J.R. Knight's Blog, page 3

Thursday Thoughts: 002

This week so far has been going along really well! Right now I’m typing this at 12:25am and I’m drinking the most delicious tea from T2 called Baxter’s Buns. It’s legit like a Hot Cross Bun – in a tea! I’m also suddenly taken over by a mild flu. It’s so annoying! I have no reason to be sick (admittedly thought a few weeks ago I did stress myself out too much). But as of recent life is a lot quieter and smoother in terms of my writing schedule! I’m just drinking cup after cup of tea with honey, dosing up on some natural herby flu medication, and all should be well with some rest!

I received Hearts (3/4) back from editor and with that, next month I will begin re-writing the last instalment for my major manuscript! Gah! My ARC’s for The Cure are being printed and are on the way, and right now I’m just sending off some inquiries to a few lovely people who I’d like to receive the first few copies! There is, of course a little giveaway I’m doing, so head to my social media and go into the draw! Entry is super easy! :D. Also, look out on Goodreads of a giveaway coming soon!

The days are approaching, the launch is just around the corner! I can’t wait to have my first book out there in the world!

Until next week!

The Cure will be published in full on Monday the 15th of August.
Please show your support by subscribing to The Knight Life. Enter in your email via the right hand side for desktop users, scroll down for mobile/table users.

The Cure, 07: True Reflection

|07|

TRUE REFLECTION

| EXTRACTED FROM KNIJÄ TĀU /

HOME LOT 2807 OF 81SUB / 28.2.3450 | 11:27ppm |

| KNIJÄ: 16 YEARS OLD |

I stare into my reflection and, as always, uncertainty clogs my insides. From the moment I was able to articulate my thoughts, I knew I was different. Different from my Mūm, my Dād and everyone else. It’s as simple as it is puzzling: they don’t act, think or behave like meē. Or, perhaps, I don’t act, think or behave like them.

This is still something that’s difficult to process and, as I stare into my fake reflection, my U-chip realises that I’m reflecting on my life and my memorī tab automatically props open. A scene from pre-edūcation plays out in front of meē, the snippet captured from my own eyes. I watch.

I’ve just turned six and it’s the first daāy that I am on complete show to the world. It’s the first time that I will meet everyone and anyone, and I am both nervous and excited.

“Maybe I’ll find someone else like meē, Mūmmy,” I tug on her hand and she nods but doesn’t say anything.

“Remember to be on your best behaviour,” Dād says cheerfully and I grin proudly and give him a thumbs up.

The glass doors open and my young eyes widen. Watching the U-vid of the memorī in real time, I see a sea full of clones. Small U-mans copied and pasted and multiplied many times over. Young boys and girls who are uniform, compliant and well mannered. Who have filters and social tact. Who conform to all of society’s expectations. I had none of that then, and I still have none of that now.

Unlike the children who I see in the pixels, I have had to learn. Learn to only say polite and respectful comments, learn to monitor my thoughts, learn to act like a U-man.

“Hihi,” a girl a little shorter than the rest, with curly pigtails of white blonde hair, greets my younger self. “I am Hoslū.”

“I’m Knijä!” I see my younger-self wrap my arms around the young girl who is stunned at my forwardness.

“You just touched meē.” It isn’t an objection, it’s a statement. In fact, her voice has keenness to it.

“Sure,” my young voice echoes in my Receivers. “Can we be friends?”

“You are different,” Hoslū then says. Her eyes narrow like she’s processing this information, before her face lights up like a reset sky. “I like it!”

The memorī then dissolves away. My whole life has been about being different and about masking it. Masking meē. My parents explained to meē when I was young that a doctor came to them daāys after I was born to inform them of my difference and explain that I needed to blend in. Clearly they wanted more answers. But without a reason to attend our local sub’s memorial, neither my parents nor I have had the chance to meet or question the doctor again, or any other doctor for that matter.

We would have attended a memorial to speak to one, but speaking to a doctor or visiting a memorial is illegal unless it is by official appointment.

I’ve still got so many questions.

On the 2nd of each month I’m sent a package. The package is sent in the weirdest form, not through U-mail or U-file, but in a thing called cardboard. Inside this cardboard are my adjustments and paper. Paper is a one-dimensional platform that has no other purpose or use but to communicate something. It’s simply words on an unchangeable screen. Weird, but also kind of cool.

These papers always instruct meē, but never inform meē, of my purpose. “Follow the rules”. For what reason? What point? Why? The packages do nothing but generate more questions and I’ve had to settle on the realisation that nothing is ever going to be answered on my terms.

As I stand in front of the mirror in the wellroom and look at myself, I’m conflicted at what I see. From the outside I ‘blend in,’ but believe meē, it’s not easy. Everyone looks so, so perfect. U-mans are faultless, flawless, effortless and I posses none of those attributes.

Women are thin, with petite waists and long legs. They have even, plump and healthy creamy skin, shiny lustrous blonde hair that sweeps down their body and sky blū eyes. Men have broad shoulders and strong muscles, trimmed light hair, shimmering blū eyes, manicured facial hair and thick legs. I must be the first person ever to comment on the fact that they all appear the same. The differences are miniscule such as slighter longer eyelashes or a lighter shade of hair. Sometimes fashions are added in updates with the choice of a Peār Approved style modification option enabled, but even these happen infrequently, especially in an outer sub like the one I live in.

I’m completely different.

At times it can take three or fours hours to change meē. It usually takes up most of my reflect period. I start by lathering my entire body in cream, creating a second skin. Extra creams are applied to my forehead, under my eyes and on cheeks to make my complexion look clearer and ideal. I then cinch my waist. My human hips and waist are naturally wider and plumper. I am provided with a thing called a ‘corset’ that squeezes meē in, making it look like I have a female U-man’s silhouette. This process is both tedious and extremely painful. I sculpt my eyebrows, burying my dark hair under a thick layer of powder, before meticulously drawing new blonde ones over the top, an act that initially took weeks to perfect. I place plastic films over my eyes and adhere the tight blonde cap of hair over my forehead.

