Emulation

Adrenaline is supposed to slow everything down but I'm staring at the screen begging time to move faster. The computer is running Windows 7 and the upload screen displays a tiny document flying from one folder to another over and over again in a one-sided loop, but it almost seems like the tiny flying paper is slowing down, or maybe the second folder is getting further away, and the imperceptible gap between the green bar and the end of the upload bar is getting larger rather than smaller.

I want to rip the mouse out of the computer and slam it into the monitors, I want to shut down the whole program and run, I want to be somewhere else, anywhere but here. But then the heart monitor stutters and it's just enough to center me in the situation. I don't take my eyes off the computer, but I am aware of the body laying just behind the screen, covered in a white plaster mold.

The bodies still freak me out. I've see hundreds of them from my days at Heathwood so I should be more jaded when I see those casts of decaying bodies, but my mind still throws hypotheticals at my consciousness and before I can stop, I'm spiraling and the plaster over their eyes is peeling back and they are looking at me. It only happened once, and that was a special case, but still. It freaks me out.

Suddenly the file name over the upload bar changes and the screen blinks to the finalization stage. I grip the USB sticking out of the computer, my fingers sweaty and white-knuckled as I get ready to rip it out once I see the little green checkmark, but there is a commotion in the hallway and I'm distracted and turn to look, my left hand gripping my Glock 19.

Not checking to see if the download has been finalized, I yank the slim USB drive and shove past the computer to the plastered body on the operating table. I grit my teeth and bring down the butt of the Glock to break the plaster on the upper sternum. Fluid immediately begins to gush through the crack but thankfully the tiny heart-shaped locket pops out exactly where I made contact and I grab it and break the chain with a sharp snap. Stuffing the locket and the drive into my small, cross-body bag, I grip the glock with both hands, duck my head, and burst into the hallway.

I body my way past a man stationed outside the door, I don't see his face, just his hand reaching for his waist, a thin gold band on his ring finger, a torn nail on his thumb. I keep running, forcing my hips to pump faster, my forearms haphazardly shielding my face from the tracking cameras as I barrel blindly down the hall. I hear shots but I'm already turning the corner, not stopping to find out how many are pursuing.

Midway down the hall are the stairs and I burst into the stairwell and begin jumping over the handrail, flying down flights of stairs. I was supposed to be here earlier - I don't have to check my watch to know that I'm three minutes late - which means that Togo might've left already. It's happened before, but rarely, and it means I'll have to figure out an obstruction-disguise to keep the tracking cameras from tracing me.

When I open the door to the parking garage, my eyes snap to the black Toyota Camry idling in the corner near the exit. Extending into a full sprint, I fly through aisles of cars as my pursuers crash into the garage and begin firing after me. The Camry begins crawling out of the garage and I rip the door open and jump in as Togo begins to gather speed. I slam the door shut just as we zip past the ticketing kiosk at the entrance, missing the metal box by mere inches.

"GO!" I yell, as though it's going to inspire the car to speed up and avoid the gunfire.

Togo drives silently, his broad face expressionless as he grips the gear shift in one hand and the wheel with the other. He's not much older than me, but he's been doing this for years before I started. I've never seen him be taken by surprise.

There's nothing to go over. We've been over this a thousand times. Different cities, different facilities, different WBEs, but always the two of us and the black Camry. The WBEs shouldn't be this easy to take, but we've been doing this for years and nothing ever changes.

Togo's job is to erase our existence. He's modified the Camry to take out any trackable technology - there's not even a radio in there - and he scrambles the security systems in the facilities before I go in. Then it's my job to upload the whole brain emulation - WBE - to a special USB drive, take their port of consciousness, and leave no trace of my existence. Or die.

I'm the perfect social engineer for infiltrating the physical security of the WBE facilities - I just put on a skirt and a blazer, wrap my wrist in a splint, carry a box of loose papers, and there's not a single person who wouldn't open a door for me. 9/10 times these security guys think they're hot shots who are going to sleep their way into getting favors from the facility's managers, so when they see someone with a badge they're falling over themselves to help out.

We're stealing the dying wish of dead people.

I don't even know how much it costs to get one of these emulations, but they're not easy to come by. The government knows its better bang for their buck if rich people live forever, so they make the price of immortality too steep for people like me or Togo.

Once you pay for the emulation, they upload your consciousness to a server then download it to a body of your choosing. Robotic, male, female, dog even. If you want to be a dog with the mind of a human you can do that. You just need the port of consciousness to connect the body to your digital brain, flying around on some server in the middle of southern Illinois.

There's not a single system that can't be exploited. So that's what Togo and I do because it's the only thing that makes you big money anymore. With none of the rich people dying, they're just making bigger monopolies and the wages for the rest of us goes down and it's not just a cycle of poverty. It's a toilet and the only way to go is down.

You can do a lot of things with a stolen WBE. You can make an army of clones to protect your drug caravans. Some people were making sex slaves down in Florida but they busted that. This one's risky, but if you can get a hold of the family you can sell them back their dad's WBE for twice the price. That's not my job though, my job is to deliver the USB to Dani and disappear.

"Togo," I say to the fire that crackles in front of us. Togo is leaning on an elbow, his head at my knee, and he's wrapped in a fleece SpongeBob blanket that does some damage to his typically intimidating nature.

"Mm," he says.

"What do you do with the money we get from Dani?"

"I send it to my mom."

His answer surprises me and I glance at him. "Aren't you worried they're going to trace it to her?"

"It's untraceable."

"Anything is traceable."

"Not the way I do it."

"Togo, even if you were Spock and sent the money to her through telekinesis it would still be traceable-"

"-That's why I don't tell you how I do it, Sal. Damn."

I roll my eyes and toss a stick into the fire. "All mine is just sitting in a suitcase in the middle of a field."

"Are you serious?"

I don't answer.

"Sal."

I can feel his eyes on me.

"Sal you were just chewing me out for leaving a trail of breadcrumbs and you just left yours in a suitcase somewhere."

"Why does it matter, Togo? What am I going to spend it on anyway? We're just going to keep hiding until we die. That's our whole life. I don't know how to secure a digital transaction or hide my identity online so my best bet was to just dump the money in the middle of nowhere and pick it up before I leave the country.

"Or who knows," I say, "maybe someone will find the money and buy their family something nice."

Togo never says anything when I get emotional. But this time he shifts and there is something tense between his shoulder blades.

"At least we still feel something," he says quietly.

When you emulate your brain into a computer server there's nothing left to feel. There are feeling receptors there and I heard that you still have the sensation of touch and taste, but there is still a loss. How can anything be real when it exists digitally? The existence between artificially cured depression and happiness is lifeless. Without the basic human experience of fearing death, there is just numbness.

"We still have to die and cope with the fact that our consciousness will just fly out into the cosmos and disappear into a bunch of nothingness." I say bitterly.

"Doesn't that make living sweeter?"