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Madison Scott-Clary
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<p><span class="tag">writing</span> <span class="tag">fiction</span> <span class="tag">scifi</span> <span class="tag">post-self</span> <span class="tag">book</span> <span class="tag">short-story</span></p>
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<p>Echoes of Grace singing, memories and emotions, clashed with the doctor’s words.</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p><em>Dans un sommeil que charmait ton image<br />
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Je rêvais le bonheur, ardent mirage,<br />
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Tes yeux étaient plus doux, ta voix pure et sonore,<br />
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Je rêvais le bonheur, ardent mirage…</em></p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>“I know you’ve signed the waivers, but I need a verbal confirmation,” she was saying. “Do you understand the procedure?”</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p><em>Tes yeux étaient plus doux, ta voix pure et sonore,<br />
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Tu rayonnais comme un ciel éclairé par l’aurore;</em></p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>Echoes of Grace singing, memories and emotions, clashed with the doctor’s words. “I know you’ve signed the waivers, but I need a verbal confirmation. Do you understand the procedure?”</p>
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<p>Sylvie nodded. It was strange not to feel her hair, always so frizzy and buoyant, not following the motion a scant second too late.</p>
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<p>“The uploading process will be fatal and irreversible. There is some risk, about one and a half percent, that it won’t work.” The doctor paused and picked up a pen. She added, “Won’t work after the point where your body will have died, that is. Do you understand?”</p>
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<p>“I’m sorry, Sylvie, it needs to be a verbal confirmation. The uploading process will be fatal and irreversible. There is some risk, about one and a half percent, that it won’t work.” The doctor paused and picked up a pen. She added, “Won’t work after the point where your body will have died, that is. Do you understand?”</p>
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<p>A swallow, dry, and another nod. “What will happen in that case?”</p>
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<p>“Your family will receive a payout of ten million francs CFA. Your body will not be available for a burial, unfortunately.” The doctor looked strangely abashed. “The results of the process are…ah, not pretty.”</p>
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<p>“I understand.”</p>
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<p>“One last thing, then. After the uploading process, successful or not, your blood, organs and tissue will be donated — or, well, sold — to a tissue bank in central Africa. Your family will receive ten percent of this, and the Centre the other ninety. This is to help defray the cost of the process.”</p>
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<p>“I understand. “</p>
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<p>“One last thing, then. After the uploading process, successful or not, your blood, organs and tissue will be donated — or, ah…sold — to a tissue bank in central Africa. Your family will receive ten percent of this, and the Centre the other ninety. This is to help defray the cost of the process.”</p>
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<p>Sylvie thought for a moment, rubbed her hand over her smooth-shaven head. “About how much will that be?”</p>
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<p>“The cut to your family?” The doctor fiddled with her pen, twirling it across delicate dark fingers. “Lately, we’ve been getting about a hundred million francs, so again, about ten million. Not a bad payout, hmm?”</p>
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<p>Not bad indeed. Sylvie had little love for her family, minus her brother, so the payout wasn’t a huge incentive, as it was for others. She just hoped Moussa wound up with a chunk of it.</p>
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<p>Unlikely, given her mother.</p>
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<p>She nodded her assent.</p>
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<p>“So then. Your surgery is scheduled in one hour. You have fifteen minutes before prep, which means fifteen more minutes to back out if you should choose. I’m going to head back to the team and leave you be to think this over.” The doctor gestured to her right, “Dial zero on the phone on the desk if you wish to cancel. There will be no repercussions if you do.”</p>
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<p>The doctor stood and leaned forward, offering her hand. Sylvie lifted herself out of her chair and accepted the handshake, feeling as though she needed to be careful of those delicate fingers. The grip was firm, though.</p>
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<p>Not bad indeed. Sylvie had little love for her family, minus her brother, so the payout wasn’t a huge incentive, as it was for others. She just hoped Moussa wound up with a chunk of it. Unlikely, given her mother. She nodded. “Uh, I agree. Confirm. Whatever.”</p>
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<p>“So then. Your surgery is scheduled in one hour. You have fifteen minutes before prep, which means fifteen more minutes to back out if you should choose. I’m going to head back to the team and leave you be to think this over.” The doctor gestured to her right: a phone huddled, mute, on the table next to the coffee machine, the creamer and sugar. “Dial zero on the phone on the desk if you wish to cancel. There will be no repercussions if you do.”</p>
