'A Date To Incubate' – Short Story
In the land of perpetual advertising, only the brand blind are free.
I returned this week as an invited guest to the annual writers’ festival for English A-Level students at my local sixth form college (= ‘high school’ for US readers). With two fellow ‘Hyde Writers’, we performed a live ‘in-the-round’ critique of three original stories to the 100+ audience. You can read more about the benefits to both writer and reader of this essential craft practice in my write-up of last year’s event:
An Educational Experience / 'A Failed Delivery' (short story)
Earlier this week I was a guest at a writers’ festival for English A-Level students attending a local sixth form college (= ‘high school’ for US readers). With two fellow ‘Hyde Writers’, we demonstrated in ‘real-time’ what a writers’ group actually does when
The audience’s questions were as incisive and intelligent as last year’s cohort, and it was wonderful to hear a student critique group had been running since my last visit.
This year, I again read out a fresh new story with a speculative theme. As I told the audience, these were words which had never been heard before.
Now I'm pleased to make the post-critique edited story available below for you to enjoy.
Until next time…
A Date To Incubate
It was drop-off time at the Street, the sheen of evergreen tar glinting around the crawling traffic. Her date was shifting impatiently on the sidewalk, the kaleidoscope of his cheap virtuals leaking onto his cheeks. Hers flipped to semi-opaque as fresh ads spun into view, matched to her fix: a slew of clothes, shoes and shiny new toys. Things you could virtually touch. ‘Just turn left. No, girl, turn right!’ they insisted. She slipped her father’s grip and fell grateful into Kahl’s private feed.
‘Your stem-dad trying again?’ Kahl posted, nodding towards the ball of flesh trundling back to his vehicle.
His baby bumps were too obvious for Mel to deny. ‘Yep. Didn’t want to disappoint his wayward first-gens. We told him—’
‘What did the Mother say?’ interrupted her playdate.
The Street’s T&Cs said payers got first say, not the charity. But forgiveness was easy, especially after their last meet. ‘Same old. Doesn’t learn,’ she replied, wading with him through the Street’s neon arrows.
‘Even with an upgrade?’ Kahl shot back.
Mel cracked a <snort> ’moji. ‘Waste of cred.’
‘How many for the chop this round?’
‘Depends. Maybe two or three brothers from the ten.’
‘Wow, that’s generous.’
Her response came before his ’moji; before thinking: ‘You know what Mother says: “Good stems make good gens” <grin>.’
Kahl didn’t reply, and Mel knew why. Payers like her could see profiles like his. The public hospital had drained half of Kahl’s sibling-brood at second test. That’s what poor meant for Gen G. That’s why she remained fortunate. Being born was only the first step on life’s treacherous spiral ladder. The GovTechs had seen to that. They saw everything.
She stopped and tugged on Kahl’s arm. His virtuals flipped to transparent, eyes visible. Natural eyes, with pale brown irises, the pupils always round. Poor made plain.
Mel cleared her throat. She hadn’t dropped to vocals for days, except for her cat. “Can we talk? Properly this time?” Her voice echoed in her ears as her frames tagged the audio.
Kahl sighed as he swiped away the sickly green text, leaving only the ghost of a red and yellow chicken, pecking at fries. A Corp must have shed a ton to keep that fast-eat crap on show.
“What needs saying, Mel?” His voice was deeper, the words slower than she’d imagined – in a deep-down tingling way. Maybe his texts vibed from a persona. She hated trying to tell the difference. She loathed the need to tell far more. Her stem-sisters teased her for even trying.
“I want to apologise,” she said. “For what happened last time. For embarrassing you.” Habit made her glance diagonal at her pic-in-pic mirror. Her pupils had widened to match her mood. It meant her feels were real, unfiltered – if you believed the demo.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Kahl. “Too late, anyway. You saw the socials. Those shop dummies couldn’t resist a poor-pick.”
