Socket 1 - The Discovery of Socket Greeny Read online

  [Stop.]

  Chute was in mid-strike, ready to put a hole through Streeter’s right lung, when the thought struck her and her body obeyed as if the thought was her own. She looked around, like someone had whispered it to her, but I simply willed her to step off Streeter. Streeter looked up, his scraggly beard powdered with snow. They could feel something, too. They could feel me inside them. And then they watched my stomach begin to rebuild itself, regenerating simulated flesh, filling the holes in my chest until my body was whole again.

  Streeter got on his knees and looked at Chute. “I owe you an apology.”

  “I didn’t do anything.” Her mouth barely moved. “How’d you do that?”

  The shadow walked up behind her and through her and stood between us, its ghostly form snapping in the wind. I sat up and looked at my hands, unsure if this was virtualmode or a dream.

  “Do I know you?” I asked the shadow.

  Streeter and Chute looked at each other. Streeter said, “I think he’s having a stroke.”

  “Socket, are you all right?” Chute asked.

  But I didn’t hear her words. I felt them, understood them like they were my own. I penetrated everything in this world, felt the tree limbs blowing on the mountaintops and the squatty warriors emerging in the distance again. I was everything except the shadow. I got up without much effort, like I levitated onto my feet.

  [You’ve known me your entire existence.] The thought was in my head, but it was not mine. It came from the shadow that had no face.

  “Did you do this to me?” I raised my hand, rubbing my fingertips. “Are you making this happen?”

  “You’re starting to worry me.” Chute stepped through the shadow and stopped so the two were superimposed, making her fair complexion a shade darker. “We need to get you back to the skin.”

  “Yeah, get off the crazy train, Socket,” Streeter huffed, gripping the staff with both hands. “I’m going to need some help for the next wave.”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  The shadow didn’t gesture, shrug or say anything. It remained superimposed over Chute’s worried expression. Whatever she said after that was lost in the wind. The familiarity of the shadow had a taste and a smell, some sort of presence not generally associated with one of the five senses. I felt it like a thought or an intuition.

  “Did you heal me?” I asked.

  [You were never broken.]

  “Socket, you’re freaking me out, here,” Chute said.

  “I ain’t got time to wait for him to come back.” Streeter charged past me and my crazy rambling. The tiny Nordic warriors were black as tar, staining the snow as they shoved through the drifts. They were close enough to hear their snarling. Streeter let out a war cry, the same one he let loose before every clash, the same howl that Chute said made him look like a drama queen, and charged ahead to meet them head-on, bringing down the spiked club to crush the first one’s skull.

  Something squirmed in my belly. I had the vision of a bright star twinkling inside my stomach. A spark that, for a moment, blinded me. I felt my mind wrap around it and fuse with it.

  And then things slowed.

  Things stopped.

  I could see in 360-degrees as if every particle of snow that hung sparkling in mid-air like tiny Christmas ornaments were my eyes. I did that. I was the one that willed the world to stop, for the wind to die and everything in it to take a timeout while I could think. I didn’t intend for things to actually stop, but that’s what I wanted and that’s what happened. I took one of the snowflakes between my finger and thumb, studying the crystalline detail. It began to melt and water dripped down to my knuckle.

  It was dead silent. Dead still.

  The shadow was standing in front of Chute. Without the wind, his form shimmered like smoky particles loosely clinging together. I opened my mouth trying to figure out what the familiar flavor was, trying to figure out just who the shadow was. And then a thought came from somewhere deep inside, some place that had been stored in the lockers of a three-year old toddler when I was in a bathroom and smelled the scent of a man shaving at the sink. It was a safe smell. The man rinsed the razor and smiled down at me.

  I couldn’t bring himself to say it, couldn’t say the word that I identified with this essence I was experiencing because the man that was shaving was dead. He died when I was five.

  “What the hell is going on? Is this some sort of goof?”

