ticket seller—that's a low cost transaction, or you can give them away permanently, which is much more valuable. The buyer gets to savour that experience again and again for as long as they own it."
"So I need to convert my experiences to chips? What sort of experiences?"
"Anything and everything, the most potent memories you have. Just remember that if you lose them they're gone forever. Negative feelings can be valuable, as long as they are rich and unusual. Where we are pleasure comes in many forms. Sometimes there's nothing a low-level punishment demon savours more than being able to experience the fear and pain he dishes out on others. That said, the highest price will always go to the positive emotions as they're easily ex changed and sold on. Who wouldn't enjoy the sensation of true love? Or an amazing meal? Or a rich and satisfying night of sex? The most valuable thing of all is what we call Package Memories, the entire response to a person. The feeling of love and security for a parent, the love for a husband or wife. But if you lose that, every memory of that person is gone forever. It's a large price to pay."
"I guess they're only memories."
"But memories and experience are what make us who we are. If we were a blank slate every day what scope would we have to measure pain or pleasure? Life is relative."
We had arrived at a kiosk on the far side of the room. Inside, narrow eyes shaded by a pale green visor, a young woman counted and stacked chips, setting them in neat rows in the racks in front of her.
"What do you have to offer?" she asked.
"Repeat what I say," said the old man, "A life well lived." "A life well lived." I repeated. The woman nodded at what was clearly nothing more than a formality.
"Give me your hand then," she said and I poked it through the hole in the glass of the kiosk.
"Just the surface," the old man said, "I don't intend to play all night." Then he nodded to wards her, signalling me to repeat his words, which I duly did.
The woman chuckled. "A shy one is it? The old ones soon lose their inhibitions. What do I care for the sticky little secrets, eh? The times you wished someone dead, the dirty little thoughts you conjured up when playing with yourself, the loves never spoken aloud? It's all just dollars and cents to me, honey."
She took my hand and closed those piggy-little eyes of hers. After a moment she shivered slightly and a thin strand of saliva crept out of the corner of her mouth. I was about to snatch my hand back in case she went and dribbled on it when, all of a sudden, a dizziness washed over me and I had to grab on to the side of the kiosk to stop myself falling over.
"You'll be alright," said the old man, carefully standing behind me to offer a little sup port. "Just go with it."
Images flashed through my head, so fast I was barely able to register most of them. Faces of people I'd known, moments in my life. Some were recent: running from giant beetles or the living streets of Wentforth Falls. Others were older: the face of my father in his cups, or the look of sorrow on my mother's face as I told her I planned to travel. I even glimpsed the face of the dancer next door, the momentary love affair that existed in my mind only, maybe it was worth a few cents...
Finally she let go and the dizziness lifted. "Well," she said, "I've known richer. I'll give you a stake of eleven dollars. You'll get your memories back when you cash up."
She handed over the chips and, for a moment, I didn't know what I was supposed to do with them. I felt in a daze, so much of my life stripped away and stored in the vaults here at a riverboat casino in Hell. I was half the man I had been when I came in.
"First time?" she asked, seeing I was struggling. I nodded.
"It'll take you a minute while your brain patches over the gaps. You should remember all the important, recent stuff, any friends you came in here with. All it takes is for you to interact with them a little and the memories
"So I need to convert my experiences to chips? What sort of experiences?"
"Anything and everything, the most potent memories you have. Just remember that if you lose them they're gone forever. Negative feelings can be valuable, as long as they are rich and unusual. Where we are pleasure comes in many forms. Sometimes there's nothing a low-level punishment demon savours more than being able to experience the fear and pain he dishes out on others. That said, the highest price will always go to the positive emotions as they're easily ex changed and sold on. Who wouldn't enjoy the sensation of true love? Or an amazing meal? Or a rich and satisfying night of sex? The most valuable thing of all is what we call Package Memories, the entire response to a person. The feeling of love and security for a parent, the love for a husband or wife. But if you lose that, every memory of that person is gone forever. It's a large price to pay."
"I guess they're only memories."
"But memories and experience are what make us who we are. If we were a blank slate every day what scope would we have to measure pain or pleasure? Life is relative."
We had arrived at a kiosk on the far side of the room. Inside, narrow eyes shaded by a pale green visor, a young woman counted and stacked chips, setting them in neat rows in the racks in front of her.
"What do you have to offer?" she asked.
"Repeat what I say," said the old man, "A life well lived." "A life well lived." I repeated. The woman nodded at what was clearly nothing more than a formality.
"Give me your hand then," she said and I poked it through the hole in the glass of the kiosk.
"Just the surface," the old man said, "I don't intend to play all night." Then he nodded to wards her, signalling me to repeat his words, which I duly did.
The woman chuckled. "A shy one is it? The old ones soon lose their inhibitions. What do I care for the sticky little secrets, eh? The times you wished someone dead, the dirty little thoughts you conjured up when playing with yourself, the loves never spoken aloud? It's all just dollars and cents to me, honey."
She took my hand and closed those piggy-little eyes of hers. After a moment she shivered slightly and a thin strand of saliva crept out of the corner of her mouth. I was about to snatch my hand back in case she went and dribbled on it when, all of a sudden, a dizziness washed over me and I had to grab on to the side of the kiosk to stop myself falling over.
"You'll be alright," said the old man, carefully standing behind me to offer a little sup port. "Just go with it."
Images flashed through my head, so fast I was barely able to register most of them. Faces of people I'd known, moments in my life. Some were recent: running from giant beetles or the living streets of Wentforth Falls. Others were older: the face of my father in his cups, or the look of sorrow on my mother's face as I told her I planned to travel. I even glimpsed the face of the dancer next door, the momentary love affair that existed in my mind only, maybe it was worth a few cents...
Finally she let go and the dizziness lifted. "Well," she said, "I've known richer. I'll give you a stake of eleven dollars. You'll get your memories back when you cash up."
She handed over the chips and, for a moment, I didn't know what I was supposed to do with them. I felt in a daze, so much of my life stripped away and stored in the vaults here at a riverboat casino in Hell. I was half the man I had been when I came in.
"First time?" she asked, seeing I was struggling. I nodded.
"It'll take you a minute while your brain patches over the gaps. You should remember all the important, recent stuff, any friends you came in here with. All it takes is for you to interact with them a little and the memories
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