Linkless

The less you know someone, the better, apparently. Things can get confusing when you share an Exchange with friends or family, or awkward if something embarrassing crops up. Better to leave the memory of an Exchange in blissful, blurry anonymity. And that’s exactly what these parties were designed to do.

Walking through the steaming, empty streets, I tried to set my Link to the most neutral settings I could. After a life of fine-tuned adaptation, it’s hard to know what ‘neutral’ really means to someone else. What is a ‘standard’ colour balance? The ‘average’ bass, mid, and treble on your Auditory EQ? What level of impulse control and task focus do people prefer? After fiddling around with these controls on the Link’s interface, which was housed in a metal, heart-shaped NeuraLocket, I quickly gave up; wasn’t the whole point of an Exchange to experience something different, anyway?

---

Intimately connected to your vitals, memories, and identity, taking the Link off is considered perverse. Like most people my age, I had the BabyLink installed at 6 months old; it was all I’d ever known. Before university, I’d shared the commonly held belief that removing the Link was incredibly irresponsible, and at worst, extremely dangerous. My parents still think the same. So do most of my friends, apart from Amri.

I met Amri in the iPittRivers Museum at the University of Oxford, during an exhibition on the ceremonial rituals of humans who lived before us. I hadn’t planned to attend — I was studying Economics — but boredom decided my fate. I particularly liked the Ayahuasca spectacle, and found myself sharing the space with another student’s avatar. We approached each other across the cavernous virtual jungle, illuminated by the kaleidoscopic trip around us.

Officially, Amri was studying History, but their main preoccupation was more countercultural, with their sources largely based in obscure DarkLink forums. They knew a lot about the original mind-altering substances, tryptamines and the like, which were the inspiration behind the downloadable experiences available through LinkPlay. Even after sharing the funny-yet-existential story of my recent LSDigital trip, which was usually received with huge laughs, Amri insisted these digital editions were merely sanitised echoes of the real thing. Like watching a travel video, rather than taking the journey yourself. They added, “The undesirable parts of an experience are the most important. You shouldn’t avoid them.” Suppressing my annoyance at this excessive profundity (the LSDigital experience was fairly expensive), I asked them to indulge me in their most trippy experience. They smirked.

“Gladly, but not here. Meet me by the Cliff in an hour?”

---

Real-life Amri was smaller than their virtual avatar, and wore the usual real-world uniform of mute colours and comfortable fit. Here, in the low-coverage zone of the Cliff, they told me about their experiments. In pursuit of so-called ‘clarity’, they had been removing their Link for increasing amounts of time, starting at just a few seconds, and working up to hours of ‘Linklessness’. At first, I was revulsed and scared — only someone seriously unhinged and disturbed would try such a thing. Making my excuses, I fled the Cliff, my mind reeling with Amri’s shocking confession and the intense, grotesque colours of the deity-seeking ceremonies of shamanistic Ancients.

A week later, the feeling of unease had morphed into something disturbingly exciting. Amri’s experiments were certainly more interesting than studying Data Futures and FinTech Markets. University was the time for experimentation, right? I messaged Amri, asking to learn more.

---

After getting over the initial panic of removing Link, I’d become hooked on the peace I felt without it. I was learning to see, hear, and think without Link's constant paternalistic guidance and monitoring. It took practice; at first, I was underwhelmed and understimulated, with my thoughts drifting all over the place. However, with focus, and minus the annoying reminders, messages, and adverts, I found I could control my own attention, much to my satisfaction. Taking the Link off was like stepping out from the noise and heat of a party into a cool, still night. Unchanged, and fresh.

Over the following months, we worked up to maintaining a continuous few hours of Linklessness. After one such session, Amri told me about the Exchange sessions. Generally held in depopulated suburbia, Amri described these affairs as the modern alternative to the psychedelic-fuelled raves of our forefathers. Intense, risky, but sometimes euphoric. An unprecedented chance to experience true empathy, in real time.