I’m now standing in front of the mirror, in the process of removing all of these adjustments just so that I can have a few moments where I’m not uncomfortable. When I do, I’m nothing like anyone has ever seen. My parents make meē apply my mask at the beginning of every reflect period and I have to re-adjust them at least four to five times a daāy. I stand over the Well and allow the Waterlite to run through my fingers. The temporary adhesives on the tips of my fingers and palms dissolve at the liquid’s touch, a light watery cream spilling down the drain from the paint that washes off my hands. I put my fingertips to my face and begin to wash away my disguise. I remove the contacts from my eyes. I pull the cap of Synthetī hair that is tightly fused to my head away. I run the Waterlite over every inch of my face and on all of my exposed skin. I remove the disguise that makes meē like everyone else and I stare into my reflection. My true reflection.

The Cure will be published in full on Monday the 15th of August.
The Cure is written by J. R Knight, illustrated by Paul Ikin and edited by Kayla Marie Murphy.
The first 15 instalments of The Cure will be published week by week on The Knight Life. The next instalment will continue this coming Monday.
Please show your support by sharing The Cure and subscribing to The Knight Life. Enter in your email via the right hand side for desktop users, scroll down for mobile/table users.

Thursday Thoughts: 001

After what seems like years, I just hit ‘submit’ for review for the ARC’s of The Cure. ARC’s are a fancy smanchy industry term for Advanced Reader Copy, or pre-released copy as I like to call them.

I took a well deserved nap after hitting ‘submit’ :).

It’s safe to say that this entire process has been enlightening, incredible and definitely trying. I don’t think you can understand how much work goes into publishing a book, unless you’ve done it. Well, I am and I’m learning very quickly!

So… that’s just phase one out of the way! Now we more forward to marketing, promoting and the launch in August. ARGH! I’m one busy bee. Like legit.

This segment, by the way, will run most Thursdays. I don’t want to overcommit, but they will just be real updates/thoughts and all that jazz! So much of my blog is preprepared weeks and even months in advanced, (it’s just how I roll), so here’s something a little more spontaneous!

I’m not going to lie I’m a little overwhelmed. But nothing it going to beat that moment when the final, final, final copies arrive and I begin to sell them. To say that I’m an author. A published author!

Ahhhhh :).

How is everybody’s week going?!

Comment below!

X

 

The Cure will be published in full on Monday the 15th of August.
Please show your support by subscribing to The Knight Life. Enter in your email via the right hand side for desktop users, scroll down for mobile/table users.

 

The Cure, 06: Different

|06|



DIFFERENT  

| EXTRACTED FROM NOEĀL TĀU

/ COMMERCIAL LOT. 005 OF

METRAVĀ / 2.4.3439 / 12:08āam |

| KNIJÄ: FIVE YEARS OLD |

The doors open to the Communal Navīgator and, stepping in, I weave through other commuters, taking a seat in a Commuter Pod. The communal trip from Metravā City to 81Sub takes just under two hours, so I press my U-chip, biding my time by going through the notifys and advertī that have accumulated throughout the daāy on my U-screen in front of meē.

My daāy mandatory is lucky enough to be in Metravā City. Every morning, I travel from 81Sub to the central nervous system of our world. Metravā City is piled high with cement, metal and flashing commercial U-screens. Advertī and commercial notifys bombard Metravā commuters with the current trending must-know information.

“Dusk grey is the newest trend for every home lot accessory. Purchase everything for your home lot in dusk grey from your U-shop on your U-chip now!”

“Consider adding a Multi-Peār Approved-Vitī to your diet for only minus 7800 currencī!”

“Do not stand out, do not think differently. Enable ‘pacify’ in your U-settings and never be alerted of your difference! Remember: if U stand out, U do not belong.”

On almost every square inch of our metropolis, the Peār logo serves as a constant remīnder, a stagnant and unwavering message that is known by all, this is whom we serve. The air is fragranced with its knowing signature scent: a pacifying blend of Synthetī vanil and co2nut that neutralises the elites who live here. The occasional seasonal Lite Plant dot around, but mostly it is grey usualness and the intense bulbs from the projected screens.

I am privileged enough to have an enjoyable mandatory. I work for the Department of Synthetī Production, and I am responsible for the intellectual programming of the Natural Synthetī in 94Sub. I have never been to 94Sub, nor have I ever met anyone from there, but my mandatory is to program and execute their natural landscape. From all qualities of Synthetī grass to varied sky textures, I assist in the final execution of that section of our world. It is my pride and joy.

“Attention, commuters,” a clear Synthetī voice fills the Receiver in my ears, momentarily disrupting meē. “The Communal Navīgator is now departing for 81Sub. Please stay within your Commuter Pod for the rest of your journey.”

My reflect period now begins. I work from 9āam (daāy) to 12āam (nīght). My job is a privilege as most U-mans start the daāy at 8āam and work through until 12āam. Reflect period begins the moment you finish your mandatory period. I am lucky enough to have extra reflect time as I am now a senior in my position. I remember when I first started at the Department of Synthetī Production as an intern programmer. Our mandatory periods were a lot shorter then. Over time, however, they have gotten longer and longer. I will be home by 2āam, leaving again by 7āam, giving meē five hours with my wife and daughter.

My heaārt warms when I see that I have a U-vid message from Neēreē. I expand it and her airy voice fills my ears, her beautiful face filling my screen.

“Spouse! I hope your mandatory was as enjoyable as mine. Knijä and I are at home waiting for you so we can have our late meal together. Perhaps we can then watch a U-moveē? I cannot wait to see you!” She then lowers her voice. “Also, todaāy is the 2nd. Knijä’s package was delivered successfully.”

The U-vid disappears and I sit there for a moment thinking. Knijä is five now and is learning at an exceptional rate, her differences now understood by her.

