New Mode

.CHAPTER(ONE) - Part 1/2

Observation #1: The human condition can be understood as a simultaneous sense of control over one's circumstances coupled with a constant need for improvement, or more aptly, a degree of dissatisfaction with one's present circumstances. The inevitable reconciliation of these forces - a sense of responsibility for one's circumstances and a lack of satisfaction with those very circumstances - engender within humanity a pervasive sense of personal shortcoming- the conscious realization of the imperfect self.

$Gahan

.CHAPTER(ONE)

The skyline was a late past century circuit board. Fluorescent columns soldered to bedrock. Molten lattices of highway peeling away with the horizon. All overseen by Kruspe tower, the board's antenna, a monolith of volcanic black glass.

Far beneath the tower, John's green eyes watched as the structure swelled to fill the car window. He ran a hand reflexively through his brown hair. Somewhere beyond where the glass disappeared into matte gray clouds, Anya Kruspe was waiting for him. Zeus on Olympus.

His unease had grown with the encroaching shadow of the tower. Asking a favor of someone still in mourning was far from what he had expected when he had first set up the meeting. But he had risked too much to go back now. There were others depending on him.

A gentle chime roused him and he realized the car had come to a rest just outside the tower's main lobby. The outdoor air was rank with the scent of burning plastic, as if the streets themselves were overheating and would soon come pulling apart at the seams. Large, glass doors parted in anticipation and John slipped past them without breaking stride.

The lobby of Kruspe Tower was a formidable expanse of galvanized steel inlaid with lines of white acrylic. Structural veins intersected each other at sharp angles, giving John the image of stepping inside the mechanisms of one of the swiss watches in Anya's collection. A slab of unpolished iron on the wall bore the architect's name in large, machine-punched lettering.

He did his best to shut out the barrage of stares and whispers that shadowed his approach towards reception. As the face of Quantum Computing, they were inescapable, background radiation. Still, he had never grown entirely comfortable with the attention. There was a caustic note to their voices, a fear that glinted back at him from narrowed pupils, like the splash of light reflected by the edge of a blade. A revulsion that was surgical in its precision.

"Good evening Mr. Quantum." John glanced up at the young receptionist who had greeted him. She was a rarity—a living employee, not a virtual assistant holograph linked to a communications AIs. Each molecule of oxygen her lungs drained from the lobby's meticulously groomed air rendered her more expensive than her automated alternatives. But somehow she was still here, brown hair pulled back, dark blue suit jacket clinging to her delicate frame. For Anya's lifetime of work in reflexive intelligence design, she seemed to have retained a soft spot for the human touch.

"Good evening Sarah," John said. "I'm here to see Ms. Kruspe."

"Ms. Kruspe is expecting you." Sarah smiled at him. "Please go right up." She gestured behind her towards the private elevator bank, and her sleeve pulled back just enough to reveal the worn face of the transaction and communications unit transdermally fused to the underside of her wrist. As he had hoped, it was still several models out of date.

John reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a small, translucent, plastic box. He placed it on the counter halfway between himself and Sarah.

"What is that?" Her eyes danced across the packaging's neonprint labels and wording.

"I noticed it's been awhile since you upgraded," John said.

Her hands flew to her mouth. "You didn't have to." She bounced in her chair for a moment, then her hands dropped back to her sides. "I can't accept it."

"Of course you can. Consider it a much deserved thank you." Sarah had always been polite to him. Certainly more so than others Anya had employed.

He reached to slide the new TAC unit towards her, and at the same time she moved hesitantly forward to grab it. Her fingers brushed inadvertently against his.

A jolt ran through her shoulders, as if his fingers were a bundle of live wires whose insulation had corroded. Her hand recoiled. Then, just as quickly, she was smiling again as if nothing had happened.

"Thanks. So much," she said without looking up at him. John withdrew his hand and she took the box in both hands. "You really didn't need to Mr. Quantum."

"You're welcome." He moved past the desk, eager to forget the look of horror he had seen in her eyes the moment their hands had touched. As the representation of Quantum Computing, as an idea larger and less tangible than himself, she could respect him. Perhaps even, in a certain way, admire him. But when the familiar face from their viewing screens coalesced into something like they were, something warm and filled with blood, suddenly the manifestation became all too real. His very presence shattered all lines of separation between symbol and substance, and their distrust of something genetically engineered, something 'unnatural,' was all that remained. For all her politeness towards him, deep down he would always be a brandclone first and foremost to her, a human being sometime after that.