VOICE TRANSMISSION #8364638
Long catalogs of double-hearted symbols glide down glowing screens around me in this cage, its bars the iron fangs of a serpent’s maw at least a thousand fathoms beneath starshine.
How did I get here? All I know about myself I learned from forged documents and false recollections, my memories implanted by agents skilled in handling fluid realities ranging from the probable to the bizarre.
I remember, if I can call it that, that they came with hooded heads and mitten fingers to my door, shouting “surrender your weapon,” but I didn’t come out with my hands on my head.
My flesh is softening and degenerating, my hair falling out, my gums bleeding. How big was the dose? How long do I have? All I can do is wait for the end and try not to think of the New World, the cryoship, the future I will never see.
This entry is part of Jack Rusher’s archive, originally published January 28th, 2014, in New York.