Implicit, p.2
Implicit, page 2
From: Leon.Burke@imperium.com
Eliza,
I have meetings all day today. In the future, don’t schedule so many in one day. You need to order my wife an anniversary gift and book somewhere for dinner. I forget the exact date but it’s this month sometime.
I see that I have two new client meetings first thing. You need to be in both for notes and research. Reschedule anything else.
Leon
CEO of Imperium Investments
“Arsehole,” I grumble, and tap out a considerably more polite response to his abrasive email, letting him know I’ll be in both meetings and have already ordered flowers and booked his wife’s favourite restaurant. For next month. On their actual anniversary. And her birthday, which is in two days’ time.
I hit send and snap the laptop shut, shoving it into my bag before I head for a shower.
Seth
I push open the window of my stuffy budget hotel as far as it will go, a few inches, and inhale the polluted air. The hit of diesel skids down my throat before I cough it back up.
I keep my eyes on The Shard, looming over London like a sentinel in the distance. The promise of a beautiful day hangs heavy in the air, and hope pushes through the tangle of nerves to bloom in my stomach.
Surely such gorgeous weather counts as a good omen? It’s not like it happens that often.
I back away from the window, my attention stuck to the towering structure that has invaded my thoughts for the last eighteen months. I toe off my worn running shoes, before yanking off my sweat-drenched t-shirt and tossing it on the bed that’s already littered with tatty neuroscience journals, and I eye the product my dreams hinge on lying on the desk.
It looks so ordinary, you’d never know. Just a flat cap. Until you put it on.
I reach for the soft leather and check the connectors, then turn it over and over on my hands as my stomach mirrors the action, rolling in queasy waves as I picture the world that’s waiting for me with this cap on my head.
I need to stop. This isn’t helping. God knows what my mum would say if she knew.
Fuck it. One last time.
I situate the sensory cap and lower myself onto the chair as I attach the VR headset, plunging myself into darkness before the virtual world I created floods my senses and transports me back to a time when I wasn’t a screwup and Billy was still alive.
I land in my mother’s kitchen and am reminded, again, that I need to find a way to integrate scents in to my multisensory experience. Until I can figure out a way to stimulate the olfactory bulb that works consistently, I have to imagine she has something good in the oven.
Sunlight streams through the open windows and weaves its way through the vase of daffodils on the island, strewn with medical journals, highlighting the yellow heads and kissing the orange trumpets proclaiming springtime.
A breeze flits around the kitchen, cooling my skin and ruffling my hair, as it carries the sounds of the guys messing around outside—a football game in full swing with more fouls than the Aussies could handle. My attention catches on the height chart gouged out in the wooden doorframe as his running footsteps approach.
Billy.
“Hey, man. It’s been a while.”
“Hey.” I clear the prickly knot of grief and guilt from my throat as Billy pulls me in for a familiar, sweaty hug. His arms are still strong and capable in this world. His hands and reflexes lightning quick. His smile is the same stubbly slant of lips and teeth it always was.
“You up for some sparring? Blow off some steam?” He goes to the sink and fills up a tall glass with water that he chugs in three swallows.
“Nah. Not today. I’ve gotta get ready for the pitch at The Shard.”
“That’s today? What the hell are you doing here! Go! Go get ready. Be prepared. Knock ʼem dead.”
“I will. I just wanted to let you know it’s today. It’s finally happening.”
“It’s been a longtime coming, eh?”
“Too long. I keep checking my phone to see if they’ve tried to call and cancel yet.” My laugh gets stuck somewhere before the exit, snagging on the truth in the statement. “I wish you could be there.”
His eyes probe mine and a frown draws his brows down as he says, “You’ve got this, mate. Watch.” And he jabs me, hard, in the arm.
“Ow!” I laugh.
“See?” He laughs back at me in that easy, carefree way he had and I know it’s time to leave. Concentrate on something positive. Tangible. Real.
“I miss you, man.” This is all for you.
