Chipping

The bar door swings open and in struts Will Shakespeare.

“Ah Bysshe,” he announces, “a glass of the finest mead this establishment can offer.” The rough looking character at the bar orders two lagers, slides off the high stall and follows Will to the quietest corner of the room.

“Jesus, seven-y euros for these, what is the world comin’ to William.”

“What have you got for me?” Will asks, brow lifted expectantly. He turns his head sideways keeping his eyes on Bysshe.

Bysshe leans across the table so his nose almost touches Will’s ear.

“Got ‘The Tempest,’ by yours truly, a bit surreal but it’ll tangle up your mind just nicely. I got ‘Frankenstein’, to be ’andled with care, and I got somefin I never ’eard of before called ‘White teef’, only fir-y years old. Fuck knows what it’s about but pay me for the uvver two and you can ’ave it gra-is.”

“How much then? I got Hewlett Packard blacks and an Epson colour…”

“I’m not interested in the Epson,” Bysshe cuts in quickly, “but I’ll take five HPs for the three chips.”

Will says nothing; rummages about in his bag and pushes a crumpled packet across the table. Bysshe completes the transaction, sliding back a carton containing the three Neurochips.

The Brain to computer interface, along with the communication network ‘Neurotel’, are part of everyday life. Neurotel is regulated from Brussels where applications like direct learning are monitored and rationed. This supposedly maintains a mental agility that only learning the traditional way can achieve. Alongside the many legitimate uses, like importing basic arithmetic, spelling and grammar, there exists an illicit trade in this technology. Works of literature are spliced with a mood altering element that puts the user in a state of euphoria at the same time as involving them directly in the plot. This is known as ‘Chipping’. Fortunately for Bysshe and the other dealers, the rush of endorphins created by the experience keeps users like Mike Smith, or Will Shakespeare, as he likes to be known, coming back for more.

Will pushes his way back towards the bar.

“Hi Will, or is it Will Caxton now?”

“Piss off Heap, you tight git. You owe me a David Copperfield chip.”

“O.K. keep your codpiece on, Smike’s still got it.”

“He’s had it months,” protests Will.

“You’ve been filling cartridges again. I can see the stains on your fingers,” Heap accuses Will with a smug grin.

“At least I do something other than come in here and piss all my euros up against the wall.”

“Yeah yeah,” Heap replies dismissively

Will gets his drinks and moves back through the crowd.

“Farewell and adieu my friend.”

“Fuck off Shakespeare!” And as an afterthought, “Oh yeah, say hi to Growler for me.”

“Yeah O.K. see ya mate.” Will heads back to the corner of the bar where Bysshe is goading a student who is collecting credits for the U.S. appeal.

“Hey Will, you bin to universi-y, tell this idiot it won’t make a blin’ bit of difference how many of our bloody euros we frow at it.”

Will had been to University and he had done North American studies but he didn’t graduate, thanks partly to people like Bysshe. He had been a promising student until the second year when, fuelled by a bewildering cocktail of chemicals his academic career came to a grinding halt. He didn’t get his grades and the ‘Bill Gates trust’ wouldn’t cough up for the final year.

“Yeah, but Bysshe, sometimes all you can do is throw credits at the problem and just hope some of it gets through. Try and sort out the corruption later when people aren’t actually starving.” Will can see the flaw in his own argument; that while the corruption exists humanitarian relief is compromised. Bysshe, who hasn’t spotted the flaw, listens in that non listening way and goes on regardless.

“That’s all very well William, but just tell him, just……..”

A rather surprising aspect of the trade in ‘neurochips’ is the use of printer cartridges and A4 as currency. All legitimate trade is done electronically; currency is still the euro, but cash no longer exists, most transactions being done via ‘Neurotel’ with DNA profiling for security.

There is too, a vigorous black-market in hard copy of new literature. There are plenty of old classics still around in book form, but officially anything published in the last fifteen years exists only electronically. The demand for hard copy is satisfied by bootleggers who break the protection codes and reproduce them on early printing equipment, for which a steady supply of ink and paper are required. It’s no surprise then, that Bysshe is involved in this little operation too.

Bysshe, or Graham White as he was named by his mother, was dealing as far back as he could remember, switching from chemical to digital as demand changed. The name Percy Shelley was suggested to him by a particularly good client with a penchant for the gothic. A bit of a mouthful for the street, and so, Bysshe, it became.

Will heads back to his apartment. He can’t wait to try the Tempest; he’s passionate about Shakespeare, and he loves the sound of this. He has been ‘chipping’ since the technology first hit the streets. It’s a thousand times better than pumping chemicals into your body. This is completely different; this takes you to a world that engages you as well as expands your mind. You can escape for days and what’s more it doesn’t fuck you up, not physically anyway. He is a little less sure of the long term mental effects but it hasn’t caused him a problem so far.

