The feeling from waking up after falling asleep crying instead of drinking is oddly nostalgic: this was a much preferable emotional hangover; a stable dissociative numbness. I miraculously slept through the night in the lot. It’s a clear, humid afternoon with a salty breeze–I roll Baller’s windows down and inhale deeply.
As I attempt to drive home (I say “attempt” because my sense of direction is ass and Tela’s dead), I struggle to piece together what I know about Kilroy. I pull up my stereo controls in my NeurOS and thrown on She Blinded Me With Science by Thomas Dolby, my best thinking music. God, all I listen to is New Wave, why is everyone so surprised I’m bisexual?
So Robert Jackson’s dead--he’s been dead. Robert Jackson, as a person, doesn’t seem to factor into this, unless he was revived by some bizarre experiment and went insane. I suppose it’s certainly possible his resurrection was some bizarre failed Telecom experiment, but why a damn secretary, and how did his body escape the walled city!? He also didn’t seem to have the knowledge or charisma it takes to create everything he has and run a criminal syndicate doubling as a cybercult. Something doesn’t add up; and Kilroy doesn’t seem to identify with the Jackson identity at all.
I park in front of the apartment complex and cautiously approach the door with the record in hand. Kilroy’s got me all kinds of paranoid, so that on top of the alcohol withdrawal on means I’m a rightfully jumpy mess. I head up to my apartment to my music setup in the back corner with my majestic ancient 6 foot speakers on each side. Hands trembling, I load the record onto my antique Technics turntable, carefully dropping the totally hackin’ diamond needle on the old Styx record.
The opening riff kicks in, and I’m going through all the other clues in my mind. Lawrence Obliterate has a Georgia accent, which couldn’t come from Robert Jackson’s body, not from his original mind inside his body at least. Lawrence is obsessed with Dr. Who and other old media, and he has an impressive collection of ancient action figures and a car that makes Baller look like a brand new DrivePod. He’s a master of nanotechnology AND neurotechnology, and he hates Telecom.
“You’re wondering who I am,
Machine or mannequin?
With parts made in Japan,
I am the modern man!”
He knew everyone would think that he was an ART because of his short stature and the bulkiness of Pneumat suits--but unless he’s an ART made to look exactly like Robert Jackson, he’s something else entirely.
“I’ve got a secret I’ve been hiding
Under my skin
My heart is human, my blood is boiling…”
So he is human, then…?
“...my brain, IBM.”
...but his mind. His mind is the difference. AI? ART? No, that’s thinking too simply. Kilroy’s not that simple. The rumor about him being the original ART or whatnot has to be bullshit; he wouldn’t make it that obvious. He clearly only threw me the bone with his fake identity not because he thinks I’m too much of a stupid asshole to figure it out but because he knew it’d break me when I realized “he” doesn’t exist.
This game goes deeper. There’s something bizarre at play here. This song is the Rosetta Stone behind understanding his identity. There’s definitely another message he’s hidden somewhere with some taunt or direction, but this song is the key to figuring out what the hell he is, and he knows I’ll be able to do it.
“So if you see me acting strangely, don’t be surprised
I’m just a man who needed someone and somewhere to hide
To keep me alive, just keep me alive…”
“I’m not a robot without emotions, I’m not what you see!
I’ve come to help you with your problems, so we can be free!”
So he does see himself as a good guy, and does intentionally make himself seem like an ART to the public? It’s another metaphorical smokescreen, like setting me up to not know if I was in reality or a simulation. He’s trying to look like an ART to hide something.
“I’m not a hero, I’m not a savior, I’m not what you know!
I’m just a man whose circumstances went beyond my control…
“I need control, we all need control!”
“Thank you very much, oh, Mr. Roboto,
For doing the jobs nobody wants to,
And thank you very much oh Mr. Roboto
For helping me escape when I needed to…”
So he’s working with ARTs. He’s an ARTs rights activist on top of the rest of it, like Lawrence claimed to be, and he’s using the Skulls as a way to disguise who’s which type of being and to make it all irrelevant…
“The problem’s plain to see
Too much technology
Machines to save our lives,
Machines dehumanize.”
Through creating ARTs and then Telas, we’ve stolen the humanity of the very human BiMs they run on, by making them into nothing but mindless machines as we portray them–it’s just slavery.