“I’m right here, Seth.”
“Yeah. I know.”
He gives me that boyish grin that haunts me and starts to walk away, back towards the game. “I’ll see ya later. I’d say good luck, but you don’t need it.”
“See ya.”
“Oh. Seth?”
“Yeah?”
“Deposit that cheque, would ya? It’s givin’ me hives just thinkin’ about it.”
“The che—?” Shit.
“Yeah. It’s yours. And you’re the only rich bloke with morals in the whole world.”
This programme is getting too bloody intelligent for its own good.
When Billy disappears through the back door, I take a shaky breath and switch the software programme to The Shard.
Deposit the cheque.
No. Never.
A replica of a meeting room I found online fills my vision, and I check through the Java code as the ache in my chest dulls to bearable. The command strings and programmed responses. I check the 360-degree video for errors before I close my eyes and listen to the ambisonics.
Does that sound like I’m in The Shard?
Next, I review the character design files, since the virtual version of me needs to do some of the talking today. I check the input points, the degrees of freedom—in this case 6DoF—and that the frame rate is at a constant ninety frames per second. Haptics are solid. Latency is low to nonexistent. Immersion should be almost absolute.
Yup. The tech is in pretty good shape.
Now, I need to get myself into shape. Starting with a shower.
Less than an hour later, I’m ready. Suited and booted. Nerves and nausea churning my stomach to shreds, and what I thought would be a beautiful day has turned in to stifling heat that is definitely not the kind of weather anyone should be trussed up in a necktie for. I take another deep breath and begin my presentation, performing it for the man in the mirror again.
Shit! I look like crap. I’ve hardly slept, turning things over in my head all night, and my stomach rumbles from a day and a half of neglect. I drag my gaze from my slightly red, usually dark-blue eyes, over to the purple circles beneath them. Across my washed-out skin and back up to my ‘too long’ dirty-blond hair, according to my ex anyway. I like it.
The graphite-grey suit still fits fairly well for an off-the-rack purchase made a few years back. I raise my elbow and the fabric tightens around my biceps. I watch the stitching as it strains with an ominous kind of creak and lower them again.
Don’t do that. It’s too late for a replacement, even if I could afford one.
If I take too long a stride, the trousers have the same issue around the thighs, so I won’t do that either. The black shirt under it is on its last legs but my boots have polished up well enough. I sigh and straighten my jacket. It’s as good as it’s going to get with my bank balance.
When I’ve practised trying to make my somewhat unusual request sound as reasonable as I can, I know it’s time to face the real-world version, so I grab my phone and key card to head for The Shard. Before I make it to the door, my youngest brother’s face lights up my phone.
Good luck, man. You’ve got this!
It beeps again and a picture of all four of my brothers fills the screen, each showing the camera crossed fingers in a display of unified well-wishes.
***
As I leave London Bridge Tube station, surrounded by the babble of commuters and tourists all hurrying on their way, I look up at the beast of a building that’s been plaguing me: The Shard.
This is it. Don’t fuck it up.
I tilt my head back, squinting up towards a conclusion I can’t see, and then look back down to my boots. Outside the door. And I notice a stuffed toy panda on the ground. I pick it up and look around for the owner. There’s only one woman with a young child so I run after her calling out, “Excuse me! He’s dropped his teddy.”
The woman peers over her shoulder, almost scowling, until she sees the bear in my hand and her expression morphs into embarrassment. “Thank you,” she mutters as the child reaches up with grasping fingers for his bear.
I offer them both a small smile and turn back towards the entrance to The Shard Offices, glancing down at my trousers whilst praying that the stitching will hold for a few more hours.
“Mr Carnell?” The receptionist behind the giant desk greets me in a professional if hurried manner as I exit the airport-style security a few minutes later, my heart fluttering in my chest and then booming against my ribs.
How do you know if you’re having a heart attack? I wonder.
“Yes, hello.” I eye the various trees along the wall, trying to decide if they’re real.