Will’s ‘Internokia’ pulses, it’s his Mother.

“Hi Mum, how ya doin?”

“I’m not so good dear. I’ve had more of those nightmares.”

“They’re not nightmares Mum, they’re neurospam.”

“I know, I know, but I can’t get rid of them. I’m scared I might delete something else accidentally.”

“Alright, I’ll call in on my way home. What are they this time?”

“Oh, I think one is something about virtual gardening and there’s a euthanasia one again.”

“O.K. Ma, I’ll see you soon.”

The euthanasia stuff makes Will really angry. The other advertising is just part of modern living. Once there was junk mail, then spam and now there’s neurospam. Clearly this is targeted at those of a certain age, whose medical insurance is at the base level.

Will lets himself into his mother’s apartment and that familiar wave of warmth and nostalgia washes over him. When he was thrown out of University he came back and his mother took him in without a word of recrimination. He came home and he read solidly for nine months. Shakespeare, Dickens, Homer and others, pausing only to eat and to sleep. He stopped filling his body with chemicals straight away. It was easy; no withdrawal, nothing. He just filled his world with literature for nine wonderful months. It was a little later, when he discovered ‘chipping’ that addiction re-entered his life.

“Hi Mum.”

“Hello dear, do you want tea?”

“Oh no Mother, none of your slop-kettle. Let me just have a look at this spam.”

Will uses a lead to connect directly from his own interface socket at the back of his head to that of his mother. He doesn’t entirely trust ‘Neurotel’, that’s probably how the spam got there in the first place. Will concentrates and rummages around the common haunts. He has done this before and within minutes he has located the spam and banished it.

“O.K. that’s done.”

“That was quick.”

“It’s not difficult to delete but it’s disgusting that it got there in the first place.”

“Yes, the euthanasia stuff. Perhaps they’re right, I should consider it. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Mum, you’re not a burden. This isn’t from the ‘State’ anyway it’s from some villain trying to cash in on the pensions crisis.”

Will’s mum contemplates.

“I suppose we’re all victims sometimes dear, even you with your books; we all get used. It’s no different to the old days before Neurotel and the Interface.” She doesn’t know exactly what Will is involved in but she guesses that at best, it is at the fraying edge of social acceptability.

“Maybe,” replies Will, unconvinced.

“Anyway I can’t stay, but give me a call if you get any more.” And with that he leaves.

Will is home at last. He peers into the scanner, the door clicks and he’s in.

“God give you good day Growler,” he greets his robotic dog.

“Hello you old tosspot,” replies the dog, “where have you been? Oh, I know,” says Growler answering his own question, “you’ve been to see the man. You’re going to get high tonight, I bet.”

“Je…..sus” Will elongates. He really has to stop his friends talking to his dog. He is being harangued in his own home by a tin can full of chips and binary codes.

“Shut it Growler, or I’ll chase you with the magnet again.”

Growler shuts up.

Finally this is it; no interruptions, no commitments, just Will and the Tempest. He rocks the chip between his forefinger and thumb and then, taking his hand behind his head, slots it expertly into place. Instantly, Will is somewhere else. Staying perfectly still he absorbs his surroundings; he feels the rush, but something is not right. This is not Shakespeare; this is not the Tempest. There’s a minimal landscape with a childlike leaf and,

“Bloody hell!” Exclaims Will, there’s an insect the size of a cow. He's shaken, but it is familiar, and then, at that moment it dawns on him. Yes, that’s it.

“The Hungry fucking caterpillar!”

Will reaches behind him; rips out the chip and throws it across the room.

“I’m going to kill that bastard Shelley.”

Overflowing with rage Will thrashes around wildly while Growler shoots off and hides behind the media terminal. Eventually he collapses, exasperated into a chair. He’s built the Tempest up so much; he has been patient with his mother and he’s put up with an hour of Shelley ranting on about the amount of aid we are sending to the former U.S. Now this is his reward, the ‘Hungry caterpillar’. Will ponders his mother’s words. Perhaps she’s right; that they are all victims sometimes, and that life is no more reliable, or fair, than it ever was.

Will is calm at last; exhausted by anticipation and then disappointment.

“Come on Growler, come out, I’m not going to hurt you.” Will, his chin pushing into his palm, manages a smile and Growler pokes his head out from behind the terminal. Will idly toys with the carton and the two remaining chips.

“Now, what’s this? - ‘White teeth’. Perhaps I’ll give it a go.”