I have spent years scoffing at the idea of the Phantasm. Mankind is struggling to put food on their tables. People are being murdered in ghettos while gangs divide cities. Chicago police are renowned around the globe for not tolerating injustice within their borders. I’m lucky to live here, but the rest of the country doesn’t have that luxury. So while all of this is going wrong, Genesis Division, the largest conglomerate in the states spends their time investing in escapism instead of addressing real issues.
My thesis adviser caught me at school burning the midnight oil. He dropped a credit on my phone for the local Phantasm cafe. I argued with him and all I got was, “You need to get away from it for a bit. Go for a walk in the country.” I might have taken him too literally when I selected the Canadian wilderness.
There have been numerous studies regarding how the Phantasm pods circumvent the body’s senses. There are many places where people can congregate and interact with avatars from around the world. Home units are so common that the cafe pods are seen as a decadent item. I’m not a prude, but stripping down in a room with a technician watching left me uneasy. I laid down in the pod and the technician walked through the process and then initiated the simulation.
How do I describe it? I could taste a richness in the air, a mix of fresh air and moisture so thick each breath is like a drink of water. The tiny pebbles along the water are smoothed and massage the feet. Caribou are snacking just beyond the tree line, watching me with curiosity as I calibrate my virtual body. I want to touch the water, but the chill in the air assures me it would be even colder. An eagle dives along the lake catching a fish, and for a moment my brain tricks me into thinking I’m as free as the winged predator.
My brain knew I was in a metal coffin. Logic told me all of it was fake, a construct by a talented coder. However, my body didn’t care. Once I stopped trying to dissect the experience, I found myself surrounded by a beautiful landscape. I spent the hour walking along the lake, contemplating life. It might have been the first time in my life I didn’t feel the stress of success crushing me. I didn’t think about my dissertation once. Chicago was a world away.
A doorway appeared signaling my departure, and I’ll admit, my animosity toward the Phantasm was replaced with bit of empathy with the people seeking to escape. I paused to take one last glimpse of nature’s beauty. I could swear, a man stood at the water’s edge watching me. I asked the technician and he assured me as the mind detached from the simulation echoes of our memories could surface. He babbled something about neural something. It was only an hour, but I feel energized. I have some research to do, but I think I might have a grasp on this thesis. Now, back to work.
When you open the door and synthetic greets you, your first reaction is always fear. The hollow husks of law enforcement have a reputation of conducting themselves in a way that, let’s just say, seems extreme to the flesh-and-blood population. But there it stood, its white and silver chassis. Even without eyes, you get the feeling it’s staring at you, or more like, it’s staring through you. Alone it almost didn’t seem as threatening, until it raised the rifle and a computerized voice said, “Madison Walker, you are needed for questioning.”
I almost died.
The machine wasn’t as aggressive as I’d seen on the news feeds. Granted, most of those were trying to stop rioters, looters, and gang violence. This one gave me a moment to grab my phone and let me lock the door to my apartment. It held the door open for me as we exited the building and even helped me into the back of the police transport. There were humans driving and the synthetic stayed in the back with me. The machine had been sent into a potentially dangerous situation while the humans sat safely inside their vehicle. Did the police think I was dangerous? I have a taser for emergencies, but beyond that, the most dangerous thing about me is my singing voice.
At the police station they put me in a small room. Everybody was civil and polite even if they were a bit stand offish. When Detective Chen sat me down and started asking about my experiences with Children I got my first clue as to why I was brought in. I answered honestly, other than seeing them in videos, I don’t think I ever met one in person. He asked me about the Church of Nostradamus. There was a small branch of the church a block over from my apartment, but other than tossing loose change into the donation bin for the homeless, I’d never set food inside. Then he slid the photo across the desk. I expected it to be the man with the dark eyes, but it was the circular hawk. My job has lot of gag orders, but I was able to tell him I had seen it thanks to work.
