One Reality

I never really cared much for New Year’s celebrations—a giant ball dropping, some fireworks, shitty music…honestly, why bother? But there is one tradition I’ve come to appreciate since the surgery: my annual update.

The nearest Neuro Health Clinic is a fifteen minute walk from the house I share with my three cats—ginger, midnight, and coco. I like to walk—it lends itself to the feeling of transition; I travel one way as one person, I return as another. It also settles my anxiety, and on this day I was feeling especially anxious. The nonstop, invasive ads on my Handphone promised big changes to the latest operating system. Sure, the Chip had given humans the ability to operate devices by thought alone, but the latest innovation promised an entirely device-free future; all information, media, and communication, if not immediately understood, would hang in the air just ahead at a conveniently readable distance. Not augmented reality—they boasted—but One Reality.

I spent countless sleepless nights staring up at the shadowy ceiling, imagining my future with One Reality. Heightened senses, optimized perception… nothing would stop me from reaching all of my personal and professional goals. Gone would be the days of toiling away in my dead end job as an analyst at the Department of Social Behavior. Gone would be my lonely nights, forcing down tasteless preserved meals in my empty apartment. One Reality would change it all.

So, when Neuro’s scheduling clerk informed me that my Chip was too old to receive further updates, I was devastated. “Would you like to schedule an operation to upgrade to Neuro 6?” she asked.

I responded with a question of my own—a request for five minutes to make a decision—and with that time, I stepped outside. I paced the sidewalk by the Clinic nervously, staring up at the sky and begging wordlessly for some kind of cosmic sign, an answer from God. I felt foolish, because I knew that if I, like the Believers, were truly devoted, I would have never got the implant in the first place. But then, just as I had resigned myself to a depressing journey home, something extraordinary happened—the sidewalk filled with a passing crowd of people, all wearing the same liberated expression of happiness. I observed as they walked by, their gaze fixed on a point directly ahead of them, their mouths relaxed into a carefree expression. They had gotten the update—I was sure of it.

When the last of them had gone, I stared down at my Handphone. The screen instantly populated with the details of my bank account—Savings, Credit. It would be tight, I thought, but if I skipped a few hundred lunches maybe I could manage it. I blinked the device blank, stored it in my pocket, and strode into the office. I demanded the clerk book the soonest appointment. She stared past me, focusing.

“You’re lucky,” she said.

Apparently, the person standing behind me when I first checked in had decided to cancel and there was now an opening for surgery in fifteen minutes. Before I knew it, I was on the operating table, my vision fading as the Sedative kicked in. The last thing I saw was the steel-grey mechanical arm lowering over my forehead.

I woke up with a headache so massive it rivaled even the worst of my post-surgery days—but this was perfectly normal, I was quickly assured. The Technician—as he was known—also warned me of an “adjustment period.” It would take time, he told me, to get used to the One Reality; I might find it disorienting at first, but in time it would feel as natural as anything. I trusted him.

The clerk told me not to drive for twenty-four hours, so, as I turned away from her, I requested transportation; it was odd, just thinking I’d like an Autocopter and then a notification appearing before my eyes announcing its estimated arrival. But where would I go? A walk by the beach could do me some good—a little fresh air, an opportunity to stretch out my legs—yes, nothing better; and there was still an hour until sunset—I knew without asking.

I arrived to find the boardwalk unusually busy for a Monday evening. Crowds of adults and children alike walked by, all with the same dazed look—there was no age limit for the Chip. I joined them.

The space just in front of my eye line was never empty for more than a second; it was ever-populated by answers to questions consciously and subconsciously asked, the latest global news, and of course the occasional message or call from work or family. I understood then what the Technician had meant by “adjustment period.” I felt overwhelmed, and so I collapsed onto the nearest bench overlooking the ocean. The sun was approaching the horizon, casting the water in a beautiful, golden glow, or so I guessed; I only caught a glimpse before my vision was once again blocked, first by a meeting request, then a compilation of Shutter’s trending captures of the day, and finally a list of adult singles in my area, ranked by compatibility.

I blinked repeatedly, trying to make it all go away. It didn’t work. I closed my eyes for thirty seconds, and then opened them. Again, no change. I was about to punch my temple with a closed fist when a sudden rush of movement appeared in an unobstructed corner of my right eye.

A man, older by the looks of his wispy grey hair, had stepped up to the railing separating the pavement from the sand. He was gazing out, with intense concentration, at the crashing waves. I might have just been my imagination, but he seemed to be seeing freely, Chip-free. Then I noticed a relic in his hand—an old tool from before Neuro—a striped pole used to guide those with visual impairments. The man was blind.