  I reached for the shadow but my hand waved through the wispy form and as it did the essence tasted stronger, tingling all the way to my stomach, wrenching me with a helpless sense of falling, almost dropping me to my knees. But the essence was unmistakable. Father.

  [The time has come to know who you are.] The thought had a distinct tone, but it was unlike the voice I remembered as my father’s. [For you to know your true nature.]

  Time wasn’t to be measured in that still moment. The hands on a clock would not be moving. At some point, I stepped forward and merged with the shadow and the essence filled my emptiness, those pockets I did not know existed. Emptiness that yawned inside and sometimes pissed me off, made me sad and pissed me off at being sad. Emptiness for my dad dying and emptiness that he left me to figure things out on my own. Emptiness for having to look at the emptiness in my mother’s eyes. Emptiness that left me awake at night staring at the ceiling wondering what the hell was the point of living. And now I didn’t feel those things. I felt so present. So complete.

  When the ground trembled, I realized I’d closed my eyes. The shadow was no longer there. And the ground continued to shake. The snow vibrated and the statue-like sims of Chute and Streeter shook, too. I no long felt connected with them or the rest of the environment.

  On the horizon, the ground broke open and snow spilled inside a widening crevasse that snaked towards me, ripping the ground like God had grabbed both ends of the world and decided to pull it apart. I watched the rip race under my feet. The falling sensation was back in my stomach because this time I was falling for real, down into the empty blackness that tasted like essence, that sixth sense, only this time it tasted steely and hard.

  Blackness was all there was. No sim. Just falling.

  I felt the hot needles of my sweaty skin sticking to the armrests of the study hall chair. I opened my eyes back in my skin. A silver ball hovered in front of me. Its surface gleamed like polished metal with a red eyelight beneath the surface. “The three of you must follow,” the lookit said.

  I was firmly planted in the seat, but still felt the falling.

  Perp Alley

  “Justin Heyward Street,” the lookit announced.

  “You know, middle names are so unnecessary,” Streeter said, sitting forward and rubbing the feeling back into his face.

  “Anna Nancy Shuester,” the same lookit announced. Chute quickly did the same as Streeter.

  “Socket Pablo Greeny.” Its red eyelight shot right into my eyes. “The three of you are to follow.”

  Honestly, I still wasn’t sure where I was. I gripped the armrest like my chair had been dropped from a cargo plane. I was still trying to return to my skin. I felt out of sorts, like half of my awareness was somewhere else. Back in my sim?

  The lookit wasn’t going to wait. It was about to call security when the room suddenly erupted. All the virtualmoders sat up, groaning and cursing, ripping the discs from behind their ears. The lookit’s eyelight was spinning, recording the hundreds of study hall sound infractions. It blazed around the room trying to get control, then called for security and returned to the front row. The substitute teacher was watching a music video, looked up and closed his laptop.

  “The three of you must follow,” the lookit repeated.

  I could barely feel my legs when I sat forward. Chute hooked her finger around mine and led me up the steps like the living dead. The queens, rats, burners, gearheads, jocks and goths and anyone else that couldn’t thought-project into virtualmode looked up from their laptops and tablets and stared at u
s. Virtualmoders were all back in their skin.

  “Did you do this, Streeter?” someone shouted. “Did you crash virtualmode?”

  “Psssht. Noooo.” He wasn’t guilty, not this time. Streeter walked faster as wads of paper came flying.

  * * * * *

  Perp Alley consisted of five plastic chairs against the wall. A heavy door with wire-imbedded glass was across from the plastic chairs and behind that were the offices of the Dean of Boys, the Dean of Girls, various assistant principals, and the principal. This trip had the Dean of Boys stamped all over it.

  I was feeling better after walking down the hall. The lookits wouldn’t let us talk and that was all right, it gave me some time to think. Streeter had already asked what the hell happened. What happened? I was haunted by a ghost, that’s all. Oh, did I mention it was my dead dad? Yeah. Oh, and I stopped time and connected with the entire universe and experienced a moment of spiritual oneness. Any questions?