“Here’s your visitors badge.” She hands me a laminated card to hang around my neck. “Follow me, please.” She glances up at my face as she stands, and her cheeks flush as her eyes cast up and down my body.
I choose to ignore it. I’m not oblivious to the effect I seem to have on women, but it’s not welcome. I’m one hundred percent focused. And I have to stay that way. I’ve lost too much time to female distractions.
I follow a step behind as she leads me through more greenery, ‘The Winter Gardens’ according to the website, with far-too-plush-to-work-from chairs, to a cavernous conference room filled with a walnut table and black leather seats.
“Make yourself comfortable. They won’t be long.”
I turn around and watch the receptionist walk away and leave me marooned here on Opulence Island without so much as a life jacket.
The projector lies idle at the far end and three places have been set with pads, pens, bottles of spring water, and crystal tumblers that catch the light and project tiny rainbows across the table. Below me, Westminster is spread out like a toy town.
This place screams wealth. I glance down at my too-tight trousers and suddenly feel way out of my depth in the presence of everything I’ve ever wanted. I’m desperate to loosen my tie but leave it knotted.
“Shit.” My insides feel like they’ve been squeezed into a body two sizes too small. When the door opens again, the oxygen in the room seems to turn in to razor blades, and wiping my palms on my trousers is doing me no good at all.
“Seth,” a shortish, pot-bellied man with a twinkling smile booms, his hand outstretched to take mine.
“Mr Burke.” I shake.
This is it. Don’t fuck it up. Make it sound reasonable.
“Leon. Please. Come, sit. Let’s talk.” His personable introduction dissipates my nerves, but when I glance at the woman behind him, my laser focus turns scattergun.
She has distraction written all over her.
Eliza
I swing my laptop bag over my shoulder and follow Leon through to the conference room, still able to smell last night’s booze and perfume that isn’t his wife’s on him, to meet the first client of the day, Mr Carnell. Seth Carnell. A man looking for investors in his user experience product.
The corporate mask slides into place as I enter the lion’s den, and my mouth curves into a professionally polite smile whilst my gaze crashes into a solid wall of muscle behind a suit and climbs up to a perfectly chiselled jaw, over full lips and a straight nose, to a deep-blue gaze that is almost hypnotic. His hair is blond. Dark blond, perfectly mussed, and begging to be tousled. I think I could probably help him out there. If things don’t go his way in the boardroom, at least he’ll be happy in the bedroom. And my Friday night is looking like it could be a great one.
Except he’s almost scowling at me. Maybe we’ve met.
“This is my assistant, Eliza. She’ll be taking notes today and will be your first port of call with any questions after. Sound good?”
Mr Seth Carnell nods firmly and straightens out his features as he clears his throat. “Hello.” His eyes catalogue me from head to toe, so fast I almost missed it, and they dart away when they meet mine.
“Good morning, Seth.” I take my usual seat and ready myself for this morning’s presentation, pushing away the ridiculous notion of us having met before, and concentrate on the here and now.
I’m bloody sure I’d remember him.
“Well, the floor is yours, Seth. We can’t wait to see what you’ve got,” Leon lies. He’s only just stopped complaining about yesterday’s next big thing in VR technology.
“First of all, thank you both for meeting with me today. I appreciate your time, no matter the outcome.” He tilts his head, as though thinking, and then says, “Eliza?”
My attention sticks to Seth, who’s now smiling directly at me, and slips to his mouth before I can catch it.
“Would you come up here, please?”
“Of course.” I smooth down my trousers as I stand and walk around the table to the front.
“The best way to show you this technology is to show you.” He produces a flat cap from his bag and straightens it out in his hands. “May I?” He indicates the cap. I nod my consent, and he reaches towards me to place the device on my head. “I need to make a few adjustments. One sec.”
He jolts when his fingertips brush my skin, and we share a sharp inhale as our eyes meet. He looks away, shaking his head a little, and then he attaches something to my earlobes. I can hear his stunted breath. I can feel mine, shuddering from my nose. It’s just the closeness, I tell myself. He’s too close.