Now I had questions. What is the hawk? How did it tie into the Children? What did the Church have to do with it? The man gave me little to nothing. Just said it was a symbol pre-corruption used by the Children of Nostradamus. When he leaned forward to grab the photo, he made his one and only slip. The pen in his pocket, the one cops infamously use to jot notes in their archaic notebooks had a company name in thin letters, “Genesis Division.” He tapped a finger on my cell phone and loaded his cell and work number and said, “If you come across this symbol again, I’d appreciate a phone call.”
He offered me a ride home, but I opted to walk. I hadn’t heard back from work yet, and seriously, I needed some time outside away from my thesis (which was going nowhere.) Something about work, about that hawk had pinged the largest conglomerate in the world and landed me without a job. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but it was the first time I need to use the word “conspiracy.” There weren’t many pieces to the puzzle yet, but I had a long walk ahead of me to figure it out.
My power went out again. The rolling black outs for low priority residents in the Free Republic persist and it doesn’t appear there is any end in sight. I wish I could afford a generator, but eating and paying for text books remain a priority. So for now, I’m holed up in a Phantasm Hub paying for electricity while watching people partake in their virtual reality fixation. I spend my days scanning newspapers and cataloging photographs to put history back together, and Genesis Division believes the answer to our problems exist in a make-believe universe. Mankind has issues.
Today at work my promotion went sideways. I was part of a Specialist team and while looking through a delivery from our Chicago acquisitions department, I stumbled upon a photograph of a man with black eyes. I couldn’t make out what the Child’s ability might be, perhaps the black eyes were the extent of it? When I submitted the entry, no alarms went off. When I went back and added the circular bird tattoo on his neck, the head of Data Entry had me called to his office. He commended me on my work and wished me well, but made it clear he wanted me to take the rest of the day off. They never “urge” us to take time off. Something about the man with black eyes and the tattoo triggered an internal alarm. When I returned to my office, the photograph was missing. Right now, I don’t know if I have a job or if this is their subtle way of terminating my position. I lasted a week.
The week of horrible doesn’t end there. I met with my thesis advisor and pitched my topic. I’m not even going to say what it was, the man simply said, “Derivative. He suggested I dig deeper, claiming that my topic is “surface level thinking.” I appreciate the candid feedback, but can I catch a break? So world, here I am, potentially unemployed, not-yet-graduated, and hanging out with people incapable of coping with reality. What’s next? I fully expect to go home this evening to find an eviction notice on my door. For now, back to brainstorming, maybe I can do research on the Phantasm and the necessity of escapism in a catastrophic society? Or maybe I can bang my head against this table. Till next time.
The Corruption wiped out all electronically stored data connected to the internet. To this day, we don’t know the origins of the virus or who unleashed it on the world. It had the potential to wipe all computer systems clean, but it primarily focused on stored data. This meant photos, text documents, basically anything we kept as mementos of our past experiences. Between the Second Civil War and the Corruption, huge chunks of the Free Republic’s history have vanished. That’s where I come in.
My father is a historian specializing in the Isolation. I’ve always wanted to be like my dad, even working on my Doctorate in Pre-Corruption history. To put myself through school, I work in Data Reconstruction, one of the most important jobs of our centuries (read: boring.) We scour the world for physical evidence of our lost past. From newspapers to vintage photographs, we collect data and enter it into the database. I find it funny that I’m converting relics into the digital world because the digital world got wiped out. I’ve been there for two years and recently appointed to as a “specialist” focusing on data involving the Children of Nostradamus. Since the 21st century, these individuals have popped up across the world, with what I can only describe as a super abilities. Part of my job is to discover when it started happening and what caused it. They fascinate me.
Meanwhile, I should be grateful for a top priority position and significant pay increase. College ain’t cheap and those bills aren’t going to pay themselves. It’s ironic, I’m working at piecing together the past and here I am detailing my every thought. I guess the historian in me needs to record everything. I should probably get back to my thesis and figure out my topic. I only wish my father were here, he’d know the perfect spot for me to focus in on. Till next time.