  Once we sat, I told them about the shadow, that time seemed to stop and the world split open, that it must’ve been some special weapon the Rimers set off, and blah, blah, blah, I don’t know what happened, either. Crazy shit happens all the time in virtualmode.

  “The world split open?” Streeter asked. I described the black crevasse. “That’s serious, Socket. I mean, if you fell inside that rip you could be disembodied, your awareness floating somewhere in the in-between forever and ever. They did a special on Discovery, virtualmoders that lay there like vegetables for months and months after they got swallowed in a crash.”

  I didn’t bother telling him I did fall in.

  Chute was looking more through me, sort of like a cop looking for the truth. I buried my face in my hands when the room started spinning. I wasn’t falling, but both my feet weren’t exactly on the ground. Chute rubbed my back. I just wanted off the ride.

  “I want revenge,” Streeter said.

  “Just stop,” Chute snapped. “We hacked into their world and they taught us a lesson and that’s the end of it. Besides, you said it yourself, we crashed the world so it probably doesn’t even exist anymore. You should be worried they’ll find us and make us pay for it.”

  “Naw, they’ll have safeguards against a hiccup like that, it’ll snap right back together. Besides, those shitheads aren’t going to report us because they were duping. Those little black things were automated versions of a dupe to avoid detection, like empty manikins with a single mission. They probably blew up Socket. Hell, we could report them to the cops and have them arrested for duping. But that wouldn’t be any fun. I’d rather make them pay.”

  “They can dupe if they want to, it’s a private world.”

  “Um, hello. Duplicating is illegal, in any form or fashion, read your virtualmode code laws: Any attempt to duplicate your identity, whether for business, recreation or just plain whatever, is not allowed under any circumstances. Period, the end. You know it, I know it. I don’t give a shit if they did it in their dreams. You can’t dupe.”

  “I really don’t give two craps,” Chute said. “Why would anyone care what they do in their world? Stupid.”

  He walked several steps away, scratching his thick shag of brown curls like he needed a timeout from stupidity. When he returned, he had the intense look of concentration that flattened his face, made him look more like a frog than usual. He said slowly, “You don’t listen in class, do you. First of all, I’m just going to ignore the improvement in safety that virtualmode laws have done, just forget all that. The world is going digital, Chute. In five years, half the world’s population will be able to virtualmode, creating a digital reality with digital bodies and digital homes and everything, get it? People will be doing business from their homes, commerce and manufacturing and colleges will all be in virtualmode. If people start duplicating their identities, how the hell are you going to know what’s real and what’s not? You won’t! So you can’t dupe, Chute. Get it? You want to write that down so you don’t forget? No. Duping. Period.”

  Chute jumped out of her seat and shook her finger right in his face. “Don’t do that tone with me. I don’t live and breathe for the virtualmode like you, so I don’t know the stupid laws. Next time you talk like that, I’m stuffing you in a locker.”

  Streeter surrendered. “Hey, don’t take your sexual frustrations out on me. I didn’t blow Socket’s mind.” He snapped his fingers. “Socket, come back from the dead, buddy. Anytime now.”

  I looked at Streeter snapping. I shook my head, returning from a dreamy state. I’m back in the skin, I had to remind myself. Maybe Streeter was right. There were already studies suggesting that excessive virtualmoding was causing a disconnect between mind and body, where one would have a hard time distinguishing between reality and fantasy.

  I needed a three-day suspension. Maybe stay off virtualmode the whole time. Streeter would bitch, but I needed a break.

  Flip-flops slapped from around the corner and a girl with short, black hair flip-flopped in our direction. Streeter stared up at her with his tongue about to roll out. She had to walk around him, flicked her eyes at Chute rubbing my back and went into the administrative office, but not before a sudden drop in altitude pulled my stomach through the floor. I hung onto the chair for dear life.

  [Socket Greeny, in trouble again? Shocker.]

  “Did you hear that?” I said. “Did you hear what she was thinking?”

