“I think that’s my pen, Johnson.” I prodded. I had no reason to, of course.
Everett Johnson, my next-door cubicle neighbor of seven years, frowned. “I’m pretty sure I have a blue pen like this one. To be fair, I found it on the floor between us…”
I knew Johnson, just like me, was internally amused at the idea of either of us needing to be fair. It’d been decades since that had been the job of people like us.
“…But still, I’m certain this is mine.”
On cue, we both looked at the camera suspended in the ceiling. Its small red light glowed, as it always had. Without another word, we resumed our work. We had no reason to waste company time over an issue that would be settled overnight.
After the day’s work was complete, I headed to the speedrail station. I always arrived about ten minutes before the speedrail itself did, meaning I always had time to admire the nearby Network Dome. One of several throughout the city, it was surrounded by a small plaza filled with trees and benches, to beautify it I suppose. Not that it needed beautifying- it could have been the ugliest thing in the world and still earn its place of honor every night.
It was a little more ugly today, though. Red streaks of spattered paint covered much of its silvery surface, spelling out several phrases. Among them: FREE YOURSELF! THE NETWORK ROBBED US OF WHAT MAKES US HUMAN! WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF IT ALL BREAKS! In addition, there were several renditions of the same symbol- a side profile of a person with a small rectangular hole in their head leaking blood. A person with their port torn out.
Instinctively, I rubbed the area where my port was located, just above my right ear. The concept of it being gone was disturbing, not just for the injury but for what it would mean for me. What would I do without it? What could I do?
That graffiti had to be the work of the Regressives- a name they had never used for themselves, but fitting for any semi-organized group who opposed the Network. As dangerous as non-Network linked individuals sounded on paper, they were kind of all bark and no bite- more meaningless symbols that could easily be cleaned away like the graffiti than an actual threat to the city. As if to prove it, a small fleet of Network Maintenance Drones arrived, and began spraying water on the dome. The red diluted to pink in the spray, and began running off the dome in thick rivulets. I smiled as I watched, just as my speed rail arrived.
Dinner that night was delicious, as it was every night. Morgan, my wife, and I took turns cooking each night, and the Network had ensured we knew each other and our childrens’ tastes like our own. Our children- Sam and Laura- provided the only sore spot of the evening, fighting over who knows what. Not something for me and Morgan to concern ourselves with- the Network would resolve that- but it was a little irritating. Still, all things considered, it had been another near-perfect day.
Finally, time for bed. Time for today’s strife to be undone. Morgan was already fast asleep, plugged in. I smiled at her, wondering what conflicts the Network would rectify for her throughout the night.
Like I had a million times before, I grabbed the two small wires which of course led down into the floor, through a complicated tangle for about a mile, before eventually linking up with the nearest Network Dome. I carefully held them to the side of my head and plugged them into the ports embedded there. There was a satisfying click, and the familiar sensation of mental data analysis began. The Network’s program scanned my memories, taking note of many things, most importantly my moments of annoyance. With Everett Johnson for claiming my pen was his, with the Regressives for their discomforting graffiti, with my children for their argument. The Network processed these grievances, and filed them away to resolve before I awoke.
These were hardly the most grand problems I’d ever tasked the Network with resolving, I thought as I climbed into bed. All the Network had to do for the pen was review our building’s security footage, determine I was the pen’s true owner, and relay this information to Johnson as he slumbered. As for the others- the graffiti was gone and my childrens’ conflict was being settled at this very moment, so all that was left to deal with was my own emotions. I climbed into bed, sure of what I would dream about as I slept. I would gain a better understanding of the circumstances that led Johnson to believe the pen was his, what my children had fought over, and be reminded, as I had many times before, why the Regressives acted the way they did. That was what the Network was for after all.
It connected you with everyone. It gave you full knowledge of their life, their troubles, their mistakes- it forced you to understand yesterday’s affronts by the time tomorrow rolled around. Not only was the Network a near foolproof method for resolving injustices, it essentially automated the old society process of “empathy”.
Honestly, this idea that this task of attempting to understand the behavior of someone who had harmed you, to sympathize with them, to move past trespasses that often wouldn’t be erased- all of that had once been the responsibility of the individual was bizarre. It was an old burden, eradicated by the Network, so I rarely gave it much thought, but it still baffled me that such an important facet of life had been left up to easily failable humans.
I didn’t give it much thought that night. I quickly drifted off into peaceful slumber.
Dreamless slumber.
I realized it the moment I woke up. I had no memory of anything from last night- no scenes played in my head explaining the affronts of others. For the first time in my life, I didn’t know why I had been wronged.
I yanked the cables out of my port, checking to see if they’d broken. Nope- they were still plugged into the wall. I turned to Morgan, only to see her sitting up in bed, looking just as shell-shocked. “I…I didn’t…” she stammered.