Regardless of how fearful we are, Knijä has stolen our heaārts. She has opened us up and revealed things about ourselves that we never would have thought possible.

However, every daāy is an emotive war due to her ‘moods’, an unknown term to us at first and a thing that changes and grows even faster than she does. One moment life is pure bliss – she laughs, oh how she laughs – her laughter fills up the room like a balloon. Then she shouts – she is not happy, she has not gotten her way. Her protests are like shards of glass that fracture the air, puncturing the balloon of bliss and joy. Despite this, Knijä has eclipsed us completely.

“Knijä,” I whisper, watching a memorī on my U-screen in private mode from the nīght before. I stroke her cap of Synthetī blonde hair, her face covered with the creams that smooth the dots on her skin. She has in her ‘contacts’, tiny, thin pieces of plastic that changes the colour of her eyes, a process that is still a struggle every daāy. “My beautiful daughter, why are you angry?”

“Because it all itches!” She throws her hands up in fury and huffs. “Dāddy, I don’t want these things all over my body!”

These are the times that are the most frustrating. There are no answers from the doctor, only deliveries. Some explanations, yes, about her, about our daughter, but nothing, nothing on what she is, on how she came to be this way, nor what will happen.

“Come here,” I say to her, the vision of her exasperated and confused face filling my senses. I kneel in and she comes to meē.

“Dāddy, it’s not fair,” she says, her voice thick with infuriation. “Why do I have to costume to look like everybody else? It takes so long!”

A fitting question and one I cannot seem to find an appropriate answer for. Why is my daughter unlike everybody else? Why is she so unique?

“I am not sure, my sweet one.” I put a hand on her chin and blink forcefully while wrinkling up my face, an act I know that she loves. The sound of her laughter does not fill the multīspace. She is in ‘sad mood’ now.

“Well, what do you call meē?” She tugs at her cap of blonde hair, scratching her true hair underneath. “Do you know what I am?”

“Well, you know I would love you no matter if you were a chair or a U-felīne or a Lite Plant!” I pick her up and pull her into meē. “I am U-man,” I point to myself before tapping her on the nose, “and you, Knijä, are human.”

The Cure will be published in full on Monday the 15th of August.
The Cure is written by J. R Knight, illustrated by Paul Ikin and edited by Kayla Marie Murphy.
The first 15 instalments of The Cure will be published week by week on The Knight Life. The next instalment will continue this coming Monday.
Please show your support by sharing The Cure and subscribing to The Knight Life. Enter in your email via the right hand side for desktop users, scroll down for mobile/table users.

The Cure, 5.2: Delivery Part Two

|05.2|

DELIVERY

PART TWO

| EXTRACTED FROM NEĒREĒ TĀU /

HOME LOT 2807 OF 81SUB / 19.2.3434 / 8:22āam |

| KNIJÄ: FIVE MONTHS, 21 DAĀYS OLD |

 

The last five months and 20 daāys have been strenuous and endless with chaos and new experiences. The doctor did not explain nearly as much as we would have liked and was unable to abate our many questions. She insisted that all would be answered but, for now, we needed to be satisfied with what we were given.

The deliveries come on the 2nd of every month without fail and without us ever knowing who has placed the box on our home lot doorstep. We have noticed that it usually happens when the daāy resets and a small ‘knock’ makes us aware that the box had arrived.

“Why her, why us?” was the one pressing question that I asked the doctor, one that I felt must be answered before she left.

“I wish there was a more complex answer that I could provide you, Mrs. Tāu.” She exhaled and the neutrality in her face faded into something else, perhaps sadness, an emotion that we usually do not possess. “The reality is that there is no elaborate explanation. This was an act of fate. Knijä was selected at random.”

“So what is to happen now?” Noeāl asks. “Are we to just wait?”

“Unfortunately,” the doctor’s expression falters for a moment, “yes. There is nothing we can do but move at our current pace. Any quicker and the entire project would be compromised.”

The doctor turns our U-chips back on after that, and even though I feel normal and appeased once again with the U-chip’s technology coursing through meē, a part of meē still feels unsure. Our daughter continues to grow and change, and nothing could have prepared us for this.

“I will get the rattle!” I say to Noeāl who is holding a red-faced Knijä in his arms. “She adores that rattle. That will pacify her!”

We learned very early (or more assumed, given the lack of information) that Knijä’s U-chip does not sync to Peār. It is fully functional in a superficial capacity but it does not update and therefore it does not calm or neutralise her unfiltered emotions. She is a force to be reckoned with.

“Okay, Knijä,” I bend down in front of her and shake the rattle. My hair is in disarray, my forehead is crinkling in stress, my breathing is abnormal. “Here is that rattle you love. Now, my dear, shhhhh!”

I say it low and soft, much like I wish for her to be. The inability to update means that Knijä’s teeth are coming through at a meticulous pace, a process that appears to be tedious and excruciating for her.

“Perhaps we should give her some more of that numbing cream we received?” Noeāl bounces her on his knee as her screams escalate.

“Yes, I will go get it,” I say as I inelegantly rush out of the multīspace and enter Knijä’s private space. The boxes that have been delivered to us are neatly placed on a shelf and I put my hands into the most recent one.

Each box contains unusual objects, unseen and unknown to us. They are accompanied with brief descriptions and directions, along with explanations about things we need to be aware of. Crying, for instance, is something that our daughter does when she is in extreme pain. These instructions are touchable, real and have texture. They are printed on a thing called ‘paper’ and are done so to prevent Peār from knowing a word of this.

The most recent delivery contains a set of perfect U-man toddler teeth, which we are meant to adhere to her gums in 27 daāys. This is apparently when the update for toddler teeth usually occurs.

We somehow have to put these fake teeth over Knijä’s real growing ones until she is old enough to do it herself. We have to make her blend in, a task that is proving to test us as she is not of age to understand that she needs to be passive, neutral and grey. She needs to blend in. No colour and no differences.

I take the clear tube of gel from the box and race into the multīspace.

