I unplugged.
Slowly I come to. As the membranes adjust I once again immerse into the material-space. The splitting headache comes to greet me, as it always does after a full day in cyber-space. I bring my smooth round fingers to massage my temples. Eyes still closed, but sounds now started to enter. I force my brain to resume its perception filters, readying for the onslaught of physical-space stimulus.
“Joe,” a voice cuts through, a dagger to my cranium. “Joe, report.” This time it clears a bit. I can make out a deep timber.
I open my eyes, blinding light coming in. My brain is still raising its filters, slowly but surely. The sensation of dullness replaces the quickened pain. Yes, now everything is better. Light subsides down
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Initial survey concludes attacks are automated and could be predicted with a time-series analysis.
Joe Brandt, Rank 3 Investigator, middle-caste.
I lay the orb down, a sheet onto my desk. More work is needed for those time-series, but I’m quite exhausted. I rub my eyes with the heel of my hands. They feel sore and gummy, but that’s what happens when one is overworked. It is tempting just to take a nap where I’m sitting, but I know that’s not wise. My stomach grows in protest. Best to go home and get something to eat.
It feels good just sitting in my car. No sorting, computing, or reading. Just a state of total recluse, letting my brain restore its glucose levels to healthy functionality. My car drives itself, thank god; I would not have the focus to do it manually. I smile as I wonder back to how humans of old used to drive through traffic after a long day at work. “Spike A997” I tell the navigation com at the front of my car.
“Estimated arrival 15 standard-minutes,” replies the navigation in a feminine British accent. A nice reminder to the diversity of speech thriving in the pre-unified earth
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Sweet and simple as names used to be. I tell you the old is becoming the new again. It’s silly I say, but yet it goes on that way. Even with all the logic we have we still somehow revert to our primal states. How savage, you think so?” Finally she takes a breathe.
“Yes, I think so.” My head still hurts. I need to conserve all my synapses for tomorrow, not debating logic and history.
After a dose of oxygen she starts back at it, “What do you…” Her face softens a bit as the logic sinks in. About time. “Oh by the Tree forgive me. Let’s sit down and eat. You must be ravaged.”
We find an open table by the window. Everything below is just a colony of ants. Nice to be away from such drivel. Once I sit down the logic reminds me of manners. “Oh, I’m Joe by the way. I guess another old name like you say.” Chicken-synth smothered in hot sauce fills the empty void. Juicy and zesty.
“Joe. Quite young for a name like that. Also quite young to be up this high. What floor did you come from? What profession allowed you to climb so?” A deep inhale. “You know, I’ve come from level 223, but it’s a waste to jump up every single floor I qualify. I think I’ll stay until I reach 250. They say if you get high enough you can’t see all the rubble below. No more dirty shacks and