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<p>The doctor stood and leaned forward, offering her hand. Sylvie lifted herself out of her chair and accepted the handshake, marveling at such an antiquated gesture, feeling the need, however real or not, to be careful of those delicate fingers. The grip was firm.</p>
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<p>As the doctor stepped out of the room, Sylvie settled back into the chair. She closed her eyes against the sight of all the posters advertising the procedure.</p>
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<p>“Upload today!” they said.</p>
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<p>“Experience a life beyond need!” they promised.</p>
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<p>“Upload today!” they shouted.</p>
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<p>“Experience a life beyond need!” they howled.</p>
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<p>“Work without pressure!” they hollered.</p>
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<p>Everything was so loud, so loud.</p>
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<p>She had them all memorized, anyway. Right now, she just wanted quiet. She just wanted to think of Grace.</p>
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<p>She had them all memorized, anyway. All those overbright promises that hat circled her head like a halo yearning for the System somewhere above the sky had grown wearisome. </p>
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<p>Right now, she just wanted quiet. She just wanted peace and stillness. She just wanted to <em>think.</em></p>
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<p>She just wanted to think of Grace.</p>
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<p>Grace with her silvering hair.</p>
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<p>Grace with her fair and smooth skin.</p>
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<p>Grace with her liquid laughter and lovely voice.</p>
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<p>They’d fallen in love within months, shared only a scant few years together, before being separated again. An impenetrable boundary of distance, of emulated sensorium and embodied flesh.</p>
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<p>Grace’s decision hadn’t been Sylvie’s. Uploading, the thought of uploading, made her skin itch and eyes ache. To be removed from this world and sent to another, to the system, didn’t appeal to her.</p>
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<p>They’d fallen in love within weeks. A chance meeting at a work party — Grace someone’s plus-one, someone in accounting — had led to an hour and a half talking about music. The chat had led to a concert. Then another. Then coffee. They’d shared only a scant few years together after that — one of them married — before being separated again. An impenetrable boundary of distance, of the immiscibility emulated sensorium and embodied flesh.</p>
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<p>Grace’s decision hadn’t been Sylvie’s. Uploading, the very thought of it, made her skin itch and eyes ache. To be removed from this world and sent to another, to the System, didn’t appeal to her. What greater life could the System offer? What did “a life beyond need” mean? That one could eat to one’s delight? But she’d heard that hunger wasn’t a thing, so what mattered satiation? That one could sleep as long as one wanted? But of what use were dreams up there? That one could live forever?</p>
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<p>It did appeal to Grace.</p>
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<p>Grace with her failing voice.</p>
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<p>Grace with her deteriorating coordination.</p>
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<p>Grace with her pain, her depression.</p>
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<p>For Grace, it was a way to escape her body. That body that Sylvie loved so much, and was such a prison to Grace. A voluntary procedure — “Help combat overpopulation!” the posters howled — but also a way to neatly sidestep the MS slowly claiming her body and mind.</p>
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<p>After the upload, Grace had communicated with Sylvie through text, through mails sent to her terminal which she’d pore over at work. She begged Sylvie. <em>Come join me, come upload,</em> she said. <em>The posters, they’re all true, they’re all right.</em></p>
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<p>For Grace, it was a way to escape her body. That body that Sylvie loved so much, and which was such a prison to Grace. A voluntary procedure — “Help combat overpopulation!” the posters screamed, eugenics veiled thinly, and even then only with a wink and a nudge; the population had been dropping for a decade at least — but also a way to neatly sidestep the multiple sclerosis slowly claiming her body and mind.</p>
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<p>After the upload, Grace had communicated with Sylvie through text, through mails sent to her terminal which she’d pore over at work, reading top to bottom, top to bottom, a daily <em>lectio divina</em>. She asked Sylvie. She begged her. <em>Come join me, come upload,</em> she said. <em>The posters, they’re all true, they’re all right. We can be together as if nothing had changed. At least, nothing for the worse.</em></p>
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<p>The thought <em>still</em> made her skin itch and her eyes ache, but all the same, she kept dreaming of Grace. Dreaming of softer eyes, of a voice more sonorous. Her Grace shining like the dawn.</p>
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<p>So she’d relented.</p>
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<blockquote>
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@ -58,12 +61,14 @@ Pour m’enfuir avec toi vers la lumière,<br />