“Here we go,” I say, applying a strip of the cool gel on my finger and running it along her tender gums. The burn and pain is dulled and, even though her eyes are still wide with concern, she calms at my touch.

“Much better, my sweetie.” I cannot help but smile at her gnawing at my fingertip, something so foreign, so unusual. I deflate to the floor and try to regain my breathing.

I love her. I know that much. But I also know another thing with all of my heart: my daughter does not and will not blend in. No matter how many deliveries are sent to us.

 

The Cure will be published in full on Monday the 15th of August.
The Cure is written by J. R Knight, illustrated by Paul Ikin and edited by Kayla Marie Murphy.
The first 15 instalments of The Cure will be published week by week on The Knight Life. The next instalment will continue this coming Monday.
Please show your support by sharing The Cure and subscribing to The Knight Life. Enter in your email via the right hand side for desktop users, scroll down for mobile/table users.

The Cure, 05.1: Delivery Part One

|05.1|

DELIVERY

PART ONE

| EXTRACTED FROM NEĒREĒ TĀU /

HOME LOT 2807 OF 81SUB / 30.8.3433 / 7:18āam |

| KNIJÄ: TWO WEEKS, TWO DAĀYS OLD |

We cannot take it anymore. Knijä’s birth is now public knowledge, this information now synced into everyone’s U-feed and U-calendar. People are beginning to show up at our entrance. Immediate family, friends and co-workers have U-mailed, U-called and arrived at our home lot, yet we have not let a soeūl in. Those in our inner circle are beginning to grow suspicious.

Knijä was everything we wished for at first. Gleaming blū eyes and a bare scalp that would eventually fill with the shimmer of blonde hair. She was meant to be passive and quiet. Yet in a few short daāys Knijä is a mere shadow of what she was in the Receiving Room.

We cannot allow anyone to see her, no matter how much we wish we could show her off to the whole of Metravā. In the darkest, deepest, most secretive place in my braāin I cannot help but think something is wrong with Knijä. I feel it every time I look at her.

She is not like us.

Anxiety begins to boil within meē as I feel an advert pulse. “Try AntiNeg-Thought Medīcation todaāy as a supplement with your First Meal! U-mans do not think negatively, so you should not think negatively either!”

The advert is splattered up in front of meē in distracting pixels, startling meē as I end my conversation with Dr. Singkū.

“She should be over shortly,” I explain to Noeāl as he holds Knijä, his arms wrapped around her protectively.

“You should not think that way,” he cautions.

“I know.” I pinch the pixels so that they disappear into the air like a film of popped bubbles. “Parents are not usually challenged like this, Noeāl.”

He looks as if he is about to say something, however his stare just lingers in the room.

“U-chip: music, home playlist,” I command. A soft background of music instantly drifts throughout the room from the Home Receivers in our multīspace.

I allow the comforting Synthetī music to wrap around meē like a soft embrace. I cocoon myself in this as I try to not let my mīnd wander to darker territory. Remember what we were taught in edūcation, I tell myself. Do not think differently and do not be different. There is no ‘U’ in conformity.

Suddenly my U-chip pings with a notify from the home lot, letting meē know that someone is at our door. “Noeāl,” I call out as I make my way to the front entrance.

“Doctor,” I greet in the most neutral tone that I can manage.

“Do not worry, Mrs. Tāu,” she says with the oddest twinkle in her eye. “I am here to explain as much as I can.”

–

| EXTRACTED FROM NEĒREĒ TĀU /

HOME LOT 2807 OF 81SUB / 30.8.3433 / 7:21āam |

Moments later, we are sitting in front of her in our multīspace, Knijä on Noeāl’s lap and tall glasses of Waterlite in front of us. Dr. Singkū inspects our daughter, nods and looks us both in the eyes.

“I need to turn off your U-chips before we can talk any further,” she almost mouths.

“Turn off?” Noeāl asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Not so loud,” she urges him. “Command the Receivers in your ears and home lot to turn off and then put out your wrists.”

I look at my husband, meeting his stare, both of us knowing we have no choice. What else are we to do in this circumstance? We both talk into our U-chips, commanding the Receivers in our ears as well as the Receivers in our home lot that connect to our U-chips to turn off. We put out our left wrists and Dr. Singkū presses down on them both firmly. Our U-chips pulse after a moment, notīfying us of their shutdown. They then remain silent.

It takes a moment to realise the difference, the absence of the constant hum of the U-chip operating throughout my body. I feel cold. Indifferent and incomplete. I reflect back to when I first woke in the Begin Centre of 81Sub Memorial. My mīnd feels clearer and free, almost as if someone has unhinged a wiring or has lifted a roof off my braāin.

“I feel strange,” Noeāl admits out loud. “Everything seems too—”

“Sharp?” Dr. Singkū asks. “Clear? Unfiltered.”

“Yes,” we both say at the same time, and I look at my husband in a knowing gaze.

“Well then,” she looks to the right and a strange sound echoes from the entrance, almost as if she was waiting for it.

“A knock,” she explains. “U-mans do not knock, they notīfy their arrival.”

“What is a knock?” I ask.

“It is the sound of a knuckle rapping on a surface, something that would put our perfect skin at risk,” the doctor says with a grate to her voice. “There will be a package at the door for you.”

“What is inside?” Noeāl asks, intrigue filling his face.

“Everything you need,” she explains, leaning over the table and wrapping her fingers around our daughter’s tiny hand, “for little Knijä to blend in.”

The Cure will be published in full on Monday the 15th of August.
The Cure is written by J. R Knight, illustrated by Paul Ikin and edited by Kayla Marie Murphy.
The first 15 instalments of The Cure will be published week by week on The Knight Life. This chapter is in two parts, and the next instalment (Delivery Part Two) will continue this Thursday.
Please show your support by sharing The Cure and subscribing to The Knight Life. Enter in your email via the right hand side for desktop users, scroll down for mobile/table users.

