The Dream Remote

A single tear rolled down Lindsey’s cheek.

“I…I think Brook and I are going to have to share a person,” she said plaintively.

I reached out and wiped the tear from her skin. I looked down at her thinning auburn hair, and caressed it softly with my other hand. Her ivory scalp was starkly visible beneath the sparse strands.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “It sounds like Don is finding some new lands without Surge. With the new protocols in place, housing prices should go down soon.”

“Al, I don’t understand why this is happening. Where does Surge come from? Why now? Why is this happening to us?”

I paused to collect my words. Lindsey was rarely a good recipient of bad news.

“They say it’s the revenge of the One,” I said after some internal deliberation. “That we forced too many people to become houses. Remember those Christian stories about Moses? The One demands liberty for people.”

“But the new protocols fix that, right?” said Lindsey. The desperation marred her otherwise melodious voice.

“Yes, dearest,” I replied. “My new person is working great. The Dream Remote is on the nightstand. Why don’t you have some fun with it?”

She hugged me and slowly rose from her chair.

“Thanks Al.”

“Don’t sweat it. The driver should be here in a few hours. I’m going out for a bit.”

I lingered and watched as she ambled into the bedroom. She picked up the headset from the bedside table and put it on as she reclined on the bed.

Our hotel was in downtown, and I hadn’t ever explored downtown Seattle, so I figured a walk would be nice. Unlike Lindsey, I grew up as a single-lifer, so things like exploring cities on foot were entertaining and natural to me.

I stepped out of the hotel’s lobby, and turned into the nearest coffee shop. The barista glared at me as I walked up to the counter. She was a pretty young black woman, and as I admired her eyes, she jerked her head in a diagonal motion to the ceiling, apropos of nothing. A harsh, guttural “uh-uh” rushed out of her plump lips.

I stopped admiring and sighed. “You have Surge. Have you been to the doctor lately?” I said.

“No, I’m fine.” She continued to glare.

After noting her name and employee ID, I got my coffee and left. It was protocol to report any witnessed symptoms of Surge, but I didn’t feel like spending an hour on the phone with a bureaucrat.

I continued to explore downtown. As I approached city hall, I noticed a thick crowd of protesters gathered around the large steps leading up the building. Odd twitches and ticks were evident in most of them, and I muttered to myself “Surge…it’s epidemic.”

Curiosity overwhelmed me. I walked closer to the steps, and got a look at some of the signs.

“ENOUGH IS ENOUGH…THE ELDERS BELONG IN HELL”

I chuckled to myself and thought, “Yeah, picking a fight with minds that have thousands of years of accumulated power and memories…good luck with that, guys.” Of course, antagonizing the elders is how I became rich and important, so I couldn’t really blame them.

Other signs read:

“AFFORDABLE HOUSING IS A HUMAN RIGHT”

“I’M A CHILD OF THE ONE…NOT YOUR HOUSE”

“KURT WILL BE AVENGED”

“Huh, that’s random,” I thought as I saw the last one.

The frustration was understandable, but I knew their effort was mostly futile. Once humanity figured out how to store consciousness outside of the brain, it was inevitable that they would try to transfer their consciousness into other brains. Stone Age shepherds did it in a primitive form with writing, and now these poor vessels were having their neural synapses mapped before kindergarten, to be traversed by elders with centuries of experience.

How could you fight such sophisticated power with that same old Stone Age technology?

I gazed into the crowd a bit longer. Almost all of them were lousy with Surge. Erratic twitches and ticks rippled throughout the throng, like wind through the leaves of a tree.

I sighed again, and began to stroll back to the hotel. I resolved to avoid telling Lindsey about this at all costs.

I went upstairs and woke her from her reverie. We got dressed, and then waited for our car in front of the hotel.

Finally, a black, stately Cadillac pulled into the parking area in front of us. A large man in a suit stepped out of the car, greeted us, and opened the back door for us to sit down.

I motioned for Lindsey to sit down first.

As she leaned over to enter the car, she turned back and asked me, “Al, can I use the Dream Remote a bit longer on the drive?”

“Sure Dearest,” I said. “It’s in my briefcase.”

I handed her my suede briefcase after she settled into her seat. Before I could follow her into the car, the driver approached me, wearing dark sunglasses and a deathly serious expression.

“Can I see your identification, sir? We’ve had some impostors stealing government cars,” he said sternly.

“Sure,” I replied, and handed him my driver’s license.

He frowned as he read the English name my mother had given me: “Aidan Scott Lawrence”.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“I heard the lady call you Al,” he said.

I sighed yet again. More animosity from frustrated workers.

“It’s a nickname. A is for Aidan, L is for Lawrence. A…L. Al. I didn’t want to disrespect my mother and ditch her name entirely. Don’t you know who I am?”

“I don’t follow politics,” he grumbled. “Good enough, I guess.”

He began to hand me my ID back, and a sudden spasm shook his arm. The ID fell to the ground. He mumbled apologetically and stooped to pick it up. As he held it out to me, I looked into where I imagined his eyes to be, underneath the black sunglasses.

“Have you been checked for Surge?” I inquired.

“Yes. I’m clean. Just nervous around famous people. Please get in the car, sir.”

I hesitated, then decided that I should rely on protocols. “One can’t worry about everything all at once,” I thought to myself.

I followed Lindsey into the car and shut the door. Our driver got behind the wheel and started to drive.

As we were driving, I alternated between reviewing my notes for the day’s meetings, and glancing out of the window at the city around us. The Space Needle seemed to mock our failed Surge vaccination program. “I’ve had enough of needles for a while,” I thought, and looked away.

I gazed forward at the driver, and wondered how his life had brought him to this job. I noticed his head twitch a bit, and my worries about Surge crept back in. Maybe the mockery of skyscrapers was better than mortal fear after all. I looked back out of the window, and noticed that we were getting onto the Aurora Bridge.

About halfway across the bridge, the driver’s body swiftly jerked to the right. His grip on the wheel, unrelenting, took the car on a sharp right turn. Before any correction was possible, we cut across traffic to the right edge of the bridge, on a direct collision course. I yelled, and the driver did not brake.

The armored car, thicker and heavier for safety, tore right through the barrier and dove down toward Lake Union.