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Les cieux pour nous entr’ouvraient leurs nues,<br />
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Splendeurs inconnues, lueurs divines entrevues,</em></p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>Sylvie’s mind was filled with Fauré, with that rolling, lilting theme. With Grace’s voice at the piano.</p>
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<p>“We’re going to keep you awake, okay? We need to, in order to tell when the upload is complete, but you’ll under local anesthesia. It’ll make you feel a little dreamy, may have visual disturbances.” The doctor’s smile was kind. “Some report it to be enjoyable.”</p>
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<p>“Okay. How long will the upload take?”</p>
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<p>“The procedure will be about forty five minutes to prep you for upload, and then the upload will happen in two stages,” the doctor said. “You’ll be uploaded to a local node at our center, which will give you access to a waiting room of sorts for the system proper. The upload to the system will take several hours via Ansible — it’s a lot of data going a long way, you understand — so the waiting room will usually have you fork and the copy will be uploaded.”</p>
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<p>“Create a copy of myself and let that be uploaded while I watch,” she murmured. Sylvie thought for a moment, “What about the copy that remains?”</p>
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<p>Sylvie’s mind was filled to overflowing with Fauré, with that rolling, lilting theme, with Grace’s voice at the piano. Even as she was put in a hospital gown, even as she was wheeled back to the operating room on a tired gurney, it played in her head. Maybe she hummed, she didn’t know.</p>
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<p>“We’re going to keep you awake, okay? We need to as part of the process, you have to be conscious but you’ll be under local anesthesia. It’ll make you feel a little dreamy. You may have visual disturbances.” The doctor’s smile was kind. “Some report it to be enjoyable.”</p>
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<p>“Okay. How long will it take?”</p>
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<p>“An hour and a half, plus about thirty minutes to prep you for upload. The upload will happen in two stages,” she said. “You’ll be uploaded to a local node at our center, which will give you access to a waiting room of sorts for the System proper. The upload to the L<sub>5</sub> point will take several hours via Ansible — it’s a lot of data going a long way, you understand — so the waiting room will usually have you stick around.”</p>
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<p>Sylvie thought for a moment, “What about the copy that remains?”</p>
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<p>“It’s free to quit, like a program on your terminal quitting. But they — the…ah, sysadmins — usually request that it stay around in case the upload to the system gets interrupted for some reason. Cosmic rays or whatever technobabble fits that day.”</p>
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<p>“And I just…wait?”</p>
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<p>“Wait until the upload’s completed, then you’ll either quit or the sim is halted.</p>
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<p>“And what will I feel if things go wrong?”</p>
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<p>The doctor hesitated, looked to her team. It was another team member, a man with a thick French accent, who responded. “We don’t really know. The local node will pick up on it and alert us. Death just looks like death to us.”</p>
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<p>Sylvie nodded. Tried to nod, at least. She was firmly strapped down. “Alright.”</p>
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@ -72,20 +77,21 @@ Splendeurs inconnues, lueurs divines entrevues,</em></p>
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<p>Sylvie attempted to speak, but only managed a grunt of assent.</p>
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<p>The anesthesiologist nodded, “Good. Here it comes, then.”</p>
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<p>The chill ache was replaced with a comfortable warmth.</p>
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<p>Not warmth, she realized. Nothingness. Floatingness. Leaving-the-earth-ness. Gone-ness.</p>
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<p><em>Not warmth,</em> she thought. <em>Nothingness. Floatingness. Leaving-the-Earth-ness. Gone-ness.</em> Some part of her giggled. Dreamy indeed.</p>
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<p>“Sylvie, can you hear me? You won’t be able to speak or blink or nod, but can you try and take two quick breaths? It may be difficult. We’ll intubate if necessary.”</p>
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<p>Sylvie obeyed. Or thought she did, at least. She couldn’t tell if the breaths were actually happening. It seemed to be enough for the anesthesiologist, whose shadow across her vision bowed and stepped out of sight.</p>
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<p>Time wandered.</p>
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<p>Voices rang with the timbre of bells, though she could still understand them. Surgeons talking to technicians.</p>
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<p>Voices rang with the timbre of bells. Sometimes they formed words, sometimes they were broken down into their component tones and she could only here formants, fundamentals. Surgeons talking to technicians.</p>
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<p>A dull, basso organ note of something grinding, her vision vibrating, blurring the sight of the light above the bed.</p>
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<p>The light? A light? <em>Are my eyes even open?</em></p>