The Cure, 05.1: A Delivery Part One

|05.1|

DELIVERY

PART ONE

| EXTRACTED FROM NEĒREĒ TĀU /

HOME LOT 2807 OF 81SUB / 30.8.3433 / 7:18āam |

| KNIJÄ: TWO WEEKS, TWO DAĀYS OLD |

We cannot take it anymore. Knijä’s birth is now public knowledge, this information now synced into everyone’s U-feed and U-calendar. People are beginning to show up at our entrance. Immediate family, friends and co-workers have U-mailed, U-called and arrived at our home lot, yet we have not let a soeūl in. Those in our inner circle are beginning to grow suspicious.

Knijä was everything we wished for at first. Gleaming blū eyes and a bare scalp that would eventually fill with the shimmer of blonde hair. She was meant to be passive and quiet. Yet in a few short daāys Knijä is a mere shadow of what she was in the Receiving Room.

We cannot allow anyone to see her, no matter how much we wish we could show her off to the whole of Metravā. In the darkest, deepest, most secretive place in my braāin I cannot help but think something is wrong with Knijä. I feel it every time I look at her.

She is not like us.

Anxiety begins to boil within meē as I feel an advert pulse. “Try AntiNeg-Thought Medīcation todaāy as a supplement with your First Meal! U-mans do not think negatively, so you should not think negatively either!”

The advert is splattered up in front of meē in distracting pixels, startling meē as I end my conversation with Dr. Singkū.

“She should be over shortly,” I explain to Noeāl as he holds Knijä, his arms wrapped around her protectively.

“You should not think that way,” he cautions.

“I know.” I pinch the pixels so that they disappear into the air like a film of popped bubbles. “Parents are not usually challenged like this, Noeāl.”

He looks as if he is about to say something, however his stare just lingers in the room.

“U-chip: music, home playlist,” I command. A soft background of music instantly drifts throughout the room from the Home Receivers in our multīspace.

I allow the comforting Synthetī music to wrap around meē like a soft embrace. I cocoon myself in this as I try to not let my mīnd wander to darker territory. Remember what we were taught in edūcation, I tell myself. Do not think differently and do not be different. There is no ‘U’ in conformity.

Suddenly my U-chip pings with a notify from the home lot, letting meē know that someone is at our door. “Noeāl,” I call out as I make my way to the front entrance.

“Doctor,” I greet in the most neutral tone that I can manage.

“Do not worry, Mrs. Tāu,” she says with the oddest twinkle in her eye. “I am here to explain as much as I can.”

–

| EXTRACTED FROM NEĒREĒ TĀU /

HOME LOT 2807 OF 81SUB / 30.8.3433 / 7:21āam |

Moments later, we are sitting in front of her in our multīspace, Knijä on Noeāl’s lap and tall glasses of Waterlite in front of us. Dr. Singkū inspects our daughter, nods and looks us both in the eyes.

“I need to turn off your U-chips before we can talk any further,” she almost mouths.

“Turn off?” Noeāl asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Not so loud,” she urges him. “Command the Receivers in your ears and home lot to turn off and then put out your wrists.”

I look at my husband, meeting his stare, both of us knowing we have no choice. What else are we to do in this circumstance? We both talk into our U-chips, commanding the Receivers in our ears as well as the Receivers in our home lot that connect to our U-chips to turn off. We put out our left wrists and Dr. Singkū presses down on them both firmly. Our U-chips pulse after a moment, notīfying us of their shutdown. They then remain silent.

It takes a moment to realise the difference, the absence of the constant hum of the U-chip operating throughout my body. I feel cold. Indifferent and incomplete. I reflect back to when I first woke in the Begin Centre of 81Sub Memorial. My mīnd feels clearer and free, almost as if someone has unhinged a wiring or has lifted a roof off my braāin.

“I feel strange,” Noeāl admits out loud. “Everything seems too—”

“Sharp?” Dr. Singkū asks. “Clear? Unfiltered.”

“Yes,” we both say at the same time, and I look at my husband in a knowing gaze.

“Well then,” she looks to the right and a strange sound echoes from the entrance, almost as if she was waiting for it.

“A knock,” she explains. “U-mans do not knock, they notīfy their arrival.”

“What is a knock?” I ask.

“It is the sound of a knuckle rapping on a surface, something that would put our perfect skin at risk,” the doctor says with a grate to her voice. “There will be a package at the door for you.”

“What is inside?” Noeāl asks, intrigue filling his face.

“Everything you need,” she explains, leaning over the table and wrapping her fingers around our daughter’s tiny hand, “for little Knijä to blend in.”

The Cure will be published in full on Monday the 15th of August.
The Cure is written by J. R Knight, illustrated by Paul Ikin and edited by Kayla Marie Murphy.
The first 15 instalments of The Cure will be published week by week on The Knight Life. This chapter is in two parts, and the next instalment (Delivery Part Two) will continue this Thursday.
Please show your support by sharing The Cure and subscribing to The Knight Life. Enter in your email via the right hand side for desktop users, scroll down for mobile/table users.

The Cure, 04: Mask

|04|

MASK  

| EXTRACTED FROM DR. SÅVJE SINGKŪ /

81SUB MEMORIAL / 30.08.3433 / 7:12āam |

It has not taken long for the Tāus to undercover the truth: that I incorrectly fused their daughter’s U-chip. I sit in front of my first patient for the daāy. I have just extracted her baby from her stomach. The little boy is beside meē in a temporary Medī Cot, complete with dangling ornaments to naturally pacify it from crying as I receive the notīfy that I have a call from Mrs. Tāu.

“Goodgoodmorning, Mrs. Tāu,” I answer, tapping the ‘accept’ button.

“I apologise sincerely for this unplanned call,” Mrs. Tāu whispers into my Receiver. “May we speak privately for a moment?”

“Nothing is private,” I warn her, the pressure in my voice suggests I know that she wants to tell meē something, but that it should not be discussed through this transmission. “Perhaps there was an issue with the U-file that I sent you.”