“Your first exchange is like a graduation from the Linklessness practice we’ve been doing, apparently. There’s a big one next month. Wanna go?”

---

The session was held in an old, mid-21st century building: all concrete, glass, and empty space. It was a hot evening, and a rickety air conditioning unit didn’t do much to distil the pressure and tension. There were more people than I’d ever seen before in a physical room; it dawned on me that Amri and I weren’t the only ones exploring the possibility of Linkless experiences.

Your Exchange partner isn’t assigned randomly; someone of roughly the same age and bodily metrics is chosen so as to minimise confusion during the Link’s reintegration. My chosen partner and I were brought together by an organiser, but were encouraged not to introduce ourselves. Avoiding my gaze, my collaborator continued to stare down at their scuffed shoes, with their hands stuffed into their pockets. What would this person’s digital mind be like? And what would they think of mine? An unnerving sense of vulnerability passed through me — did I really want to expose myself like this? Quickly, I reassured myself with Amri-like rhetoric; the entirety of our conscious experience was already freely available to the Link incorporation and their ever-growing list of business partners — how is allowing one stranger access any different? Besides, you show them yours, they show you theirs: a fair exchange.

As instructed, we sat down on the cushions provided, and removed our cranial Links and NeuraLockets, laying them down on the table between us. After just 10 minutes of focused Linklessness, the Exchange began. I hung my partner’s heart-shaped Neuralocket round my neck, feeling it’s cool metal chain against my hot skin. Reaching to the hub at the nape of my neck, I slotted in the foreign Link body with a satisfying click.

----

The last thing I can reliably account was the familiar logo and power-up tone. Then, disorientation and confusion washed over me. Sensory inputs scrambled and motor outputs practically defunct, I struggle to stay upright. Drawing in desperate gasps of the hot, sticky air gives little relief. What colours are these? Was this stream of adverts using a different language? Was it always this loud in here? What is this voice inside my head? These memories… who are the people in them? Vaguely, through a hyper-saturated and constantly morphing visual field, I perceive a figure opposite me. Lurching over, I pull their face to mine - or my face to theirs? Recognition alerts were sounding, I knew that face so well, but the memory was empty and artificial. Suddenly nauseous, I melt into the floor, covering my eyes and ears.

My loud breathing, astronaut-like, echoes against the static of enforced silence. I attempt to address and dismiss the barrage of alerts and reminders that keep stinging at me, like a swarm of wasps, demanding my immediate attention. Software updates; rehydration prompts; new shoes!; smart home security scans; a nostalgic memory, five years ago today; delicious fast food!; Link Insurance, just in case; try this sleep serum, for forty winks; hot babes want you now! There are too many to keep track of. Overwhelmed, I grasp for my partner’s Neuralocket to force them off manually. My confusion intensifies - where was the option to silence alerts? Scrolling frantically, I still can’t find it. Was this a different software edition?

The realisation happens slowly, then all at once; my partner didn’t have LinkPremium. Without it, a Link host cannot filter or mute the incessant adverts from Link’s partners and never-ending notifications from its operating system. Worse still, I notice the familiar symbol of a delivery-firm on my partner’s NeuraLocket; their Link system is installed, managed and monitored by their employer.

Covered by my parents’ private Link Insurance, I’ve never come across a set up like this before. I can barely hear my own inner voice behind the tirade of alarms and signals. This wasn’t fun at all. I want out - now.

Feeling for the Link’s small emergency release clasp, I firmly pressed it in. Rather than the usual hiss and powering down sound, I hear a clear, tuneless error tone. Trying again, the impervious tone sounds repeatedly. An error message flashes up — “You have exceeded the number of emergency removals for today. Please contact your administrator.”

Panic-stricken, and deafened by the commercial mess within my head, I look up to find my partner. But they are nowhere to be seen. A countdown began; “You have 20 minutes until your shift begins. Please report to your vehicle as soon as possible. Promptness will be rewarded with LinkPremium vouchers.”