I don 't remember the last six hours of my life in this place, where my surviving conscious has been stored on hard copy, along with millions of others locked in here with me, on this library of pure thought.  My final resting place. As it will eventually be for everyone who can afford it. 

That period of my life has vanished from my Unit leaving me for whereabouts unknown. Perhaps I didn't like what happened to cause my death, and just cut the memory away from myself like a doctor would sever an umbilical cord from a newly-born child. 

But there's something more to it than that. I can feel it in my bones - a bad choice of words to be sure. 

Something deeper is happening here. That I cannot ever find out about. How I died, and why? Was I killed in a fatal accident? Was I poisoned, mugged, suffocated, or murdered in a variety of other even more sickening ways, that I cannot bear to think about in the fear that my Unit would feedback upon myself at the very mention of the word 'death.'

And would it end there? Would this fear continue to cascade around the Nexus, a virus eating away at the thoughts and dreams of an entire generation, until there was nothing left but this simple emotion inhabiting the system. 

The only thing left living in me is fear itself.  Everything else I had is gone. My husband, my children, and everything else from my past, are little more to me than fragments of pixel from a past that is rapidly fading, my Unit memory degraded more and more each day, as new Occupants are logged onto the Nexus. 

But still the fact that I do not remember my death concerns me more. That is the only riddle for me left to answer. Everything else has been accessed, read, re read, and forgotten, only my death matters to me now. That is the only fascination, stirred into activity by the fact that the rest of my life, what little I remember, has become tiresome to watch. It is like a movie screening repeatedly shown; after a while of loving that movie, it quickly' becomes tedious, and you want to scream out to the projectionist for another film. Something different Something not quite so humdrum, as much of my past life was- working the same hours every day, doing the same chores, and making love to my husband in exactly the same positions night after night

I am locked into the pattern of who I was.  I can never be anything different ever again. Perhaps the knowledge of my death will release me from this burden. Perhaps the fact that my death was exciting, even intoxicating like some kind of strange voyeurism, that will make this existence worth bearing. Not that I will ever have a choice in the matter. My Unit will continue for as long as it is able, before it is swallowed up by the onrush of new consciousness. Who knows how long that will be? Hundreds of years? Maybe. But there is one thing I'm sure of.
I hope someone out there has this information, and is reading these words right now, even as I think them. 

Because I really want to know. 

Please 'Cruel World' come, answer this question for me. All you have to do is log on - I have time to spare. 

Recording ends... 

The five men stared at each other intently as they stood in a perfect circle, their guns pointing at each other threateningly, all of them impulsively drawn to the same purpose. 

Sweat was pouring from their faces, beneath the hazy industrial lighting that dangled overhead, illuminating that distant annex inside the Nexus B station. A revolving library of sentience, in orbit around the newly terra-formed Jovian moon, Europa - one of three Nexus storage stations, catered to handle new Occupants, throughout the Sol system. 

Mr. Kilner was the first to move, taking a simple handkerchief from out of his front coat pocket. He wiped his face with it, removing the sweaty sheen off his skin, never taking his eyes off the gun or his opponents. 

"How long are you going to let this continue, Kilner?" Mr. Jones asked, a short, obese man; a morbid collector of any memorabilia connected with death. He wore a faded pair of jeans, along with a V-necked shirt, three sizes too large for him, so that it ended up billowing over his blue jeans, like the canopy of a parachute.

"As long as it takes. You are not getting this Unit download. My suppliers are waiting for it, and I would hate to disappoint them," he answered, his grip on the gun tightening. 

"Well, you're going to have to," Mr. Lennon replied, from beneath his flowing black cloak, etched with ancient pictograms in small bands on either sleeve; the leader of a religious cult dedicated to unlocking the secrets surrounding death. "It's not often that a Unit memory of death is stolen from the Nexus, and I don't want to lose the opportunity to experience it for myself" 

"It's not for you." Mr. Thorn said, representing Nexus security. "Kilner, that memory belongs to its rightful owner, Ms. Whitely. Restore it now, or you will be on the Nexus with her. That's if anyone can be bothered to find your admission." 

"I don't respond to threats, company man," Kilner said, using an occupational slur. "This memory stays with me, you have no idea of what it will fetch on the open market." 

"I know only too well," Mr. Frank said, his businessman attire filling his ample frame. "I will be able to fund my takeover of the Johnson Syndicate with the sale of this memory." 

"I didn't realise the Frank Corporation was so hard up for currency," Kilner replied. 

"A little extra cash always comes in useful." Frank said, rebutting Kilner's remarks with a swift retort. 'Now if you please. Hand it over." 