It takes Mrs. Tāu a small moment of reflection to understand.

“Yes, Doctor, the U-file,” her voice inflects, going so hoarse that I struggle to grasp what she tells meē. “The U-file, Doctor, is not like the other U-files that others have been given.”

I consider what could be happening to the Tāus, my braāin growing eager in thought. The curiosity gets the better of meē and I cannot help but ask, “What does your U-file look like, Mrs. Tāu?”

“What does it look like?” Her mīnd clicks like predictable padlocks. “Doctor, this U-file looks different to the other U-files out there.”

“Different how?” I press forward.

She thinks again before answering, “The font is similar to the other U-files, but there are distinct differences.”

“I see,” I say clearly as I press my wrist to a tiny little metal box, the latch snapping open. “Well then, I best be over just this once to ensure that your U-file is in order.”

“Yes, please hurry, Doctor,” Mrs. Tāu urges. “You are the only one who we both trust.”

“I understand perfectly,” I affirm her. “I will just perform this fusing and then I will be there.”

“Of course, Dr. Singkū,” Mrs. Tāu politely replies. I imagine her nodding her head on the other end of the transmission. “We will U-mail you our address.”

“I will see you shortly.

The transmission ends and I instantly command my U-chip to make another call. “U-chip: contact Base Camp.” Not a second longer, a voice speaks into my Receiver.

“Såvje?” they ask meē. “I have secured this transmission. Peār cannot hear us.”

“They have finally made contact,” I inform my colleague. “They wish for my advice and for meē to go to them.”

“Wonderful,” their voice softens from an unsettled ambivalence to sincere warmth as I reach for the surgical pliers with my gloved hands. “Then, as instructed, we must arrange for the touchable packages to be sent. We can only have you visit them once, otherwise Peār will become suspicious.”           “Yes, of course.” My mīnd briefly trails off as I use the pliers to pick up the tiny little U-chip that will now be fused into the small baby beside meē.

The baby in question is of dark skin, with a small tuff of black hair on his scalp and an undisputed soured grimace wrinkling his face. I allow the little thing to emit a tiny cry as my mīnd flashes back to the tragedy that led meē to the organisation that I am a part of. It flashes throughout my braāin like an emergencī advert.

–

| EXTRACTED FROM DR. SÅVJE SINGKŪ /

HOME LOT 4402 OF 27SUB / 12.3.3422 / 10:37ppm |

I stand over them, their U-chips removed. I see them for who they truly are for the briefest moments. The very moment I uncover the truth, the walls around us explode. I fall from the impact and Nitrobullets fire, my ears bleeding from the sheer sound of their noise. Blū blood and anguish splatter all over meē. They are dead. Dead at the hands of Peār.

–

| EXTRACTED FROM DR. SÅVJE SINGKŪ /

81SUB MEMORIAL / 30.8.3433 / 7:16āam |

If I were not U-man the emotion brought on by the flashback would have meē crying. Yet, in order to truly overthrow the corruption in Metravā, I must somewhat blend in.

“Knijä,” I say to myself like an affirmation as I take the U-chip and hover it over the little wrist of the baby in front of meē who looks as if he is seconds from erupting in a fit of Waterlite.

As the little child opens his lungs to belt out an eruption of protests, the U-chip attaches to his skin and any noises he was about to make are masked.

“The Synthetī nūrons are now attaching to every particle of who you were meant to be,” I explain to the baby as I do to every baby that I have fused, bar Knijä. “You may be masked for now, little one,” I watch as his skin turns from the darkest shade of brown to the lightest shade of cream in front of meē, “but you will not be masked for long.”

The Cure will be published in full on Monday the 15th of August.
The Cure is written by J. R Knight, illustrated by Paul Ikin and edited by Kayla Marie Murphy.
The first 15 instalments of The Cure will be published week by week on The Knight Life. The next instalment will continue next Monday.
Please show your support by sharing The Cure and subscribing to The Knight Life. Enter in your email via the right hand side for desktop users, scroll down for mobile/table users.

The Cure, 03: Behind The Curtain

|03|

| EXTRACTED FROM NOEĀL TĀU /

COMMERCIAL LOT 215 OF 81SUB / 29.8.3433/ 1:08ppm |

| KNIJÄ: TWO WEEKS, ONE DAĀY OLD |

I am afraid to admit this to myself, however I feel as if I have no other choice. The past two weeks have been the most challenging weeks of my life for reasons that I cannot even comprehend. It began with that strange sound. My wife and I were having the first late meal after the birth of our wonderful new daughter, Knijä. Since Neēreē and I discovered we were expecting, our heaārts have been filled with more fireworks than the usual program for the night sky on the eve of Newnew year. As we began sipping our Nutrī, we heard it – it was an eerie sound, like an alarm or siren. It was not something we had ever heard before, but it is something that we have come to know well in the last two weeks.

That first night when we entered Knijä’s room, we came upon our new little girl wide eyed, her face turning a shade of red in distress. We instantly drew the curtains closed, turned the audio Receivers in the home lot off and crouched down beside our child.

“We must call emergencī!” Neēreē insisted, petrified.

“It will go down on our U-record, my dear, and hers! We must think of something else. We must be smarter!”

I sit now, recalling the memorī as my mīnd scrolls through the details as if I am scrolling through my U-feed. My body swells with nervousness. Peār, the global company that dominates all of Metravā and its individual subs, are not subtle in their message: there is no U in conformity.

“Maybe pick her up,” I suggested. “Maybe she is restless.”

“Why would she be? Her U-chip should be pacifying her.” Neēreē pressed Knijä’s U-chip and tiny little pixels blasted into the air. “Did they program it accurately?”

“They must have,” I assured her. “Here, look through her U-bar.” We quickly swiped through Knijä’s U-bar which outlines everything from her medī details, her stored and recorded data, her certificates, her personal currencī, official docūments and her U-media accounts which will eventually be for her own use when she comes of age. “Everything looks in order.” I swiped again, before pushing it away, the pixels dissolving in the air. “We cannot call the emerencī or Peār Protocols.”