“The time has come at last
To throw away this mask
Now everyone can see
My true identity!
“I’m Kilroy! Kilroy! Kilroy! Kilroy!”
I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. I wish I’d known of this old song before, but I guess I appreciate Kilroy passing it along. It’s innocuous enough that nobody else would figure it out, but–
“HELLO, BLAKEY!”
Oh fuck. That disgustingly condescending tone and Georgia accent. How the hell did he get in here!?
“Yep, it’s meeeee! So nice of you to play along, Charley Horse! Just so you know, your whole apartment is going to explode in the next five sec--” My heart falls into my balls as I race for the door--“Hahahaha!!! You’re hilarious, Blake. I’m just a recording, man, I can’t hurt you! But you ran for the door, didn’t you? You’ve figured it all out by now, no doubt, because you’re smarter than you give yourself credit for under all that narcissistic insecurity. There’s only one track on this album: the rest is just me talking to you, but I had to make it look ‘normal’ to get Panel to commission it, I reckoned. I knew you’d shell out for a chance at a clue, and you did, you did! You got so desperate you spent 5000 Telecreds on a really shitty rock album, and now you find out it only has one track, which thankfully is the one good track on it, but still, MAN, you got robbed! Hahaha!” What a prick. “No, literally, you got robbed. I own that record store and the terminal is compromised; I have access to your bank account now and about the time you’re hearing this cute little monologue of mine, I’ve drained it in its entirety. Oh, and your backup accounts, because of course I know about those, too. I’ve done my research, unlike you, who still don’t know my real name, even. Pity!”
My blood goes cold. I pull out my Tela-phone to check. It’s all true.
“Really? Like, Professor Lawrence Obliterate The Third sounded like a real name to you? Didn’t you realize the initials spelled PLOT? No loving parent would name their kid something that ends up as PLOT if they become a professor. That’s just poor planning. No, it’s a PLOT twist, see! Well, if you’d figured it out, it would have been. Boo. Boo! Anyway, I’m not Robert Jackson either, I mean, not his mind at least, though I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now. Not like it’ll do you much good when you can’t even pay your rent now, Richie Rich. Ouch! How the mighty are falling! You could have just worked with me and saved yourself so much pain and suffering, but it’s very amusing to watch the life drain from your face right now. You’re so mad and horrified, and you’re wondering how I know, which is because of the camera in your upper left. I’m actually coming at you LIVE right now from WSKL FM, the SKULL!”
My neck whips up and to the left–
“HAHAHAHA! Holy shit, you looked! You actually thought that I was talking to you LIVE from a vinyl record! You’re just plain worthless without your little Tela slave–it’s a shame, you know. That girl really loved you: for what reason, god only knows, but there was something special there. That’s two girls you loved that Telecom’s taken away, and yet you keep helping them try and find and stop me when all I want to do is help you get revenge and save humanity. Boo!!!” My eyelid twitches. “It sucks to be you, Blake! I’ve preprogrammed Pod 9 at Flipper McCoys to take you where you need to go to meet me in the Teleworld as soon as you log in there. It has to be as you, though, don’t try to use a false identity or you’ll end up nowhere. Worry not; I think you’ll find working with me to be quite pleasant! Not that you have much choice, given your new financial state and the fact I have Teleworld recordings of you saying you’ll join me and turn on Telecom to blackmail you with--gee, you sure know how to fuck up, don’t you? Wow! Now, don’t flip the record over, there’s nothing on that side worth anything, you’ll just be wasting your time.”
Hah! Nobody tells me what to do. I flip it over, drop the needle…
“YOU DUMBASS! I told you there’s nothing good on this side! In fact, this side is rigged with nanoexplosives that really will blow up your shit when the needle hits it. Didn’t think that was even possible, did you!? Gotcha!”
I leap out of the room just in time as it’s engulfed violently in flames behind me. My eyes are bulging out of my head, my arm hair is singed, my heart is pumping faster than Dig Dug and I grit my teeth so hard I chip one. The room seems to move in slow motion and flicker as I start hyperventilating. My life’s work and earnings are nullified, I’m a wanted criminal if he leaks those tapes, all my evidence just literally blew up in my face, and I’m stuck between two evil organizations: one that I work for and one that’s trying to force me into joining, both of whom will definitely finish with me and leave me dead either way.
I’m entirely at Kilroy’s mercy.