  Chute clenched my arm tighter. Streeter and Chute looked at each other, exchanged knowing glances, then he sat on the other side of me. “Dude, you sure you’re all right? I mean, you’re starting to scare me a little with the wacky talk. You sure your nojakk isn’t flaring up.” Streeter tapped his cheek. “You hear me now? Hear me now?”

  My cheek vibrated and I heard him through the nojakk seed imbedded in my cheek. But I heard the girl thinking. A thought was a thought, not a goddamn voice chiming from a nojakk. I waved him off and buried my face in my hands, again.

  “Listen, buddy.” Streeter dropped his hand on my shoulder. “You’re not hearing voices or thoughts or stopping time. You’re just in a fuzzy area, right now, reconnecting with the skin. It happens all the time, don’t press it. Take some deep breaths, in with the good air, out with the bad.” Streeter demonstrated deep breathing. “Don’t crack on me. I need you.”

  “You’re not taking him back to the Rime,” Chute said.

  “Don’t be hasty. And you’re not his mom.”

  I did take some deep breaths and did feel better. This was like a bad dream that took longer than usual to fade. The office door opened. The secretary stuck her head out. “All right, ya’ll. Mr. Carter wants to see you now.”

  We got up. I felt fine but suddenly realized I was mad-crazy starving. I could feel my ribs poking through my shirt, like I hadn’t eaten in days. Maybe I was getting a bit hypoglycemic. There was a girl in my social studies class that was hypoglycemic and she had symptoms like that. Maybe she forgot to mention the hallucinations. And thought-reading.

  “Not you, Socket,” she said. “Your mother will pick you up at the curb in a few minutes. You need to go right out.”

  “My mom?”

  “She called right after ya’ll got caught doing whatever you were doing and said you have a family emergency. Don’t worry, you’re still going to be suspended.”

  “Oh, man.” Streeter stepped away from me like he might get infected.

  I watched the two get escorted inside and past the secretary’s desk. Chute turned and pointed at her cheek, mouthed the words call me. Streeter and Chute wouldn’t be feeling too bad about their fate. Streeter lived with his grandparents and he would make up a story as to why he was home and they would believe it. Chute’s dad would be upset, but he was always easy on her. But my mom?

  Shit storm.

  In the Moody

  Mom pulled into the parking lot. Her car was a silver, square thing. It didn’t look like any model I’d seen on the road, certainly not one Ford or Chevy manufactured. It came from work, and l
ike most things concerning her employer, I was clueless.

  She was looking at the soccer field where a bunch of students were testing hovering jetter discs. Some new company donated them to the school, said the jetter boards had anti-gravity boosters that could carry 300 pounds and they wanted the virtualmoder students to learn how to ride them. They said they were sponsoring a new game that would revolutionize sports. Tacket or tagghet or something like that. Ordinarily, that would get my interest but anything that had to do with school and/or school spirit was immediately off my to-do list.

  When I got in the car, she handed me two breakfast bars in white wrappers. “How’d you know I was hungry?”

  She didn’t answer, just eased through the parking lot. I tore open the first one and nearly swallowed it without chewing. My mouth filled with saliva and my stomach roared. It was like a shot of adrenaline tingling under my scalp. I chewed the second bar and lay my head back. Finally, I felt back to my skin. What the hell are in these things? The wrapper had no writing on it, no label, and no ingredients. I licked the inside of it.

  We were on the Interstate heading towards Charleston. Mom gripped the wheel like it offended her. The skin over her knuckles pulsed. But she grabbed everything that way: coffee mugs, doorknobs, and little soft, innocent puppies. She stared blankly through the windshield. Maybe I was in trouble, I wouldn’t really know for a while. We didn’t talk about things that involved feeling.

  That’s the Greeny way.

  I tapped up music on my nojakk and watched the traffic.

  * * * * *

  Half an hour later, we started over the five-mile, cable-stayed bridge that crossed over the Cooper River. “We going shopping or something?” I asked.