Quantum Nightmares

But the Oracle has given us explicit instruction to warn you that since we are mucking about in the quantum field, the medical examiner thought, and your subconscious mind operates solely in this realm, he paused, you will likely experience some incredibly vivid dreams.

Dreams, Betty thought, almost amused. “That’s not so bad,” she said.

Well, we say dreams, the leader thought, but it will be more like the immersive virtual experience you just had. Since everything that has ever happened or is going to happen exists simultaneously in the quantum field of the Akasha, you will, in fact, be time traveling; you will be unable to distinguish a separation between your life and the people and animals you will be connected to.

You will see through their eyes. Their experiences will become your own, and really, there is no predicting what you will dream.

“That sounds like a grand time,” Betty said.

Indeed, the leader thought, unless, of course, they are nightmares.

Two birthday cakes sat on the picnic table in the middle of the yard. The one on the left was decked with blue icing. Its opposite was dressed in a bright pink fondue frosting. Perched atop each cake stood the number seven. Written in white coloring on each cake were the words, “Happy 7th Birthday, Jesse.” The only distinction between the cakes aside from the coloring was the letters under the greeting: on the blue cake, it read xy; its pink counterpart read xx.

Feeding the kids was a simple enough task. The lot of them enjoyed their burgers and dogs without the exhaustive burden of choosing accompanying condiments.

“Chew your food, Taylor,” Mrs. Marshall said to her three-year-old. “It isn’t going anywhere.”

After the last child ran away perfectly content, the adults congregated to the line, which moved sluggishly as they placed their burgers under a roof of lettuce, tomato, and onion, then doused it in their choice of condiments.

But it was the New Chicago dog bar at the end of the table that was really slowing down the line.

“I can’t wait to see what they pick,” Mrs. Jackson said. “I can hardly stand the suspense,” she added eagerly, and as she stared at the small medical tent tucked away in the corner of the yard, she wondered if the procedure hurt terribly. I’m glad I’ll never have to find out, she thought with a shudder.

“What do you think your little Drew will pick?” Mr. Robinson asked. “They’ll be seven next year, right?”

“Yes, they will be, and it’s hard to say really,” Mrs. Jackson said. “Like little Jesse Anderson, it could go either way.”

Mr. Robinson nodded in agreement. “My Sammy was the same just a few years ago,” he said. “We didn’t know what she was going to pick ‘til she did. I’d half hoped she’d pick xy,” he paused thoughtfully, then: “but I can’t say I’m disappointed she picked double x. Little girls love their papas ‘til they’re old n’ gray.”

He looked at the ground resentfully, eyes growing big with tears, heartache. “Little boys go off and fight in wars as my Angel did.”

“He died for a noble cause, your Angel did,” Mrs. Jackson said, putting a kind hand on his shoulder, squeezing twice for good measure. “Those naturalists are stuck in the past.” She turned her head and spat on the ground.

At the mention of naturalists, there was a sudden shift in energy spawned forth by patriotic fervor; an aggressive and palpable shift that started in the pits of their stomachs and rose to their chests and rose and rose, until their fingertips tingled with a burning desire to defend their way of life. Everyone but Mr. Robinson felt it. It was always the same for Mr. Robinson. People didn’t speak to him if not to express pity in some form or another. It was exhausting to him, all the sad eyes, the hushed whispers, the sudden and sullen silences when he walked into a room, as if his son’s ghost walked alongside him, a preview of what was to come for those with kids currently fighting on the frontlines.

He pulled out his flask, poured a drink on the ground for his dearly departed son, then took a gulp of heavy scotch and stepped forward a few inches as the line progressed.

“My Cameron is joining the fight next year.” Mrs. Davis had just finished preparing her hamburger and was presently waiting in the line for the New Chicago hotdog bar. “He says he can’t wait to kill some naturalist rebels.” She paused, nodding to herself with faraway eyes, then: “It should be a choice, after all.”

“A choice it should be.” This from everyone within earshot range.

A wave of excited murmurs started at the front of the party and made its way to the lunch line. An older gentleman came waltzing in with a young boy on his heels. Every time the older man took a step, a light hissing was heard, birthed by the hydraulic pistons in his leg, a prosthetic android.

“What are they doing here?” Mrs. Jackson said in disgust.

“Be nice, Susie,” Shirley said, “my father is too old to change.”

“He should be too old to have kids then,” Mrs. Jackson said with her hands on her hips.