“They will report it to Peār,” Neēreē murmured, and after realising the gravity of the situation, she picked up our new little daughter, the sounds escaping her lulling moments later. We stayed silent as we tried to make the connection as to why she stopped crying.

“She just wants to be held,” I said in an-almost whisper.

I recall all of this on this bright daāy. It is Mon1daāy, the first daāy of the week. In front of meē, Knijä sleeps in her Portable Pod as the saān shines down on us. The occasional park-goer either strolls or runs past us with a warm and faithful hihi, some even stopping to admire or congratulate meē on my new child. However, I keep a thick blanket covering my daughter, anxiety flooding through meē whenever anyone asks to see her.

The differences are barely noticeable but people will notice and talk sooner or later. I get up and begin making our way back to our home lot, the faint backdrop of Metravā City in the far distance remīnding meē of its authority. It has been very difficult for Neēreē and I, neither of us really knowing what to do, taking best-guesses as we go. Many people have asked to come over, to see Knijä and to celebrate our happy and healthy new baby daughter. Knijä is all of these things though, I think to myself as I open the entrance to 2807. She is just different too.

I wheel my daughter’s Portable Pod into her room and shut the curtains, the removal of the saānlight making the room disconcertingly cold and unnerving.

“Do not worry, my wonderful little daughter,” I say to her as I remove the blanket that conceals the truth. “We will somehow manage to get through this.”

I lift Knijä up to my chest and inspect her differences. My daughter has grown very quickly in the past two weeks. She is unlike anything I have ever seen. At first she had blū eyes and a bare head, just like any other newborn. Yet now, she has brown curling hair that spirals from her scalp, dark almost-wood-like eyes and the most unusual patterns that cover her palms and the tips of her fingers.

“I still love you,” I say to her as she looks up at meē with a mischievous smile. “I love you even though I know deep down that you are not U-man.”

The Cure will be published in full on Monday the 15th of August.
The Cure is written by J. R Knight, illustrated by Paul Ikin and edited by Kayla Marie Murphy.
The first 15 instalments of The Cure will be published week by week on The Knight Life. The next instalment will continue next Monday.
Please show your support by sharing The Cure and subscribing to The Knight Life. Enter in your email via the right hand side for desktop users, scroll down for mobile/table users.

The Cure, 02: The Unusual Sound

|02|



THE UNUSUAL SOUND

| EXTRACTED FROM NEĒREĒ TĀU

/ 81SUB MEMORIAL / 14.08.3433 / 10:04āam |

It is the most bizarre feeling, to have been unconscious. My eyes have never been closed for so long and my body has never felt the feeling of lying on a flat surface. As reminded by Peār, syncing and annual updates prevent my body from needing ‘rest.’ It is a word that is unusual and foreign to meē and I feel unsettled whenever I utter it. Yet, I have just rested and it is all so odd.

I remember when my doctor scheduled my birthing procedure and the U-file that synced into my U-chip the next daāy. It explained the Begin Station as well as the birthing procedure and how it is the most extraordinary of operations that can ever be performed. The document then explained that in order to keep the process of life and the true nature of who we are sacred, I, the mother, must be ‘asleep.’

It is as if I was weightless and swimming in a black abyss. I could not feel anything. And suddenly, all my senses began to slowly reform. Memories, thoughts and feelings began to brighten in my mīnd like a recharged Lite Plant and I could finally open my eyes again.

Sleep. It feels wrong and has left meē uneasy. How would I be able to answer my U-mail, check my U-accounts or scroll for any updates if I am ‘asleep’? I am glad that I was not ‘resting’ for long.

“Goodgoodmorning, Mrs. Tāu,” a cool female voice says over meē. “Your operation was a success. You are now the owner of a healthy baby girl.”

My eyes adjust and I look up at the nurse who has a neat little eight printed on her shirt. “Thankthankyou, Nurse Eight,” I say, my voice a little weaker than I would like.

“Do not worry, Mrs. Tāu. We will inject you with Recoverī Fluid and you will instantly feel better,” she says as if she can read my mind. “Dr. Singkū will be with you shortly. Please feel free to turn on your U-chip and respond to any pressing matters until that time.”

I nod at Nurse Eight and she promptly leaves the room. I sit up and begin to examine the changes that have occurred to meē. Firstly, the most notable difference is the removal of the small child that was inside my stomach. I now feel detached from my child and this knowledge spreads sorrow like unwanted serum throughout my body and braāin. In response, I wait in expectation for an advert for AntiNeg-Thought Medīcation, however my U-chip remains silent. I bring my inner wrist up and press my U-chip. Odd, they must have turned it off during my procedure. I have silenced my U-chip during mandatory period or reflect periods, but my U-chip has never been off. Upon my touch, I feel my U-chip pulse and I welcome the warm feeling of its presence. It saturates my body and instantly changes my entire being.

“Mrs. Tāu.” Dr. Singkū walks into the room with a vial of crystal blū liquid. “How do you feel?”

“Odd, if I am honest,” I reveal, trying to sit up. “Is this to be expected?”

“Very much so.” She sits beside meē. “However, this dose of Recoverī Fluid will revitalise you to full health. Birthing can wear on a female U-man and deplete them of their charge. But with one generous dose of this,” she taps the vial, “you will instantly feel as if no procedure has occurred at all.”

“Very well,” I nod.

“We turned your U-chip off for the procedure. Like falling unconscious, the deactivation of your U-chip is among the many firsts that you would have experienced todaāy.”

“Yes, yes it is all quite odd,” I admit again as I click open my U-chip. As information syncs, several notifys ping in the left hand corner of my screen and spread out in front of the doctor and I. I already feel anxious at the looming notifys that I have missed.

“Do you have any questions, queries or concerns?” Dr. Singkū asks whilst the Recoverī Fluid is poured into a clear tube that connects to my bloodstream.