"What will happen if I decide not to give it to any of you?" Kilner asked inquisitively. Entertained by the others' bemusement. "You can't all kill me at once, and still get the memory download. There is the matter of your other opponents to consider. Once you've dealt with me, how can you be sure that you will be able to handle them."

"I'm sure I will be able to think of something," Thorn the security man said, his left eye winking towards the flurry of movement overhead on one of the main balconies.

Suddenly, the other four men turned back to see a wave of security officers marauding onto the overlooking balcony. Without any hesitation, the Nexus Brigade aimed their rifles squarely at the heads of Mr. Kilner, Mr. Jones, Mr. Frank and Mr. Lennon, ready to fire at the slightest sign of treachery.

"I think you can all surrender now," Thorn said, stepping away from the four men, breaking the circle of hatred.

"What makes you think I'm going to do that?" Lennon answered, pulling a
disc-shaped device from his jacket, entering a sequence of numbers into its
mainframe.

"A plasma bomb." Kilner realised.

"Correct. And it's set to detonate within thirty seconds, which will take you, me, as well as most of this station with it. Now hand over the download." Lennon ordered, leaving Kilner with little in the way of alternatives.

"It seems I have little choice," Kilner mumbled.

Kilner turned his gun on Lennon. With one rapid movement of his right hand, he fired his weapon. The plasma bolt struck Lennon firmly in his solar plexus, leaving a huge round scorch mark as he fell. The plasma bomb was released from his grip as Thorn rushed to grab it before it reached the ground, and detonated itself 

He managed to clutch it in his left hand, as he dived across the floor. After Thorn landed with a gentle thud, Frank shot his gun at him. The discharge pierced through his spinal cord, before exiting through his stomach, creating a gaping exit wound; the putrid flesh burned by the experience. The bomb was still held firmly in the dead man's grip. 

Frank turned his attentions onto the Brigade, but he was gunned down in the crossfire before he could reach the balcony, caught like some sickened animal that needed to be put out of its misery. 

Kilner dodged the Brigade's fire, and ducked down to Thorn's dead body, deactivating the plasma bomb with a simple command etched onto its surface: 

DISENGAGE. 
Using Thorn's body as cover, he ran towards the opposite exit, not noticing the short figure of the collector, Mr. Jones, running after him, escaping the carnage. 

"Where do you think you're going, Kilner?" Jones shouted, above the barrage of noise that resonated off the depot walls, as he plunged his dagger into the nape of Kilner's neck, releasing it as soon as it had caused the desired damage. Kilner stumbled to the ground, collapsing on top of his human shield, as Jones stood over him, watching the last throes of death. The Brigade closing in on his position. 

The blood escaped rapidly, trickling down his clothes; a sickening rush of a crimson tide, which showed no signs of ending anytime soon. Jones reached inside the blood stained clothing, and found the memory disc. 

Just as a Brigade sniper picked him off, blowing the back of his skull off cleanly, causing his brain to haemorrhage; leaving a trail of splintered bone fragments, and cerebral mucus all over the depot floor. 

The dead body of Jones sagged onto the ground. His hands released the Unit memory disc, like some lost treasure, into the waiting hands of a Brigade officer. He placed it neatly inside the pocket lining of his uniform jacket. Consigning it to memory, as he left his officers to clean up the mess. 
 

Appendage of previous Beta-stream Nexus recording. 
From Unit 9, Sub-group A8. 
Owner: Whitely, Emma. 
Time of recording: 23.00 p.m. 21st January 2400 
 
 

It has all come back to me, the moment of my death. Just another simple boating accident. 

I remember the sound of the waves, as the storm caught up with my small yacht, lost far out to sea. As the squall intensified within the violent atmosphere, a huge 20 ft wave hit my boat, washing me overboard. I remember trying to keep afloat within the turbulent waters, but my head kept on slipping beneath the surface. Until finally I could struggle no more, the strength fading from my body as I gave in. Surrendering to the powers of the sea that pulled me under for the last time. My lungs filling with the dank salt water of the ocean. 

My body was found washed ashore the next day on the shore of Europa's largest ocean, Minos. The Nexus doctors managed to stimulate enough brain activity within my temporal lobe in order to store my consciousness. 

Is the knowledge of my death enough to keep me entertained? I don 't know. I shall have to mention it to the newest members of my sub-group, A8 Their ~ consciousness was downloaded earlier today, or so I heard from a close source

Their names are Kilner, Thorn, Lennon, and Frank. Apparently a fifth member, Jones, wasn 't able to join us. His defective brain did not contain much of a consciousness.

I wonder if they will be receptive to my new experiences.
 

Martin Jack is a regular contributor to Colonies and Voyage magazines.  
He lives in Seaford, East Sussex. UK

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"I went as far as I could now I don't dare risk going back." - 
E. Sebastian Thomas (2400)
 
 
 

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