Go Ask Todd
Joyen stood expectantly at the Mindco counter. Her red hair was pulled back in a messy braid that just missed not being a braid at all, and she had thrown on a sweater over the jeans, which was still good enough for work. Getting dressed had been an act of will, because all morning she had been flooded with ever changing unbidden images of nuclear stars going supernova, the smallest insect’s flight path, and people dying in numerous wars. She had come early to be first customer when the door opened, striding up to the glossy blue counter. “Good morning. I want my mind back,” she said, “I want it downloaded, now.”
The automat at the counter looked human, down to fine details like a dimple, a head of black hair that shone with copper shadows, and a slightly superior smirk. But expressions could only be counterfeited because automats failed at emoting. He had yellow double thunderbolt patches on his blue uniform, and his front pocket had his name embroidered in script: “Todd.” Beneath that was the practical but futuristic motto: “Mindco: Uploading done right.”
“We don’t do downloading,” Todd stated.
Mindco had the rights to the process of uploading the human mind, and this was no longer just a luxury for bored rich kids tired of virtual trips and sensory destinations. Getting your complex neuronal connections mapped, the direct neural interface inserted, and connecting your brain into one vast knowledge base, had become more than an option for most. It was required for participation in the automated world, and keeping a job.
“You have to help me, Todd,” she said. “I need my mind back. It’s been months, but it seems like years. I’m being overwhelmed and smothered by information I don’t want or need.”
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