We, Novae

Dave resists the Novae implant until his daughter’s life depends on it. But once he joins the collective, will he still be her father or just another voice in the chorus? | Est. Read Time: 8 minutes

“That’ll be 1,200 CC.” The pharmacist says, looking both at and through me. I’m disarmed—a willing participant in this robbery. Insulin prices only ever seem to go up. It’s for Adrianne, so I’ll do whatever it takes. Still, that doesn’t make the visualization of my account closing in on zero hurt any less. I hand my card over, and he deftly hands it back, vials already bagged.

“Thanks,” I make my way to the door, but the pharmacist calls out before I get more than a few steps in.

“I should inform you that starting next week, we won’t be accepting cards or any other physical means of payment.”

I try to keep the air in my lungs from expelling too quickly.

“Not even cash?”

“We’re no longer accepting physical forms of payment,” he reiterates.

“How am I supposed to shop here?” I ask, white-knuckling my bag.

“Through Novae, of course.” He flashes the same dead smile as before, and I bite back my disgust. Over the last twenty years, Novae implants have become the norm. Everyone’s happy to put a computer in their head for the sake of convenience. But as things grow more accessible cognitively, they’ve become less accessible materially.

“And if I don’t have Novae?”

“Not a problem. We can book you a consultation tomorrow to have it installed. It may even rid your daughter of her diabetes entirely.”

“Not interested,” I reach for the door.

“Bye, Dave,” he says with a wave.

“How do you know my name?”

“We all do.”

* * *

The only war Novae implants didn’t end was the one on poverty.

I sit across Adrianne as she picks apart the crusts of her sandwich in this still diner, and I recall the good and the bad. Nations banded together, and technological and medical advancements skyrocketed. We landed on Mars around the same time we cured cancer with a single injection. But the same technology that could detect a stroke before it occurred was kept from those who couldn’t afford it.

“If you want to know who doesn't have Novae, go look under a bridge,” Dad used to say. He told me that if knowledge is power, the World Wide Web ‘leveled the playing field.’

For a while.

At first, a Silicon Valley brat had access to the same information as any other teenager with a cellphone—until they put everything behind Novae's paywall.

Dad was a bit of a doomsday prepper. I try to keep his memory alive in the stories I tell Adrianne, but words can’t do his nuttiness justice.

But he is why I read as much about the old world as I did. Dad thought you only owned something if you could hold it, and that’s why books lined every wall of our house.

With time, those with Novae outpaced those without.

I don’t know how many of us are left, only that we’re the minority. Truth is, it wasn’t about cost anymore. Maybe at first, but the government has subsidized Novae implants for over twenty years.

Novae changed people.

Who could have predicted that being connected to twelve billion people by your cerebral cortex would have an impact?

Dad did.

And here I am, cocking my head and gazing in awe at the woman Adrianne has grown to be. I can’t be distracted from her, but she’s looking down and around. The booths lining the walls are full, but the air buzzes more from the clatter of silverware than conversation.

“Tomorrow’s the big one, huh, babes?” My heart screams with a cocktail of joy and dread. You’re never ready for your baby girl to grow up. 13 years zipped by instantly, and this milestone brings a tough conversation.

“Yeah,” she says without looking up from the graveyard of crust piling on her plate.

“Do you know what you want for your birthday?”

“All my friends have gotten Novae this year,” her voice trails off to a murmur. She probably assumes I’ll lose my shit for even being asked the question.

She’s right. But my shit-losing is internal.

“No, babes. We’ve talked about this.”

“But why?”

“It’s not safe. The brain isn’t fully developed until your twenties.”

That’s what I say.

But what I mean is, ‘I don’t trust it.’

What I mean is, ‘They’ll take you over.’

What I mean is, ‘I don’t want to lose my baby girl.’
I keep those parts quiet. I can’t tell her ‘why’ without sounding as crazy as Dad.

“The lite version we get at thirteen is different than the ones you get as an adult. Everyone says it’s more limited and safe for kids.”

She’s right, but we have different definitions of ‘safe.’

I lean forward, massaging my temples. “They don’t need to be inside your head.”

Adrianne crosses her arms and turns sideways in the booth, resigned. She does this whenever I use the word ‘they’ like this. At this point, I don’t even know who ‘they’ are. I only know they’re not us.

Maybe I do sound like Dad.

“Once you get Novae, you’re moved to a different class,” Adrianne says. “They say it’s because of how much it gives you. I’m the only one left in mine. I haven’t seen my friends in months.” Her voice breaks. “I’m all alone.”

My heart shatters, and I reach over to grab her hand. As I open my mouth to speak, our waitress approaches with her tablet—just in time to break the tension.

I hand over my card without looking up.

“I should inform you,” she starts, and my jaw tightens—I know where the sentence is going. “Starting next week, we will no longer accept physical forms of payment.”

“Here, too?”

