fumbled around with a cancel command, but the mail server said that the message had already passed out of its domain.
“Oh God,” I said.
“You mailed her?” Helen asked. “No turning back now.”
“No turning back,” Faith echoed.
“No,” I said. “Turning back. Now.”
I did a search on Helen’s Enclave. I’d not checked on them in years. They’d gotten crazier, more militant as the end times had come and gone twice over the last five years. Accusations of gun running, unlicensed recombinant genetic work. Standoffs with child protective services. A missing journalist, presumed dead. She’d stolen money from these people?
Helen’s Kia fell into the turnpike’s control grid, and she retracted the steering wheel and turned to me, shaking her head.
“Gee,” she said. “I hope we still like each other.”
***
METAPROGRAMMING FAQ
Metaprogrammers are GHOSTWARE, black market nanofactured pharmaceuticals covered with animated digital ink. BlackNet dealers claim they are the products of renegade VLAI (Very Large Artificial Intelligence), and contain the machinery to resculpt human wetware in accordance to user input parameters. Skeptics claim the pills are nothing but short-acting synthetic canniboloid derivatives, hallucinogens, and that any lasting effect is a placebo response.
Anecdotal reports of scanning-tunneling-microscopy conflict. Some samples have reportedly contained unrecognizable nanomachines. Some samples have contained only hallucinogens. Some samples have contained both. Anecdotal rumor that numerous artistic and scientific prodigies of recent years are the creation of metaprogrammers remain unsubstantiated.
Use of metaprogrammers is opposed by every organized government and religion on the planet. Standing death threats and spontaneous terrorist activity directed at anyone involved in the production, distribution, or promotion of metaprogrammers have led to a worldwide prohibition of all VLAI derived consciousness altering substances.
The pills are still widely available.
***
I read the FAQ again, shaking my head.
“I can’t believe you took this stuff.”
“I didn’t want Faith to die… I didn’t want to die. I couldn’t renounce God. The situation was impossible. Mostly, I didn’t want to die. That was most important. Does that sound bad? That I cared more about myself than my daughter?”
I glanced back, hoping Faith was asleep. She wasn’t. I shrugged at her helplessly. She made a growling noise.
“I love the kid, don’t get me wrong,” Helen said, “but to be honest, she can be a pain in the ass. We’ll have help in Oceania. We’ll indenture a servant to take care of her. A ten year contract goes for a few hundred bucks. I’ll go back to my painting.”
Oceania. Did I want to go to Oceania? I mainly wanted to leave Sylvia. The libertarian free-state was supposedly a decent place to live, if you had money, and weren’t bothered by things like indentured servitude.
“I’ve missed you,” Helen was saying, “I never knew it when I was in the compound, but after I took the programmer, I knew.”
Helen’s slate pinged. I retrieved it from the glove box, flinching at the sight of the blinking mail icon. A message from Sylvia, video. I shuddered. I contemplated doing a voice-to-text, so I could read the message rather than see her face, and then hit the play button to punish myself for being such a shit.
She’d been crying, her eyes red and swollen. Her hair was still messed up from our morning sex.
“You prick!”
I swallowed bile.
“You shit! You asshole! You’re blaming me for the pharmtek, aren’t you? You were miserable! You were sick and I told you to go the doctor and you leave me for that? You’re pathetic!
“That was Helen you left with, wasn’t it? I replayed the porch security cam. Christ, Evan, you didn’t even like her, let alone love her. You told me you argued all the time, and she was selfish in bed.”
Helen frowned at me, then
“Oh God,” I said.
“You mailed her?” Helen asked. “No turning back now.”
“No turning back,” Faith echoed.
“No,” I said. “Turning back. Now.”
I did a search on Helen’s Enclave. I’d not checked on them in years. They’d gotten crazier, more militant as the end times had come and gone twice over the last five years. Accusations of gun running, unlicensed recombinant genetic work. Standoffs with child protective services. A missing journalist, presumed dead. She’d stolen money from these people?
Helen’s Kia fell into the turnpike’s control grid, and she retracted the steering wheel and turned to me, shaking her head.
“Gee,” she said. “I hope we still like each other.”
***
METAPROGRAMMING FAQ
Metaprogrammers are GHOSTWARE, black market nanofactured pharmaceuticals covered with animated digital ink. BlackNet dealers claim they are the products of renegade VLAI (Very Large Artificial Intelligence), and contain the machinery to resculpt human wetware in accordance to user input parameters. Skeptics claim the pills are nothing but short-acting synthetic canniboloid derivatives, hallucinogens, and that any lasting effect is a placebo response.
Anecdotal reports of scanning-tunneling-microscopy conflict. Some samples have reportedly contained unrecognizable nanomachines. Some samples have contained only hallucinogens. Some samples have contained both. Anecdotal rumor that numerous artistic and scientific prodigies of recent years are the creation of metaprogrammers remain unsubstantiated.
Use of metaprogrammers is opposed by every organized government and religion on the planet. Standing death threats and spontaneous terrorist activity directed at anyone involved in the production, distribution, or promotion of metaprogrammers have led to a worldwide prohibition of all VLAI derived consciousness altering substances.
The pills are still widely available.
***
I read the FAQ again, shaking my head.
“I can’t believe you took this stuff.”
“I didn’t want Faith to die… I didn’t want to die. I couldn’t renounce God. The situation was impossible. Mostly, I didn’t want to die. That was most important. Does that sound bad? That I cared more about myself than my daughter?”
I glanced back, hoping Faith was asleep. She wasn’t. I shrugged at her helplessly. She made a growling noise.
“I love the kid, don’t get me wrong,” Helen said, “but to be honest, she can be a pain in the ass. We’ll have help in Oceania. We’ll indenture a servant to take care of her. A ten year contract goes for a few hundred bucks. I’ll go back to my painting.”
Oceania. Did I want to go to Oceania? I mainly wanted to leave Sylvia. The libertarian free-state was supposedly a decent place to live, if you had money, and weren’t bothered by things like indentured servitude.
“I’ve missed you,” Helen was saying, “I never knew it when I was in the compound, but after I took the programmer, I knew.”
Helen’s slate pinged. I retrieved it from the glove box, flinching at the sight of the blinking mail icon. A message from Sylvia, video. I shuddered. I contemplated doing a voice-to-text, so I could read the message rather than see her face, and then hit the play button to punish myself for being such a shit.
She’d been crying, her eyes red and swollen. Her hair was still messed up from our morning sex.
“You prick!”
I swallowed bile.
“You shit! You asshole! You’re blaming me for the pharmtek, aren’t you? You were miserable! You were sick and I told you to go the doctor and you leave me for that? You’re pathetic!
“That was Helen you left with, wasn’t it? I replayed the porch security cam. Christ, Evan, you didn’t even like her, let alone love her. You told me you argued all the time, and she was selfish in bed.”
Helen frowned at me, then
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