As the liquid enters my body, I feel as if I am being cleansed with the purest Waterlite. It radiates throughout my body, erases any form of doubt, insecurity or negativity. It heals all of the discomfort and wipes the exhaustion away. I feel unproductive lying on a flat surface. Any prior feelings of sadness are evaporated by the elation I now experience by the birth of my new daughter. I smile appreciatively at Dr. Singkū and shake my head.

“Not at all, Doctor. I feel much better. Thankthankyou.”

“Of course, my pleasure.”

“When can I meet my daughter?” I ask, excitement rising though meē like a golden beam of warm light that has bloomed inside my heaārt.

“Your healthy baby daughter is just getting cleaned, scanned and processed. You will be able to receive her in the Receiving Room momentarily with your husband.”

I nod at the doctor happily and notice that she stares in my eyes a second longer than normal before excusing herself from the room politely.

 

–

| EXTRACTED FROM NEĒREĒ TĀU

/ 81SUB MEMORIAL / 14.08.3433 / 10:31āam |

It is a beautiful daāy when I step out of the Begin Room and into the commercial space of 81Sub Memorial. I briefly recall my last visit to 81Sub Memorial. It was when my faāther was scheduled to cease and had entered the End Station. My maāther’s time was just weeks before him.

Ceasing is as natural as birthing, but the End Station is not as celebrated. It is a daāy of memorial and a daāy of saying farefarewell. I remember waving to my faāther as he disappeared on the conveyor belt, and in one multīsecond he was gone.

My mood dims. This thought pattern is not one I usually want to feel and, like a ping of new updates that have been downloaded into my braāin, happiness and serenity for this moment quickly replace it.

“Neēreē!”

My husband, Noeāl, stands smiling under the Medī-Screens that depict the rooms, patients and current occurring operations. In the many years that we have been together it is as if he has not aged. He is the perfect man according to everything I learned during my edūcation. Trimmed blonde hair slightly parted at the side, strong broad shoulders, a sharp jaw line that frames a close shave and an even, healthy skin tone. Striking blū eyes, thick lips, curved eyelashes and a straight, even nose. I quickly walk over and wrap my arms around him.

“How are you? How is our little daughter?” he asks passionately, knowing from the regular assessments taken prior to the birth the sex of our child.

“Waiting for us,” I say with pleasure.

“Are you okay? How did it feel to be asleep?”

“Unusual. It was odd not being in control,” I remark, but then I smile enthusiastically at him. “Let us go the Receiving Room and wait, shall we?”

–

| EXTRACTED FROM NEĒREĒ TĀU

/ 81SUB MEMORIAL / 14.08.3433 / 10:35āam |

The Receiving Room is heavily armed by Peār Protocols, something that we were forewarned about but still takes meē off guard. They walk up and down, glancing at anyone and everyone suspiciously. Nurse Eight guides Noeāl and I to the conveyor belt where we both press our U-chips into two indents of metal. Barely a moment later, there she is. Our little baby daughter with her U-Chip already fused onto her tiny little wrist. We touch her U-chip with both our left index fingers and it lights up for the first time.

Name:

We settled on her name the daāy before and we type it in to complete her birth certificate file. Knijä.

I scoop her up and into my arms, Noeāl wrapping his arms around meē. She smells light and clean, like soft Fabrī and Baby Cleanse. Her tiny little glossy eyes look up at meē. My body is pinging inside and a warmness trickles deliciously throughout my body.

“She is perfect,” I put a finger out to stroke her cheek, and she takes it and hold onto it tight. I gasp from this movement and a light chuckle leaves my lips.

After receiving her welcome package via U-file to both of our U-mails, we say our final farefarewell to Dr. Singkū and Nurse Eight before transporting ourselves home via our private Navīgator. As the Navīgator independently speeds along a minor transit lane, several advertī suggest appropriate products to buy.

“Congratulations on your new U-man! Open your U-shop now to begin blending your child in todaāy!”

“There are so many things to purchase,” Noeāl comments enthusiastically as home and commercial lots fly past us. He opens up his U-shop on his U-chip and advertī pop up recommending infant products for us to buy and informing us of what colours are in fashion in our sub.

After settling back into our home lot, Noeāl orders and processes all of the essential items we have not yet bought for Knijä, marking them for delivery, whilst I settle her into her new crib.

Having been given the temporary approval for switching his daāy mandatory for nīght mandatory due to Knijä’s birth, Noeāl and I decide to consume late meal together after our U-chips ping with a remīnder for us to eat.

I scan my U-chip under the Nutrī Dispenser and a smaller portion box of Nutrī than I am used to drops from the consume box and falls into the delivery tray.

“Well, it appears as if I am back to my normal late meal,” I say to Noeāl, having had significantly larger portions of different tasting Nutrī whilst I was gestating.

We peel back the clear film off our late meal boxes and lift the thick pale orange liquid to our lips. It tastes of citrī, orangī’s and leīmon. After a few moments of soft conversation, the most unusual sound interrupts us.

At first I think it is a bizarre new advert that has spluttered to life but, after a moment of adjusting, both Noeāl and I realise that it is coming from Knijä’s room.

Racing to her and to her cot, we see her mouth wide open and her tiny little hands curled into fists.

“What on Metravā is coming from her mouth?” Noeāl asks with a gasp.

I try to find the words as our little girl continues to emit the sound.

“I am not sure. But, maybe—” I look to him and my eyes widen. “I think,” I stutter, pausing in reluctance, “I think she is alarming?”

 

 

The Cure will be published in full on Monday the 15th of August.
The Cure is written by J. R Knight, illustrated by Paul Ikin and edited by Kayla Marie Murphy.
The first 15 instalments of The Cure will be published week by week on The Knight Life. The next instalment will continue next Monday.
Please show your support by sharing The Cure and subscribing to The Knight Life. Enter in your email via the right hand side for desktop users, scroll down for mobile/table users.