Centuries in virtual worlds have brought human consciousness to the brink of collapse. The extractor Logan Bochniak, who is fighting for survival in the megacity Bellgraph and, like all the other inhabitants, is suffering from the consequences of ne...
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PROXY
To get to the Silver Serpent, you must be prepared to crack some skulls.
Some use a hammer for this task, turning the brain into mush in the process. Others place electrodes on the temple, overload, and fry everything. I used to work like that. Not anymore – I use a scalpel now. Or a tensor. This is by no means a story about a butcher turned surgeon. I am somewhere in the middle, and the work still gets messy. Especially when you prefer your clients to be awake – like I do.
The reason is simple: If the client is unconscious, the silver serpent relinquishes its grip only reluctantly. It's a complicated beast. Like any other, it excels in the art of concealment. It doesn't hide in thickets and leaves. It burrows deep into the brain. It is an extremely dense, highly conductive neuropolyamide that is capable of reading brain waves and translating them into data packages. And when you provoke it, it will make sure it's bite is the last thing you'll ever feel.
My client, a man called Herold Glukhov, wants to get rid of his Silver Serpent. I can't blame him. It took everything from him, like it does with all of us. He begged me to save his son. And himself. Got his call in the night. Like I often do. Usually when it rains, and Bellgraph, this cesspit of a city, disappears behind a watery haze, making an escape seem more tangible.
Now he lies beneath me, surrounded by instruments that monitor his heartbeat. We've come quite far. I got him out of the city and onto this metal gurney without blowing the whistle. On the nape of his neck and feet I have placed electrodes. A low current is humming. His rattle and coughing pierce the dusty air of this makeshift operating room in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. The air is thick with antiseptic and ozone – this, he probably realizes in that very instant, might very well be the place where he'll die.
"Logan?" He stirs, slowly opening his eyes.
"I'm here, Herold."
He falls silent for a moment; then, his whisper a soft crackle, almost drown out by the howling of the wind. "Make it hurt."
I nod and proceed to shave his head, rendering the scalp smooth until it resembles the pinkish-grey vulnerability of a newborn's. I meticulously disinfect around the neural connection, apply a Geltax blister, and monitor until his pulse steadies at 40 beats per minute.
Then I palpate the skull. Get a feel for it.
Gentle pressure along the temporal bone – this way I can gauge where I will be operating: right at the junction where the parietal bone begins, and a piece of metal is lodged. This bud-like, silver formation, encircled by a five-centimeter-wide metal ring, is connected to the silver serpent. This is where I'll begin.
"When was the last time you were logged in?", I ask.
