They call me Scabby. I’m a committed grinder, addicted to technology enhancements in my pursuit of transhuman evolution. I have seventeen implants in my scalp, fourteen of them sensors and the other three jacked into my brain to give my neuroprocessing some major kick.
I’ve got magnets in my fingertips, under my skin are fifty-one LEDs controlled by one of the brain implants, enhanced microphones sit in my jaw, modified speakers in my cheekbone, and ocular enhancement plates rigged up with some awesome nanotech light up for infrared and ultraviolet. I’ve got more amplified and modified sensors than most people can dream of. Depending on how you count them, I now have nine or twelve senses.
It’s the shit—and I’m only getting started. I’m in tuned to all electronic and magnetic fields around me. I’m like a freaking bat—I can sense my surroundings with my eyes closed. I can always tell which way north is. I get early warning if a carbon monoxide or dioxide or radon or natural gas increases, and any hormone imbalance I get, I can deliberately signal my brain to compensate.
My RFID chips give me immediate access and personal recognition with any device I register it with, and I’m scanning that phone in your hand as we speak.
I’m a walking, talking freaking god in this world, so you’ll understand how distressed I am to tell you that someone hacked my system. It was more like a disconnect than an invasion. I still hooked in to everything, but I no longer had sole control. He had full access to every sensor, enhancer, and processor, including the control interface.
Then came the feedback. The processors started bombarding my brain with images and suggestions. Women, music, jungles, magnificent cities, brew some coffee, gardens, mountaintops, change the car’s tire, baseball games, chicken coops, walk in the rain, kill the president, zoo animals, fireworks, play with sidewalk chalk, eat some pizza.
The next several days were a blur. I visited so many places, ate so much food, tried so many things. I had never golfed in my life, but I hit a perfect game and the thrill of it was second only to my time at the shooting range.
I experienced life with all twelve senses popping, feeding my body magnificent information and sensations. I traveled through Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, hitchhiking, using Uber, and hacking into self-driven cars. I didn’t stop for anything. Didn’t sleep during this whole time. I just lived and lived and lived, driven by some enigmatic quest.
I was on DC Metro, heading toward the White House when all of a sudden it stopped. The images and suggestions slowed, and there was no force behind them. I was alone and found no purpose in what I was doing. A panic attack crushed my chest, so I grabbed my bag and ran off the train, finding a bench on the platform to sit on. I controlled my breathing and the panic lightened, and for the first time in I don’t know how long I simply allowed myself to think, and it was then I realized that I was hacked.
Rosslyn Station, the second deepest station in the Metro. That’s what saved me—the signal apparently couldn’t reach there. I didn’t even remember why I got on the train, and I didn’t recognize the bag I had. I opened it up to find a polymer gun with real ammunition, and some kind of press pass. I zipped it up before anyone saw it. Shit. Not good.
I always made sure to understand each component that my guy implanted in my body, so I knew what to do. I pulled on the control processor in my scalp, which slowly gave way with a slurp. I pried loose the primary controller, then reattached the unit, now useless, back onto my skull.
When I arrived at Springfield, nothing had regained control of my other processors, so I knew I was good. I rented a car to drive back to Pittsburg, and disposed of the gun on the way. At home, I collapsed on my king bed and slept almost straight through for three days.
There was a lesson to be learned from this experience. So I searched my soul, worked all night in my basement, then called my body modification expert for an appointment. Another implant—a better one with leads embedded deep in the amygdala to involve my strongest brain functions and insure they would maintain control. I told you I was committed.