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<p>The light took the form of Grace, and Sylvie more readily gave in to the effects of the drug.</p>
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<p>Grace with her angelic smile. Grace lifting her up, away from the earth. Grace running, running into the ring of that surgeon’s lamp. Clouds, clouds parting.</p>
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<p>Grace with her angelic smile. Grace lifting her up, away from the earth. Grace running, running into the ring of that surgeon’s lamp. Into and through, up and up. Clouds, clouds parting.</p>
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<p>The organ note screamed up through several octaves.</p>
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<p>Calm, ringing voices.</p>
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<p>That yearning song tinkling through her mind. She was unable to tell whether it came from herself or from one of the techs. Or maybe from Grace. <em>Dans un sommeil que charmait ton image…</em> Tinkling and flowing. Rocking. Drunken. Drunken on dreams.</p>
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<p>Minutes fled by. Hours. Days, perhaps. Always, in front of her, her angel. Pure white skin that contrasted beautifully against her own, cream spilled in coffee. Always lifting her up. How far did they have to go?</p>
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<p>Grace was drifting away from her, receding.</p>
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<p>The light flared in intensity. Somehow became black. A shining, blinding blackness amid a field of more blackness.</p>
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<p>The light flared in intensity. Somehow became black. A shining, blinding blackness amid a field of more blackness, matte and plain.</p>
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<p>Tugging, pulling.</p>
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<p>Prying.</p>
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<p>A snap.</p>
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@ -103,18 +109,19 @@ Je t’appelle, ô nuit, rends moi tes mensonges,<br />
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Reviens, reviens radieuse,<br />
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Reviens ô nuit mystérieuse!</em></p>
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</blockquote>
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<hr />
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<p>The team stood still. There was no written protocol as to what one should do while the local node processed the upload, but they always remained silent. The doctor held her breath every time.</p>
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<p>A small pinging noise. The local readout flashed red.</p>
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<p>Shoulders sagged around the room.</p>
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<p>“Error in processing upload.” The tinny speaker sounded impersonal. Perhaps it was designed that way to play down the loss. “Irrecoverable data corruption. Please check all contacts before continuing or contact a system support technician for a full rig inspection.”</p>
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<p>“Well.” The anesthesiologist’s voice, so human, contrasted with the words from the speaker. “That’s that, then.”</p>
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<p>“That’s that,” the doctor echoed. She sighed and backed away from Sylvie’s body. It was empty, now. A husk. “I’ll start the paperwork and call her family and the insurance company. Get the payout processed as soon as possible.”</p>
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<p>The other team members nodded. None of them looked happy.</p>
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<p>“Go on, get her cleaned up and sent to the handlers.” She trudged out of the room slowly, her feet dragging. Pulling off her gloves, one by one, she added, “At least someone will get something out of this. Alas.”</p>
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<p>“That’s that,” the doctor echoed. She sighed and backed away from Sylvie’s body. It was empty, now. A husk. A vessel poured out into nothing. “I’ll start the paperwork and call her family and the insurance company. Get the payout processed as soon as possible. Third one this month, too.”</p>
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<p>The other team members nodded. None looked happy.</p>
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<p>“Go on, get her cleaned up and sent to the handlers.” She trudged from the room, her feet dragging. Pulling off her gloves one by one she added half to herself, “At least someone will get something out of this. Alas.”</p>
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<p>Prayers began around the corpse.</p>
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</article>
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<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2020-06-24</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2023-02-05</p>
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<h1>Zk | 002</h1>
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<p>The creation of this shared language within the context of an in-group such as a fandom or subculture is bound up in two things: conversation and art. Conversation is the sharing of information, emotions, and opinions surrounding the shared sense of identity, but the creation of art strengthens shared identity through the mutual appreciation of the core subject or topic of the fandom or subculture.</p>
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<p>In the context of writing in particular, the shared language takes center stage. When using a similar lexicon, grammar and stylistic choices, and word choice, </p>
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<p>Page generated on 2023-02-04</p>
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