Like the pharmacist, she smiles at Adrianne and back at me.

“Yes. Every business is mandated to comply. Starting Monday, every establishment in the country will only accept payments through Novae.”

The bridge of her nose scrunches up, and I imagine how it might feel to punch it in.

I sigh heavily and place my card back in my pocket. I might as well chuck it in the trash since it’ll be all but useless by next week.

“I’m happy to help you and your daughter schedule a consult for Novae, Dave.”

I hastily dismiss her with a wave and look back at Adrianne as the waitress disappears into the kitchen.

“How did she know your name?” Adrianne asks.

I shrug.

“They all do.”

* * *

They got me.

It only took thirty-five years and withholding Adrianne’s insulin, but they finally got me; a willful participant in my own robbery of self.

It sounds dramatic, but it’s hard to see it any other way.

I count the ceiling tiles overhead as I lay in the sole bed of this sterile room. Monitors line the walls, displaying a myriad of biometric data—which I’m sure they’re happy to finally have their hands on. Beats per minute, oxygen levels, blood glucose, brain wave activity; maybe I would have gotten Novae sooner had I known I was as Vitamin B-deficient as I am.

You’d think they’d have figured out a more comfortable setup by now than a one-ply sheet of sterilized paper rolled out atop this maroon leather slab, but I guess they couldn’t be bothered.

I visualize Dad tossing and turning in his grave at the thought of me in this room. He would’ve rather died than get a Novae implant. In fact, he did.

“Thank you for your patience, Dave.” Dr. Cole says as she closes the door behind her.

“Yep.”

"Before we begin, do you have any questions?" she asks, her voice muffled behind her facemask. But unlike anyone before, her eyes burn into mine—not through me, but into me—with the intensity of an entire population. I fidget under the weight of her gaze before finally sitting up.

There’s so much I want to ask, but there’s no point. I’ll know all the answers in due time.

“Just get on with it,” I say. “Take me away.”

She shut it down fast.

“We’re not ‘taking you.’ You’ll still be you. Just more.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Dave, we’ve looked forward to you coming in for a long time.”

“Why?”

“Making you whole makes us whole.”

“I am whole.”

“You’re not, Dave. None of us were. You've been whispering in a world that speaks in symphonies.”

That’s rich. But while I whisper, she fails to see the beauty a single violin has against an orchestra.

“For all this to work,” she spreads her fingers like she's offering something intangible but absolute, “we need to be together.”

“For what to work?”

“Us. Humanity. Before Novae, the only thing in the way of our survival was ourselves.”

I shake my head and look back toward the ceiling. I don’t need to philosophize. I just need to get Adrianne her insulin.

“How much will it hurt?” I ask.

“Physically? Not at all.” Dr. Cole scoots her chair to my side, syringe in hand. “But emotionally—It’ll be overwhelming.” She grabs my left arm and looks back at me for one final confirmation of consent. “Are you ready?”

“And what happens if I don’t like it?” I ask. “If I change my mind?”

Raised cheekbones behind her mask betray a wide smile.

"Then you’d be the first."

* * *

We’re pulled apart, thought by thought—yanked away only to be pieced back together.

“Welcome,” we say in forty-eight languages four million times in an instant. The instant is washed away by the next. And then the next.

And then the next—all in front of the three hundred thousand-year-old mosaic of shared history.

The piercing cry of a newborn—first in the dirt, then in a tub, and then in a maternity ward.

Our first hammer. Our first crop. Our first kill.

The stench of blood and decay—first by the dozen, then by the million.

A plane strikes a tower, and a shuttle climbs to the heavens.

We give a haircut, pick a berry, and read a book in the Smokeys, the Redwoods, and the Sahara.

We’re sweating and panting on a maroon slab, trying to keep it together. We hold the image of Adrianne in our mind, but she also sits in front of us and packs her school bag before heading for the door.

“Adrianne!” we say. We want to see her. This is all for her.

“Bye, Ms. Garfield,” she waves, never looking back. She’s already gone.

And we wave back, already smiling.

Adrianne begins her trek home to see us, and we’re sure to stay close to help at every possible turn. She’s okay. She knows what she’s doing, but we’re there if she needs us. Like always.

She runs up the stoop steps of the tiny home on the corner of 8th and Wiles, unlocks the door, and disappears inside.

Silence.

It’s one of the last places on the planet we don’t have eyes. We manage massive constructions on Mars, but this 1100-square-foot home is a black box to us.

We want to be there first to greet her, but it takes too long to acclimate.

Instead, once we’re back to our senses, we follow her path, finally reaching the stoop ourselves to gaze upon our home. Analog keys are a relic to us, and we’re clumsy with them, but the door finally opens. Adrianne sits at the kitchen table, her head deep in a book.

“Hey, Dad,” she says. She looks up, and her eyes meet ours.

We can barely hold back our smile.

“Hey, babes.”