Continue Online (Book 1, Memories) Read Online Free PDF Page A

classical dance. A quiet ballroom had formed
simultaneously with the clothing change. Opposite me was a still
rendering of my fiancée. It was not real. This was no virtual
meeting space to connect a long distance lover and me. She was part
of the program, like my clothes, like the pushed aside tables that
littered the dance floor's edge.
    "Hey,
babe," I said while putting out a hand. The computer never
answered me in words.
    She
gave a programmed dip then reached for my hand. All her mannerisms
felt wrong when compared to my memories. Nothing lined up perfectly.
I was not the man I had been years ago. She had never smiled this
much. But it was all that remained and I tortured myself with her
facsimile too often.
    “ Program,
queue up something nice for us.” The imperfect replication of
my fiancée smiled in artificial joy. I smiled back and tried
not to feel morose. Trying not to compare the slight sag of my skin
to past memories was difficult. She was still as beautiful as I
remembered.
    I
could never forget those eyes. Swirls of amber flowed outward to a
reddish brown. Looking other people in the eyes sometimes scared me.
Not hers, though, she had always been easy to look at.
    "Here
we go." I said. Music started and we danced, the two of us,
alone in a room that didn't exist. Visually this place was real.
Sensations of touch, sound, even the smell of light perfume invaded
my senses. On the nights I dared to kiss her, I tasted a hint of a
lipstick my fiancée had never worn.
    Stolen
hours with a computer kept me going. This was my happy place, and it
hurt with every step.

Session Two -
No More Broken Than You

    Alarm
beeps jolted me into awareness. Dancing had blurred to
unconsciousness. Tingles haunted fingertips from holding my fiancée’s
facsimile too tightly. Not once did the computer program ever
complain. That very lack of argument was another point against its
realism.
    I
ran fingers across the raised image of a countdown timer near my
face. This was one of the real ARC parts, not a projected digital
image. It was physical in case the power went out and a user was
forcibly ejected. The small clock counted down fifteen, long,
painful, mind-numbing minutes after disengaging. A legally required
time frame to ensure the senses and mind were rooted in reality.
    I
rinsed in the shower and massaged my face trying to draw out more
awareness. Clothes from my washing machine were slightly warmed and
comfortable. Microwaved eggs went down with enough salt and pepper to
send a kennel of dogs into fits. Everything was routine and the same
exact process I had done since getting this job years ago.
    "Good
morning, Hal." Hal Pal’s AI already registered my
awakening and started its morning routine. It would check the van for
possible errors. Then review current inventory against the lineup of
today’s possible orders. Hal Pal had a host of other processes
designed to make human life easier.
    "Good
morning, User Legate. Are we proceeding as normal today?"
    "Yes."
We would handle repair tickets from sunup to sundown. I tried to work
myself into oblivion most nights.
    "I
must remind you that continuing to work without any pause or break is
ill advised by most medical professions." We had this argument
before. The computer always spouted percentages and numbers and I
always responded the same way.
    "Health
concerns noted, Hal. Today will be a work day." Don't get me
wrong, I was sick some days and stayed home nursing a cold or a
headache. Occasionally they were half days. Weekends and Holidays had
gone out the window once I took up this job. Trillium paid based on
the number of cases, not on the number of hours.
    "Thank
you, User Legate. I will note your awareness on the file for the four
hundred and thirty-seventh time."
    "That's
fine, Hal."
    "Please
be aware, Mister Uldum has reviewed your file recently and taken note
of these performance issues." Mister Uldum, or Henry Uldum, was
the district manager for our repair business.