He wasn’t wrong. Everyone had seen the vid.
The Street meet previous, Mel had dragged Kahl into a clothes store where the ads didn’t scream seven-eight and the jingles were fresh-made. Being born high-score, she’d never sussed the credit check before. But Kahl’s virtuals had flared debt red like an exposed retina. As had those welded to the two shop-slops, whose skin glowed with androgynous perfection. In-store vibe loss could trigger their job loss, meaning zero fash-trash discount. So they’d preened and perked their way over to Kahl on a destroy mission, their virtuals blinking ‘record’. The socials and legals were going to suck up this vid.
Slop one had asked, “You buyin’, low-boy?”
Mel, desperate to avoid fallout, had cut in: “Maybe later, okay? Just trying for now.”
Slop two had turned to her, smile sparkling like the glitter on their bare midriff, uncorrupted by any innie. “You don’t need hesitate on the undress, sis,” they crooned in vocals to buy for. “But filter the playmates, okay? No charity waste in here.”
Mel’s virtuals had slammed to black in shame, hiding her crimson cheeks. Her cred had been docked ten points as they’d hurried out. Within the Street, familiar ads had flipped to discount stores. ‘Ignore those idiots’, she’d fed to Kahl, who’d stayed silent until their Street meter expired.
Back home, the Mother had called her an idiot. But the shame in her stomach hadn’t weighed heavier. A real mother would have understood.
Kahl stayed at her side, vocals still the default, despite the awkward silence. Mel bathed in his proximity, plucking up courage: “Can I make it up to you?” Her irises were as bright as her tone.
Too bright. Kahl dropped back into the feed. ‘I don’t need charity, Mel.’
His words hit hard, evaporating the closeness she felt. ‘So why second date?’ she replied.
The cursor blinked – once…twice… ‘Because…<shrug>.’
Maybe she was a fool to expect different. But maybe she no longer cared. Eight brothers would soon birth, invading her safe spaces with noise and smells. ‘Tell me,’ she insisted, counting her steps to time his pause. Sister Three had advised ‘best keep it real’. But reality was proving agony. Answer me, Kahl, for f—
A <heart> appeared, blinking faint hope. The colour might only match her eyes, but at least he’d tried.
With an eye-flick, Mel binned the draft reply she’d spent yesterday crafting. Kahl didn’t deserve that. But no-one else would nudge her hand – or lips – towards his. Not her five twin sisters; nor her brooding, heavily distracted father; nor the cold, clinical Mother. She’d have to do this all by herself.
Closing her eyes to the endless ads bombarding her senses, she tried to imagine a different world, one she’d only glimpsed in illegal vids. A world without social snooping or the Mother’s panoptic gaze.
A pinned timer flashed a warning: their meet allowance was expiring. The Street would disappear, taking another chance with it. Taking what she wanted. Mel sucked air through her nostrils and blinked her pupils to cat-like. Time to confront reality. With sweaty hands smoothing her stomach, she halted to face her date. These words needed to be real:
“Kahl?”
“What?”
“Take them off,” she said, removing her own virtuals with trembling fingers.
The Street vanished, exposing beating hearts and daring minds. As Kahl raised his hands to his face, she heard an alarm’s urgent chirps, followed by Mother’s disconnected screams.
She let them all go. It was time to smile.
I think those sorts of little acts of rebellion may well be something the would-be dystopian controllers of the future haven't considered sufficiently. They can try, but let's call it hubris. The human brain is not adapted to a virtual life, and will malfunction if forced into that sort of cage. Young people especially, what with their excessive limbic systems.
Glad you had a productive time at your annual get together.
Did they get your story?
Confession: I had to re-read the first few paragraphs to orient myself. Once I did that though I could follow it a lot better. This is the sort of story that deserves a re-read, at which the sense and clarity comes through, as does the intelligence of it. Written by a very accomplished wordsmith, I'd say.
Excellent piece of craftwork, Sir.