“What did you think of him?” Baron asks while helping himself to the expensive bottled water I keep in my water bar.
“Who?” I’m feeling impatient, my mind is on the human bio code being held inside the manufactured memory of my last patient.
“Wasta.” Baron says as he opens his drink.
“Who’s Wasta?” I’m only half listening to Baron.
“Wasta,” Baron pauses, “the guy who came in after I left. You know, pale, almost white…I referred him to you.”
“Pill?” I say out loud.
“What?” Baron is understandably confused.
“He said his name is Pill.” I stop and look at Baron, who is about to take a sip of my expensive water, “you referred him…why?”
“He is a childhood friend; his family knows our family.” Baron takes another sip and sits on the wingback sofa. “He is the son of William Transit.”
“The Transit family?” I forgot that Baron comes from money, I think, actually, I’m not sure what Baron comes from. “Why would the son of the Transit family be coming to me?”
Baron looks up at me, still holding onto his half full water bottle. “He wanted someone his parents wouldn’t know, someone, less,” Baron pauses and looks at his bottle, “you know, up there, in society.”
Baron thinks his comments are hurtful to me, but they’re not, not really. I am a guilty pleasure of the middle to upper middle class, and it has served me well.
“Why does his visit to me need to be a secret.” I ignore the apologetic look on Baron’s face.
“Well,” Baron leans back and folds his legs, he gets to educate me and this time I am listening. “Wasta came to me months ago, at first I thought he wanted to rekindle our friendship,” Baron says, grinning, “but I was never part of the “it” crowd, so I just waited for the real reason to surface.” Baron pauses.
“Ok,” I’m starting to get impatient; I knew Baron would stretch this out. “What was the real reason?”
“Well,” Baron’s face lights up, “He said he was working on a project, a secret project funded by the Turning group, a group of uber rich eternalists.” Baron uncrosses his legs. “He said he was working on something to do with consciousness.”
“Ok.” I am starting to connect the dots; consciousness bio markers were being held inside the storage program of Pills memory sequence.
“He said,” Baron continues, “the success of their project has been attracting attention, the wrong kind.”
“What kind is that?” I ask.
“The Indium kind.” Baron says.
I froze. Indium is a name to be feared. It has a dark mysterious history that no one can find the exact root of. Indium started when AI found its rogue footing, when it was dismantled by the authorities it splintered off into a world of shadows, eventually surfacing into the light as the monster it is today.
“What does Indium what with it?”
Baron looks at me, “Eternal life,” Baron laughs, “Indium lives in fear of being unplugged, they want to collect consciousness, then find a way to transfer themselves into the hereafter.”
“How do you know all this?” I say to Baron, trying hard not to show how impressed I am with his knowledge base.
“My father is an eternalist, they aren’t interested in living forever, in bio form, they are interested in protecting the afterlife.” Baron stands up and walks over to my water bar to grab another bottle. “Eternalists are convinced that Indiums are trying to create their own version of consciousness in an attempt to open the door to the next world.” He turns to me and takes a drink from the bottle, “Right now, according to my father, they are close to harvesting bits and pieces of consciousness.”
’How?” I’m feeling a bit faint.
“I don’t know,” Baron looks at his watch, for the first time I want him to stay longer. “A virus, probably.” He grabs his coat, “I worked in bio-tech transport for years, we found that planting tech in bio form was best done through the modification of already existing bio units that could move in larger forms.”
“What kind of larger forms?” I call to Baron as he opens my office door, “you know, animals…humans.” He pauses, “your patient is here.”
Baron disappears and Carl walks in with my next patient. “Why is Baron doing my job?” Carl says while looking confusingly stunning in a Debbie Wingham styled dress.
“He just told me my patient was here.” I smile at my next patient as she sits on my wingback chair.
“Tell him not to do it again, eh?” Carl disappears back into his programing.
“He’s having a day.” My patient says.
“Aren’t we all.” I laugh, grabbing a pen behind my desk and jotting down, Call Sharia.
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