you can’t stop playing for days on end because you’re so immersed in it?’
I nod. ‘Yeah.’
‘Well, y’know how you inevitably get completely bored of that game, no matter how awesomeyou thought itonce was? How you feel like some shitty zombie staring at the graphics after a while, everything about it eventually becoming lame and predictable?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Apparently, post-mortem life is exactly like that.’
From what I gathered here and there, I suspected as much. Existing past your shelf-life, it’s not really real, no matter how well your worlds are generated. Post-Mortemsdon’t have the luxury of getting up and walking away from the game when they tire of it. Not unless they get into bed with people like Baxter, invest in the intelligence of people like Tweek, and lease someone like me.
The tablet completes its tasks and chimes twice, a sound mimicked by the other device. The HG deactivates. Tweek looks over the results posted on the screens and nods with satisfaction.
‘Diagnostic complete,’ he says, holding out a hand for the proboscis. ‘Everything looks fine on the tech side, Rhodes.’
‘Shit,’ I moan, unplugging myself. ‘What the hell is going on?’
Tweek lays one hand on my shoulder and lifts my chin with the other. ‘The simple answer is that you’re exhausted, Rhodes. Sleep deprivation might be causing you to micro-nap, or the flashbacks could be hypnagogicin nature, hallucinations experienced in that no-man’s land between falling asleep or waking up. With the Husking, you’re also in and out of induced comatose-like states, regularly. The Migraine Coma effect could be part of it too.’
‘But I haven’t had any migraines,’ I protest.
Tweek puts his toys away. ‘Tell me, when was the last time you had a good night’s sleep?’
‘Last night.’
‘Well, it’sprobably still not enough,’ he says and shrugs. ‘You could also be having psychedelic flashbacks from a previous client’s chemical indulgences.’
I think of Navarette. ‘Maybe.’
‘You need to get some more rest, take better care of yourself.’
‘Not frigging likely,’ I say, closing my eyes and cracking my neck. ‘I’m back on the job tomorrow, and the day after that, and then I’m being sent off towork in the UK for a few days.’
When I open my eyes Tweek is standing by his desk, face deflated as he stares down through the magnifier at all he has left of Miller. He takes a deep breath and shudders. It’s only then that I notice traces of blood on the broken Ouija. When Tweek speaks his voice is hoarse, threatening to descend into a whisper.
‘You need to be more careful.’
7
The little lab rat’s advice nags me the whole cab ride home. He knows damn well there’s no way to be more careful. I don’t pick my clients, don’t actually do any work. I’m just the latest model for rent, the first-class deluxe edition available for test drives.Drop the car off, leave the keys, address the damage after the ride. My work goes into the detailing. Put some spit and polish on the body, wax it up, and change the oil before I’m back out on the showroom floor. With all my bookings in recent weeks, adequate time to recover has become elusive. Tweek’s right. If I don’t find a way to be more careful …
You don’t want to think about it.
Ridingthrough the streets of Manhattan, I stare out of the window. Nothing memorable out there, just more of the island’s inhabitants constantly on the go, scuttling from point A to B with heads down, crowding the bases of buildings with their bodies as they suck enough fume-laden oxygen to convince themselves they’re in perpetual motion. None of them realize their lives are in limbo, a mass state of arresteddevelopment. At a red light I witness a nicely dressed woman take a hot dog from a vendor and bolt up the street without paying for it. The vendor gives chase until he tackles her to the ground.They writhe on the sidewalk, shouts and shrieks
I nod. ‘Yeah.’
‘Well, y’know how you inevitably get completely bored of that game, no matter how awesomeyou thought itonce was? How you feel like some shitty zombie staring at the graphics after a while, everything about it eventually becoming lame and predictable?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Apparently, post-mortem life is exactly like that.’
From what I gathered here and there, I suspected as much. Existing past your shelf-life, it’s not really real, no matter how well your worlds are generated. Post-Mortemsdon’t have the luxury of getting up and walking away from the game when they tire of it. Not unless they get into bed with people like Baxter, invest in the intelligence of people like Tweek, and lease someone like me.
The tablet completes its tasks and chimes twice, a sound mimicked by the other device. The HG deactivates. Tweek looks over the results posted on the screens and nods with satisfaction.
‘Diagnostic complete,’ he says, holding out a hand for the proboscis. ‘Everything looks fine on the tech side, Rhodes.’
‘Shit,’ I moan, unplugging myself. ‘What the hell is going on?’
Tweek lays one hand on my shoulder and lifts my chin with the other. ‘The simple answer is that you’re exhausted, Rhodes. Sleep deprivation might be causing you to micro-nap, or the flashbacks could be hypnagogicin nature, hallucinations experienced in that no-man’s land between falling asleep or waking up. With the Husking, you’re also in and out of induced comatose-like states, regularly. The Migraine Coma effect could be part of it too.’
‘But I haven’t had any migraines,’ I protest.
Tweek puts his toys away. ‘Tell me, when was the last time you had a good night’s sleep?’
‘Last night.’
‘Well, it’sprobably still not enough,’ he says and shrugs. ‘You could also be having psychedelic flashbacks from a previous client’s chemical indulgences.’
I think of Navarette. ‘Maybe.’
‘You need to get some more rest, take better care of yourself.’
‘Not frigging likely,’ I say, closing my eyes and cracking my neck. ‘I’m back on the job tomorrow, and the day after that, and then I’m being sent off towork in the UK for a few days.’
When I open my eyes Tweek is standing by his desk, face deflated as he stares down through the magnifier at all he has left of Miller. He takes a deep breath and shudders. It’s only then that I notice traces of blood on the broken Ouija. When Tweek speaks his voice is hoarse, threatening to descend into a whisper.
‘You need to be more careful.’
7
The little lab rat’s advice nags me the whole cab ride home. He knows damn well there’s no way to be more careful. I don’t pick my clients, don’t actually do any work. I’m just the latest model for rent, the first-class deluxe edition available for test drives.Drop the car off, leave the keys, address the damage after the ride. My work goes into the detailing. Put some spit and polish on the body, wax it up, and change the oil before I’m back out on the showroom floor. With all my bookings in recent weeks, adequate time to recover has become elusive. Tweek’s right. If I don’t find a way to be more careful …
You don’t want to think about it.
Ridingthrough the streets of Manhattan, I stare out of the window. Nothing memorable out there, just more of the island’s inhabitants constantly on the go, scuttling from point A to B with heads down, crowding the bases of buildings with their bodies as they suck enough fume-laden oxygen to convince themselves they’re in perpetual motion. None of them realize their lives are in limbo, a mass state of arresteddevelopment. At a red light I witness a nicely dressed woman take a hot dog from a vendor and bolt up the street without paying for it. The vendor gives chase until he tackles her to the ground.They writhe on the sidewalk, shouts and shrieks
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