The look on her face tells him that there’s no point in arguing original good intentions. A moment later, it occurs to him that she may have just goaded him into revealing that much more about himself.
“But… when those in power realized what was at stake, it led to a situation known as the First Traffic Wars. A conflict that had a domino effect on the Cyberside.”
Matilda fidgets with the energy bar wrapper.
“Like indexation.”
Taciturn nods.
“It’s a tool to keep people restricted to an area and preserve a locale’s powerbase. The acquisition, flow, and control of users has become an extremely profitable, ruthless business.”
Matilda rips the wrapper apart.
“So who do you think these slavers work for?”
Taciturn rubs the back of his neck.
“Well, in the beginning there were a bunch of organizations. But as the Traffic Wars continued, it boiled down to handful of power players. On the East Coast, almost everything flows through Metropolis. Out here, Babylon dominates everything. The two are constantly trafficking people within their own protectorates and fighting each other for resources.”
Matilda considers this before asking her next question.
“So, wait – if indexing locks you to a region, how does ‘stealing someone’ even work?”
James flicks his cigarette into the dirt and reaches for his canteen.
“Since indexing is a cheat introduced into the System, there are ways to dodge it. They just tend to be problematic for the people involved.”
James drinks from his canteen. Matilda throws a rock out into the grass.
“There’s something missing here. What do they do, once they take you?”
James wipes his lips.
“That’s one of the more unpleasant parts. Each person enters the Cyberside with his or her own stack of personal memories – but remember, storage is finite. So, indexation rules began exploiting the fact that older memories are set to delete. Most traffic slaves’ memory allotment is drastically cut. You’re left with just enough to ensure you make requests for services, but remember nothing of your previous life – whether that means in the Cyberside or the real world.”
Matilda makes a spitting sound.
“So you get indexed, they cut your memory, and you become a mindless sheep that doesn’t remember anything of your own past.”
When she speaks again, she does not sound contemptuous or indignant. Only concerned.
“Do you think that has something to do with my memory loss?”
The horses, well-watered by this point, meander around the abandoned estate. James contemplates how best to respond.
“To be honest, I don’t think so. But I’m not sure.”
James waits for the next question, but it never comes. The young woman remains silent next to him. The restlessness of the horses gives him an out from the awkwardness.
“Maybe we should hit the road again.”
Matilda silently nods and moves in the direction of the well.
Back on the trail, James occasionally glances over at the Scry. Matilda. She catches him looking and grins, but all Taciturn can muster in response is a brief nod. His focus is on the small dog tag resting around her neck – a bizarre clue not only to her past, but also his own.
From a time and place long before this world, when he still had a family.
James continues on the path as the rhythmic clopping of hooves pulls his mind into the past.
The team is stuck in yet another crunch, every department mired in another interminable attempt to correct poor planning by throwing countless work hours at a project. Keeping the company afloat in the relentless world of development means constantly working to satisfy the impulses of a demandingly fastidious customer base.
“Oh, shit. James,” says the anxious man next to him. “Look – we have a new bug report!”
The man is in his mid-thirties, his pit-stained button-up shirt, disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes all hallmarks of someone caught in the perpetually-grinding wheels of digital development. His name is Stephen, and he is the project manager – a man constantly fearful that they’re behind schedule or out of time entirely. There are just too many bugs that need fixing – repercussions of a QA team flailing wildly in the throes of their relentless work cycle. Everything and everyone is gearing up for the impending stress test of the servers. All while, the upper management rages and fumes over unmet deadlines and the dire consequences of paying out too much overtime.
James looks beyond his panicked co-worker at an equally-panicked producer running past their room, the sustained stream of profanity issuing from his mouth matched only by the steady flow of energy drink being incessantly poured into it. It is common office knowledge that James regards this man, Scott, as a boisterous, top-tier asshole – but at least Scott can fully comprehend their situation, even with seemingly everything “royally F-ing him” in the same regularly-referenced orifice. Marketing has been mercilessly hammering the poor bastard for months to get the product out on schedule. With the ad campaign already in full media-saturation mode, it is clearly not going to be Marketing’s fault if “massive amounts of revenue are lost.”
Stealing a glance at his watch, James reads 02:45 – and he hangs his head in defeat. Sarah and Tim have already long given up and gone to bed disappointed. But with the overtime he is pulling down, not to mention the miscellaneous incentives for hitting the scheduled launch, what else can he do but grit his teeth and tough it out? At least, that’s the line his supervisors are constantly feeding him. Even without their inimitable brand of passive-aggressive managerial oversight, James knows well enough the importance and value of what he is doing.
This new project is unlike anything he’s ever worked on before. It’s a motherfucking revolution.
James rubs his eyes. Lovely – Scott’s colorful vocabulary is rubbing off on him. James stares at his screen, scanning and analyzing the lines of code. Still, this is a revolution. He can’t stop contemplating it: The transferal of one’s mind – one’s very emulated awareness – into a network. It’s life-changing.
And it will make James’ family insanely rich.
James, sitting comfortably upright in this reverie, slowly becomes aware that Stephen is attempting to get his attention.
“Hey, James – there’s still more on the way, buddy. I’ll start cross-referencing them on the tracker.” Weary determination seems to prod him. “And I’ll make another pot of coffee.”
James watches as Stephen doggedly strikes out for the break room. Rubbing his eyes again, James assumes a practical, crunch-ready slouch and returns his attention to the screen before him.
“Damn, how many focus groups are involved with this?”
Fingertips poised at his keyboard, he mutters “I’ll be able to spend more time with the family once we launch.”
A life of relaxation and comforts to come fills his mind. Refocused, he presses Enter and resumes his quick and confident keystrokes.
“What are you thinking, James? James.”
Taciturn snaps back to the Cyberside reality around him with a jolt. He doesn’t know what this memory-bleeding is all about, but he does know it certainly isn’t good. When this is all done, he’ll run a thorough system-check.
Matilda rides besides him on the dusty road. Looking at her, James considers her current appearance. Is this who Matilda truly is, or is this someone she’s previously consumed? Is it the form she thinks he’ll be most receptive to?
“The past,” he finally answers.
Matilda purses her lips but doesn’t push. Thankfully, most have enough common sense not to pry into a Taciturn’s past – even those with no memories at all, so it would seem.