Shirley looked at her with smiling eyes and gave her a knowing smirk. Her eyes said, I agree. But her lips said, “Perhaps. In any event, you all be nice to my little brother now. He’s only four and innocent in allathis.”

A little boy came running up to Shirley and jumped excitedly into her arms. “Hey, Jacky boy, goodness, have you gotten big.” She tickled his belly playfully and said, “Run along and play with the other kids now.”

Baby Jack’s countenance suddenly changed. He went from all smiles to a grave, terrified look, full of ambivalence and fear.

“But they don’t like me,” Baby Jack said. His shoulders slumped forward, his face sank, eyes on the ground, tears threatening to escape.

“Sure, they do.” Shirley rubbed her little brother’s back.

“Naha,” he said, “they were calling me names like naturalist and natty at the last gender reveal, and no one would play with me.”

Shirley examined the playing kids. Jesse and their best friend Bailey played with gender-neutral dolls while others kicked a soccer ball around. She noticed a few kids pointing and snickering at her younger brother, causing a primal wave of mama bear anger to stir in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m sorry to hear that, little man,” Shirley said, “but you mustn’t give ‘em that power. You must be brave. Besides, Jesse will be there for you this time.”

Little Jack’s eyes lit up at the mention of Jesse. He always looked up to his older niece. “Do you know what they’re going to pick?” Jack whispered with raised eyebrows. Shirley looked at her little brother’s face brimming with genuine curiosity.

“I don’t. But I rather like the surprise,” Shirley whispered. “Now run along.”

Jack scurried off and found Jesse to wish them a happy birthday. Jack was a dying breed in the New Republic of America. Very few women had natural pregnancies anymore. Most of them received testosterone/estrogen treatments aggressive enough to offset the natural biological makeup of their fetus.

The gender modification treatment program had been around for twenty-five years. The result was four generations of born hermaphrodites.

For lunch, they decided on a small corner cafe not far from HQ called Soup and Sammy. It was a new place; everyone was raving about their assortment of soups that boasted heavily guarded recipes from six of the seven continents. You could get borscht from Russia or caldo de frijoles from South America. Bacon and cabbage soup from Ireland had a cult following.

The only continent without a soup was Antarctica. “But we’re working on a gourmet penguin soup,” the advertisements said facetiously.

Fergie and Johnson sat themselves at a booth that had a line of sight to both the front and back exits, something they learned in training.

The cafe smelled of fresh baked bread and strong coffee, dark roasted. There was a lovely elderly couple sitting at a table across the room and a family of four sat at the booth across from them. There were no waitresses, but four touch screen tablets embedded inside the face of the table.

Johnson scrolled down the list, examining the soup selections while Fergie went straight to the burger section, adding bacon and condiments. He ordered quickly, leaned back, and observed the nice-looking family who were in the middle of eating their lunches. The two boys were young, between four and six, if he were to guess. The older one looked like a famished savage, licking and sucking sauce from his fingers while the younger one refused to eat. The mother was an attractive woman, early-thirties, flaming red hair, throbbing breast, beautiful face. The father was short and stocky with a square jaw and balding hair.

Fergie noticed all this in passing, for what truly caught his attention was the incandescent milky white tinge emanating from their eyes like a family of lions on a nocturnal hunt.

They were so immersed in their oculi, they might as well have been alone. It was sad to witness the systematic disconnect, the dissociation of familiar bonds.

The father balled his hands into a fist and pumped victoriously. He must be watching the game, Fergie thought.

The mother was smiling coyly. Probably watching whatever new reality TV series popular among lonely housewives.

Even the kids were laughing at different intervals—which probably means they aren’t even watching the same program.

They sat together, they ate together, but they were not together.

Fergie remembered a time—long, long ago—when oculus implants were relegated to fanciful science fiction. He remembered a time when phones and computers were external devices, a time before the holy matrimony between man and machine. He wished he could say he missed “the good ol’ days,” if it could even be called that. But the truth was, it was just as bad when he was a kid—if not worse. Now people have their eyes buried behind a nano-lens instead of down at their hands.

He glanced over at the elderly couple, who were also immersed in whatever content was under the incandescent screen of white.

His heart wrenched. He wished it were different. He wished he were different. It takes a special kind of courage to ostracize yourself from the herd, to do what you think is right, proudly and unapologetically.

Fergie was a courageous man in his own right, full of spit and vinegar, but in this one aspect, he was a coward through and through. He lacked the courage of his conviction to get the implant removed, because the truth of it was—it was pretty fucking sweet.