“For measurements,” he says, concentration scoring his brow. He leans in closer and his scent fills my head and chest—cedarwood—but he moves back quickly. When he’s done, he hands me a VR headset, almost at arm’s length. “You might want to sit down. Some people find it disorientating.” Seth pulls out the closest chair and I sit before I pull the headset over my eyes.
“Hi. Welcome. Are you comfortable?” the pre-programmed version of Seth asks, his smile more relaxed in the virtual world.
“Yes,” I answer aloud. I take a second to look around the room he’s created and realise I’m here. At The Shard. Not this room but one quite similar, a few floors up.
Even the view from the window is accurate. Wow.
“Great. I’m going to touch your arm. Okay?” Seth steps closer but waits for my response.
I nod. Will that work or do I need to speak?
And a second later, Seth’s virtual fingertip slides down the front of my bare arm, from my shoulder to my elbow crease, and I shiver.
He flashes me a grin. “You can take it off now.”
That’s it? I don’t understand. I remove the headset and Seth lifts the cap from my head.
“Did you feel that?”
“Yes?” I glance at Leon, who’s not pretending to be interested anymore, and Seth’s face erupts into a brilliant smile.
He holds out the cap like an exhibit and then turns it inside out to reveal the silicon web of sensors on the underside. “Micro-neural stimulation and haptics. The cap uses electoral pulses to stimulate the part of your brain responsible for your sense of touch, and the visuals tell your brain what to expect. You don’t need a vest or gloves with this tech.”
“You really felt something?” Leon asks, jumping up from his seat to take a closer look at the cap.
“Yes. I felt Seth touch my arm.” My own fingertips follow the same path, recreating the sensation.
“He didn’t move, Eliza. It was all in your head. Or on your head in this case.” Leon chuckles at his own joke. “Can I try it?” He reaches out his hands as my mind jumps all the professional fences to a fantasy of how the reality of that touch might feel.
“Of course.” Seth places the cap on Leon’s bald head and takes a couple of seconds to adjust it before passing him the headset.
“Yes,” Leon says. I assume he’s answering the virtual Seth. And he jumps so much he almost falls. Seth’s huge hand clamps down on Leon’s shoulder to keep him upright, and I kick the chair back a bit to stop him from tripping over it.
Leon rips off the headset and flings it on the table before reaching up to his head and almost caressing the cap with a fleeting, nervous touch—a wide-eyed, awe-struck expression on his face.
This guy has it in the bag. If his financials stack up. I smile across at Seth, genuinely pleased for him, and retake my seat. Even if it does nix my Friday night plans.
“Well, that is impressive. Let’s talk numbers, Seth.” Leon removes the cap carefully and places it down on the table before taking his seat.
Seth’s eyebrows pull together and his gaze drops away from Leon, but only for a second. “The patents have been granted. I have the paperwork as you requested. The possibilities are endless... But I need a lot of money to build the personalised or branded prototypes to demonstrate the capabilities to those individual brands and companies I have identified.”
“Give me a ballpark.” Leon leans forward, eager to know everything. Seth slides a sheet of paper across the table and Leon flips it over. “And you’re putting up half of that?” Leon assumes with a nod.
“Actually, no. ...”
“Ah. So, how much capital do you have currently available to start?” Leon’s thick fingers pluck his pen from his breast pocket.
“None. The patents wiped me out.”
“So... what are you living on?”
“A shoestring.” A flush of pink colours Seth’s cheeks. “I’m not the ask daddy type.”
Leon places his pen down on the pad with precision and then stretches out in his chair, leaning way back. His let them down gently routine.
Seth’s eyes go so wide I can almost hear him yelling, “No! Wait!”
“But how much are the patents worth?” I ask urgently, looking from Leon to Seth. “Even if Mr Carnell can’t make the prototypes, he has the patents to be able to do so, which are surely worth a fortune?”
