“Come on, it won't hurt you,
Charles.”
I hesitated, thirty four and still
uncorrupted, but facing a daunting challenge, peer pressure with a
soon to be legalized substance. I glanced away from the object, and
into my brother Derrick's earnest face. My trepidation evident, he
sighed, and began to withdraw the offer but I seized it from his
receding hand.
With a single movement, I inhaled
intoxication, swirling, warm, and smoky into my lungs, savoring it,
eyes closed in attempt to immerse myself, body and soul in the
experience.
I felt no tremor under my feet, no
alteration in my position, but suddenly, something in my internal
composition shifted, while a sightless reflection on my external
surroundings admitted an uncertainty. The wide southern facing
windows, filled by the early morning sun, suddenly ceased to admit
their warm light, replaced by a cooler electric illumination. A
disorientation, akin to vertigo, infected my being, and I felt as if
I was being stretched, pulled by an inexorable force through a narrow
tube.
With a final thrust of force my eyes
were forced open. Instead of a finished basement furnished with
comfortable second hand couches, a smallish flat screen TV on the
wall, and an ancient but serviceable Xbox 360, I resided in a cushy
office chair positioned in the middle of a nondescript room lit by a
dim overhead florescent. Two official looking persons, one male and
the other female, had been substituted for the well known friends and
family. These two dour individuals flanked my chair with an
expression of bureaucratic boredom, the facial exhibition of one
performing a common task in their occupation.
“Clayton,” said the woman after a
moment, “after undergoing The Cave Citizen Test, you have been
awarded a Tier Three citizenship.”
“Clayton, Please sign here, to
confirm your status,” said the man, handing me a clipboard and
pointing unnecessarily at the line marked with an X.
“Huh, what?” I replied. “Who are
you, and what am I doing here?” gesturing toward the sparse, walls.
My interrogators looked at each other
and sighed.
“It's your turn,” the man said to
the woman.
“Me?”
“You know I did the last one.”
“Clayton, what do you remember?”
she said to me.
“Why do you keep calling me Clayton.
My name's Charles.”
“No it isn't Clayton. All men are
named Charles in the Cave. But we repeat your real name to reassert
your sense of reality. You've been immersed in a extremely lifelike
simulation for over a week.”
I tried to stand in protest, but
wobbled on weak knees. The man steadied my situation, and returned
me to the seat.
“You're exhausted by the procedure,
but don't worry,” he said, “you'll have normal functionality soon
enough, but while you're recovering please sign here, so we can
escort you to a Recovery Room.”
I pushed the papers away as two sets of
memories jostled for space in my brain. Two mothers, two fathers,
two childhoods, two identities framed on two different faces.
“Please,” he said.
“Explain the test to me,” I said to
earn myself some more time for reflection.
“We did before you began it,” she
said, “You and your parents signed the appropriate documents.
Everything's been done in accordance with the law. If anyone can
explain the procedure, you can as you recently experienced it. You
still retain the memories.”
The man fiddled with his clipboard, and
I grasped at it now, as if were capable of explaining this horrid
dream. On it was a single white sheet, which said,
The citizen has been awarded (check
box):
First Tier Citizenship
Second Tier Citizenship
Third Tier Citizenship
Fourth Tier Citizenship
Sign here X
“That's it?” I said without
expecting a suitable reply, so I wasn't devastated by her reply.
“Further documentation will be
provided in the Recovery Room.”
“I won't sign it until I understand
my situation,” and because I knew my mobility was helpless, I gazed
fiercely around the room as if it might release a secret.
“I'm sorry, I am not permitted to
dispense further information,” she said.
“At this moment I can't remember who
my real mother is, and you expect me to make this decision?”
“There is no decision. You've
already made every choice capable of impacting your future.”
“It was so real!”
“It has to be, to provide a
recommendation worthy of determining a citizens tier of citizenship,
but the memories will fade entirely. Within a year, the entire
experience will be erased. Now, can we move along. Some of us have
other work to do today.”
“You aren't struck by the injustice
you're an accessory to. The system has labeled me inferior forever
over a solitary error.. How can I be judged for the rest of my life
by an action I can't recollect?”
“Citizen, I didn't invent the system,
nor do I have the authority to alter it. We are both second tier
citizens, considered capable of fulfilling the law, but not enacting
it.”
“And I?”
“Are capable only of obeying it, and
will be obliged to do by pervasive surveillance.”
“For one mistake.”
“For failing to love virtue with your
heart and soul.”
“What does that even mean! How can I
be judged for a digital experience, yet indistinguishable while
immersed, yet whose events will recede, leaving me unable to reflect
on my error?”
“A real illusion, the digital shadows
of reality reflected on your brain. Don't you still remember the
delight of the sun on your face?”
“My first kiss...”
“The joy of a swim in the ocean?”
“And my friends, nothing but digital
compositions.”
I fell silent considering my options,
watching their reactions and observing my own steadily augmenting
anger. My life, which still mostly escaped my remembrance, was over.
And the life which still burned in my brain, with its lifeless
family and its lies, existed immaterially.
“You needn't agonize over this
event,” she said as if she could read my mind, “A lot of the
people in your life are third class citizens. They live perfectly
normal lives and contribute to society through their economic
activity. Almost half of all citizens are labeled third tier.”
“The injustice...” and I
desperately flailed about, as helpless in my attempts to elucidate my
position, as I was to cross the room.
They only stood silently, immovable.
Into the stillness I said.
“Is there no hope of redemption?”
And my reply was the tranquility of the
just.
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