell with certainty that it was going to
“Search BioFi 7.6.”
This time, the results were even less relevant. There was nothing at all on BioFi (except for one weblog in which the teen author had written that she’d scored poorly on a test in bio and then had run-on with the next sentence, about a friend named Fi) and a few useless hits that included the number 7.6. Doc exploded the BioFi weblog just to be sure, but the creator was a nondescript kid whose network pages held nothing. Even her parents seemed unremarkable.
“Visit Utopior Enhancements.”
Utopior’s virtual storefront appeared before him in a window, complete with a ping asking if he’d care for immersion. Doc touched the ping and his apartment became ghosts of furniture buried in a life-sized holo. Doc stood and wandered the exclusive shop’s aisles, paddling at his sides to scroll the store underfoot. He picked up holo objects and tapped a few for detail. Each time, an enhanced holo of the upgrade appeared in his hands, each time disappointing. Utopior was the most borderline-illegal shop he knew, and the kind of place he could get tossed in jail for visiting. This was supposed to be what the law was keeping from Doc, but even the fanciest upgrades here were nothing compared to what he’d seen at Xenia.
Doc sighed, swiped to close the store, and visited the other shops he’d hacked into over the years: Gillead, Philharmonic, even Fremd Geshenk, which trafficked with Eurasia and was home to any number of biological perversions. If you wanted an ear that could listen to seventy simultaneous pieces of music, you visited Philharmonic, but if you wanted a double cock or an asshole that could shrink to carry a pin or expand to swallow a bookcase, you went to FG. But in all of the stores, what he found paled in comparison to the equipment at Xenia by a factor of ten.
Doc shook his head, annoyed. Then he swiped the search away, rose, and circled the room snuffing lights by pinching his fingers at them. A tune rose as his canvas recognized his movements, and after that, Doc let the computers do the rest. The light in his bedroom came on low. The music was mellow, almost hypnotic, filled with subaural reverberations that would tune his CNS neurons while he slept. The bathroom light came on, beckoning him. Doc washed his face, changed, and tapped the mirror to bring up the next day’s weather. Much of the weather was artificial inside the NAU’s protective lattice, so predictions were usually accurate and conditions fairly good. Doc called up the report and swore. They were letting it rain tomorrow. He’d probably end up hiking through the city and getting soaked on his usual rounds, thanks to the fucking protestors.
Doc shook his head, left the bathroom without swiping the lights off, then watched as they went off anyway. He climbed into his bed, feeling it adjust to his body and warm beneath him. The music and lights dimmed. In ten minutes, they’d both be off, and so would Doc. After the same routine night after night, sleep came easy no matter the preoccupation of his mind.
But after just a few minutes, when the lights and music were only down to half volume, Doc heard a noise in the living room. He stopped and listened, then heard the noise again.
“Canvas,” he said.
He heard no answering chirp.
“Canvas.”
Nothing.
Doc turned, keyed at the headboard of his bed. When nothing happened, he felt his heart pound. Like almost every non-Organa citizen of the NAU (and, let’s be honest, plenty of Organa citizens, too), Doc wasn’t comfortable when severed from The Beam. The Beam comprised Doc’s extra senses. Since it was always there, he’d gotten used to knowing anything he wanted to know, being able to see wherever he wanted to see, and being able to tell with certainty that it was going to
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