She raises an eyebrow. "You wouldn't have been a naughty boy, have you, Mr. Smith?"
"No… just had some glitches I want to reset. You guys should update more often."
"We update on a regular schedule, Mr. Smith. Any glitches you might have noticed are probably because of your mods. Or maybe you want to erase any traceback signals. You know — from engaging in illegal activities." She smacks her gum, giving me a stern stare.
"Illegal? Me? No way."
"Sure, sure. Guess it was just coincidence that the only synoids that kept malfunctioning and giving out extra bonuses just happened to service your sector. Not that I'm complaining, because I got this cushy job on account of those malfunctions. But I'm not so grateful that I won't give you over to any investigators that come calling, understand?"
"You tell me that every time, Flo."
"No. Sometimes it's Fran." She taps the keyboard, then pauses. "Oh."
My heart pounds, creating a matching pulse in my temples. "What?"
"Looks like you're in the red, Mr. Smith. A month behind when the price hike is factored in."
"Yeah, because you robbed me when I was sleeping."
"Rate changes are what you agreed to when you signed your contract, Mr. Grey."
"I'm aware of that, Flo. And I'm good for the payment. Okay? I have it."
"I'm talking about real money, not that Elysian crypto. It's useless outside your dream world."
"I know that, Flo."
"Great. You can settle now, then."
"Well, I don't have it now. I have to get it." I give her my most sincere smile.
Her response is a face-altering frown. "Mr. Smith. You know our policies."
"Yes, I do."
"Paying on time is essential for our residents."
"Yes, I know."
"If your DSP rent falls behind, you can be evicted without warning."
"I know that, Flo. It's just—"
"That's non-negotiable. Mr. Smith. I have good news, though."
I sigh. "Yeah, I'm sure you do."
"The management at Deep Sleep are empathetic to their client's concerns and understand that sometimes circumstances prevent them from fulfilling their financial obligations on time."
"And I appreciate their empathy."
"Therefore, in recognition of your good track record and taking into account the length of your residence, you've been awarded a two-week window to get your affairs in order and your account back into good standing."
"Two weeks. How generous."
She smiles, flashing large white teeth. "In other words: get your shit together, Mr. Smith. We got a waiting list of idiots wanting to abandon the real world, and every one of them would love to nab your little pod. Capiche?"
I nod, clearing my throat as a coughing fit threatens to overtake me. "Yeah. I got it, Flo. You will do the reboot, won't you?"
"For a loyal customer like yourself? No problem, Mr. Smith. We'll even include a nutrient boost pack and a muscle rebuilder treatment, so you don't go back into the world looking like the walking dead. We'll front the cost to your tab."
"Thanks again for your kindness, Flo."
"You want my advice, Mr. Smith?"
"Not really."
"Stop this."
"Stop what?"
"This." She gestures at me. "It ain't healthy, kid. Trust me, I know. We vacate corpses outta here all the time. Corpses. Dead things that used to be human."
"I know what a corpse is."
"You should. You practically look like one. Look at you — you can barely stand. And for what? To live some fake life in a fake world? What's wrong with real life? What's wrong with the real world?"
"Are you serious?"
"Of course I'm serious. You think I like coming in here six days out the week, working twelve-hour shifts? Or living in some crappy apartment I can barely pay for? I got kids, grandkids I barely get a chance to see. I got health issues that cost more than I make."
"Sounds like you're making my argument for me."
"Then you're not listening, kid. Because the difference between you and me is that my life is real. You got some fantasy world where you pretend to be someone worthwhile. But in reality, you're a month behind on rent and the verge of physical deterioration. Not me. Those few moments I get to pet my dog, watch my grandkids grow, listen to some good music, eat some home-cooked food — that's reality. Not some program I pay to manipulate my brainwaves."
I nod to the logo above her head. "Reality is what we make it."
"Go to hell, Mr. Smith. I don't know why I bother."
I smile. "Love you too, Flo."
Muscle restructure is a five-hour torture session strapped to a bed in a dimly lit room that smells like stale medicine. I'm operated on by a sinister-looking medical robot that looks like a living medieval torture device, complete with stabbing needles, pinchers, and no regard for my pleas for mercy.
When it finishes, I can barely walk. Every movement summons a jolt of fiery agony. Afterward, it's off to the recovery ward where the nutrient boost pack inserts intravenously. A few other listless people receive the same treatment, and if I look anything like them, I'm in worse shape than I thought. We don't talk. Social interaction outside of Elysia is uncomfortable. Short phrases punctuated by awkward pauses. Conversation doesn't work the same as it does in Elysia. My intravenous neighbors and I regard each other with listless, hollow-eyed stares, unable to find anything of interest to talk about.
"Daddy — what's wrong with them?"
I painfully lift my head. A boy stands in the doorway, beautiful and alive in a way that makes me want to curl up and die. His big brown eyes are wide in a mixture of curiosity and repulsion.
His father glances into the room, face twisted in scorn and disgust. He's a tall man in a tailored suit, blond hair perfectly coifed, tanned skin polished and flawless. No doubt some bureaucrat going on a vacation to one of the millions of resorts and theme parks programmed into the system.
"Wrong door, Thomas. This is a recovery room for the Sleepers." He says the word like a curse. "This is what I was telling you about. Why you can't spend so much time on your holovisor. You'll end up looking like these… people."
The boy says something else, but his father ushers him away as if we're quarantined from some deadly contagion. I want to say something in protest, but the moment is lost. People like him don't understand. They can't see what the real problem is. It's not Elysia. It's not Deep Sleep.
It's everything else.
I hate it here. The air in the facility tastes bitter and smells like antiseptic cleaner. My stomach is a churning pot of bubbling bile, and my head throbs, sending wave after wave of dizziness until I feel I'm about to pass out. All I want to do is get back into Elysia. Get back to Hel. Right now, she's got everything set up in Final Falls and is waiting for me. Wondering where I am, why I'm late. Worried about my safety.
I have to get back to her. She's my anchor. Without her, I'm lost. She's always been there. The memories flood through my mind like they always do when I unplug. It’s hard to tell which are real sometimes. But I remember that day I met Hel like it was yesterday. The way the dust motes sparkled in the rays of sunlight that beamed through the blinds. My mom hated that. Dust was the enemy. Her army of cleaning robots worked diligently every day, but somehow it wasn't enough. Dust is inevitable. The tiny little bits of us we unconsciously leave behind. You can't stop dust the same as you can't stop death. You just learn to deal with it the best you can.
I was seven years old. The doctors still hadn’t identified the reason why synoids went berserk in my presence. At first, my parents had synoids in the house like everyone else, programmed to act as butlers and maids. And in my case, a nanny.