Guy Lingham
“Did you know you only use ten percent of your brain?” the salesman chimes at passing shoppers. “With the latest in brainwave technology from NeuralNet, you can get paid for the rest of it!”
The excess of zeros on his advertising banner gives me pause.
“That can’t be right,” I say. “They’ll pay that much annually to use the back half of my brain?”
“Not annually.” He grins and licks his lips. “They’ll pay you that much monthly.”
I write down my details with a complimentary pen. With that much money, I won’t need a brain. I could pay other people to think for me.
“The surgery has been approved by all major regulators,” he explains. “You retain total ownership of twenty percent, enough to allow for cognitive failover. The rest is cleaned and prepared for enterprise server space, with a tiny sliver reserved for telemetry.”
“Telemetry?”
“Oh, that’s the best bit. It monitors activity and prevents anything that could damage the implant, but it also analyses your subconscious to determine exactly what you need as a customer. It knows what you want before you do!”
I’m not entirely sure that’s a benefit, but with such a large paycheck, I don’t need to be.
The surgery is as quick as the salesman had promised, with the whole procedure taking less than an hour and leaving only the tiniest scratch on my temple. After returning my belongings, the nurse asks me to check my bank balance and confirm I’ve received the welcome bonus. The green spike on my phone renders my life savings invisible and makes me queasier than the prospect of brain surgery had. Celebration is in order.
A limo drives me to a restaurant with a booking fee higher than my rent, and I order more than ten people could eat. The food tastes grey, and my mind stings with fleeting thoughts of primes and binaries, but the nurse did say there would be teething issues. Still, with every bite I lap up the royal treatment, dreading the trip home to my dingy apartment.
“Thank you so much for dining for us,” says the waitress, salivating at the size of the tip. “Here’s the keycard to your room, courtesy of NeuralNet.”
They know what I want before I do.
My room is extravagant. King bed, jet bath, great view, and most importantly, private minibar. I throw the fridge door open without a care for the cost and fish out the most expensive whisky I can find.
Lightning sparks through my fingers and forces the bottle from my grasp.
“Warning,” reads a flashing message across my vision, “consumption of alcohol is liable to damage NeuralNet asset.”
I try again to the same response and curse the small print that money glossed over.
Overnight I fail to catch a wink of sleep. Network traffic streams relentlessly through my skull. Gigabytes of encrypted data press behind my eyes and whine across my ears. Without booze to numb out the noise, I pass the hours watching Formula 1 reruns—the closest to unconsciousness I could get.
Things are quieter in the morning. Perhaps my brain is mostly used by Chinese servers? I’m tired, sober, and cranky, but I’m also filthy rich. On the doorstep of my hotel suite sits a neatly wrapped gift with a tag that reads, “With compliments from NeuralNet.” Inside is a shining car key embossed with a logo that makes my insides squeal.
The car is parked poorly in a VIP spot and boasts a licence plate spelling an obnoxious shortening of my name—exactly how I’d always dreamt it. I slide open the hydraulic door and settle into the leather seat, shivering as I reach for the power button.
My body spasms and my hand jerks back from the controls.
“Warning, driving in a state of fatigue is liable to damage NeuralNet asset.”
The message is joined by a new flood of static, and I slam my fists against the perfect wheel until airbags pop out.
I waste the day at an old arcade, where the symphony of harsh trills and endless beeps can drown out the mesh of pinging in my head. Back at the hotel, a new gift rests on my bedside. I tear open the package without checking the label to find sleep meds inside, though I’m not surprised to collapse before the pills reach my mouth.
“Warning, use of psychoactive drugs is liable to damage NeuralNet asset.”
The week drags on and I follow limply behind. Deprived of sleep but with cash in hand, my body struggles through crowded streets in search of ways to spend my money, while the rest of me is reserved for enterprise CPU loads. Days bleed into months as my life devolves into vague memories of bland food, burning notes, and sleepless nights.
One day among the dreadful many, I arrive at my room to find a metal box on the doorstep. “With compliments from NeuralNet,” reads its label. What a lovely gesture.
Inside is a silver handgun, neatly fastened next to a single bullet. I load the weapon and place it wearily in my mouth, the metal numb and tasteless against my tongue. My finger itches against the trigger but sparks and retracts when I try to apply pressure.
I try until the red text is burnt into my retina.
“Warning, death is liable to damage NeuralNet asset.”
June 14th, 2024
Guy Lingham is a software engineer from London who loves his wife, his dog, the increasing awareness and consideration of animal welfare, and fart jokes. www.guylingham.com
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Wyldblood 15
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Fifteen tales or adventure, intrigue and mayhem in the latest Wyldblood collection. Some are from names you may have seen before – Tiffani Angus, Michael Teasdale, David McGillveray, Kai Delmas – and some may be new to you, but all know how to write a finely crafted science fiction or fantasy tale. Available in print and digital formats.
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