Without another word, I leaped out of bed and dashed to the living room, where our TV was. I grabbed the remote, clicked on the first news channel I could find, and…
“…at this point in time, eight of the city’s fourteen Domes have been reported as temporarily out of commission. The terrorist attack, believed to be the work of the Regressive Movement, occurred at 2:42 AM…”
The grim tone the newscaster spoke with didn’t even begin to match the feeling of dread sinking in my stomach. The Regressives had actually done something- the worst thing they could have done. For the first time I could remember, I felt angry, not just because of the severity of their actions…but because this was the first time I had been mentally capable of feeling that way. Without the aid of the Network, I couldn’t even begin to rationalize their actions. In fact, I…
No. I had to ignore those thoughts. The newscaster was already relaying a statement from the Emergency Network Maintenance Commission (the only one they’d ever given) that the downed Domes would be up and running again within hours. I knew my office had emergency Network Connection points, so when the Network went back up, I could immediately have these thoughts processed and purged.
I got ready for work as quickly as I could. Morgan was still in bed, so I relayed the news to her. I suppose I could have spent more time comforting her, or pulling apart my children whose fight from yesterday was ongoing, but those problems would be resolved soon, and I honestly didn’t really feel like it anyway. Soon enough I left, and tried to act like everything was normal.
It wasn’t, of course. I could tell from the moment I boarded the speedrail. Some people seemed normal, if a little uneasy. From the districts of the six unharmed Domes, I presumed. The rest had looks in their eyes- looks of irritation, anger. They looked like any minute, they would snap.
I was eager to get off the speedrail. As I did, I noticed the Dome from yesterday. I could see a large crack in its curvature, with a dark smoke emanating from within. Maintenance Drones surrounded the structure, each equipped with a variety of tools. I felt reassured, knowing this would all be over soon.
I tried to keep a cheerful face as I walked into the office, politely greeting my coworkers as I made my way to my cubicle. When I arrived, I noticed the glowing light in the nearby camera was dim. It wasn’t the most chilling indicator of last night’s attack that I’d seen today, but it still made me uneasy. That camera had been a constant for as long as I’d worked there, and it had often helped resolve conflicts with-
Everett Johnson.
I heard sounds of movement from his cubicle. Sure enough, he was there, settling into his chair, absentmindedly clicking my pen. He noticed me peeking and paused. “Oh, hey.”
“My…my pen.” I pointed, somewhat stupidly.
“Oh, were you in one of the downed districts? Crazy, right? Didn’t think the Regressives had it in ‘em.” He chuckled. “Yeah, anyway, my district wasn’t down, and the Network determined the pen was mine.”
That very same statement, had it come from the Network, would have silenced me immediately. But from Johnson, it felt worthless. How was I even supposed to know he wasn’t lying? I didn’t know where he lived, the Network may have been down for him too. Maybe he’d taken advantage of that in order to keep the pen- my pen.
This was the first time in my entire existence that I’d had to wait more than a day for what I deserved. Sure, the Network would probably be back up soon, but justice even hours overdue felt wrong. More than that, I felt like every annoyance I’d ever experienced towards Johnson was bubbling up, without the Network’s nightly suppressant. The moments that followed seemed to last eternities, as they kept building, and building, until…
I felt nothing but hatred for Everett Johnson. It was an entirely new, burning sensation. And it was exhilarating. I wanted nothing more than to act on this feeling, as much as possible. And I did.
Without another word, I rushed at him. He had already turned back to his desk, clearly assuming our conversation was over. He was right, ultimately. Johnson turned back slightly, just in time to see my fist fly towards him. It collided with his face, and I winced slightly as my knuckle slammed into his tough jaw. It hurt, but judging by the shriek he emitted it hurt him more, so I kept going. Before he could even react, I grabbed his head with both hands and slammed it into his desk. There was a satisfying crack, and when I lifted his head back up I saw blood pouring out. It reminded me of the paint washing off the Dome yesterday. Was this what the Regressives had been fighting for all these years? Why had I ever opposed them? Why had anybody?
I slammed his head again for good measure, then dumped his limp body on the floor. I didn’t know if he was knocked out or dead, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t even stop myself from laughing. When I turned, I saw several other coworkers staring in stunned silence, probably drawn by Johnson’s obnoxious scream. A few looked utterly horrified- a few others looked intrigued, almost eager. I couldn’t have cared less, of course. I was free. For the first time in my life, I was free.
You know the rest of the story, of course. An emergency squad was deployed by the Network once it was repaired a few hours later, and I was forcibly plugged in. Everything from yesterday was resolved, which included my discovery that Everett Johnson had been right- the pen was his. I considered apologizing to him, but I knew the Network would relay those sentiments while he recovered over the following weeks in the Medical Center.
My “antisocial outburst” as the condition became known, was one of almost a hundred such incidents to occur that morning. I’m certain that with every minute that passed, that number would have increased exponentially. Since that day, the media has theorized that the damage to the Network Domes was just a cover for the Regressives’ true goals- hacking as many Network users as possible with a computer virus designed to make them act violently. They have not come up with a reasonable explanation as to how this was possible, which makes sense because that theory is complete bullshit.
We who experienced these outbursts rarely speak of that day, except to profess remorse and pray the Network ensures nothing like it ever happens again. We all know we are lying, because we all know what we felt that day.
Deep down, we hope for the Network to shatter once more, and to be allowed to hate again.
Trace Thompson's Guide To Monsters 