Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. It is a draft; there are mistakes, many misspellings and sometimes long periods of no updates. copyright: ion fyr 2025
When the time came for Pool to depart–he felt more adrift than when he was abandoned on the island, surrounded by seas hungry with the beasts of the depths–he went along passively, following the lead of Philoctetes.
Pool had on the uncomfortablely alien clothing, not that he experienced any discomfort; he was merely unused to the texture and feel of the fabric, and felt that the nature of the material, which he supposed was synthetic, made his skin crawl.
Along with the stack that Philoctetes had presented to him, he made used of Nila’s black raincoat. It was somewhat too small for his frame, but Pool felt the hood might come in useful.
The anthromorph had returned from one of its expeditions, returning after several hours with a box of steaming noodles with bits of an entirely bland and squeeky cheese-like substance. He was unwilling to ask what manner of milk it was made with, but the noodles were curried and contained bits of entwined green vegetable matter.
While Pool was struggling with the plastic sticks, each bite taking three or more attempts, he watched with suspicion as Philoctetes ready a strange device that for Pool resembled a pistol, but had none of the requisite parts.
It was unlike his own, missing revolver, and did not in the least resemble any of the handguns that he had seen Nila use.
“Say, Philoctetes, what is that you are fiddling with over there?”
“Constable Pool, this is a subdermal injector. You will need to be chipped in order to travel outside of this city. It will also aid you with any necessary payments if something happens to me on our journey.”
Pool recoiled at the suggestion that he would be “chipped”, trying to imagine how any sort of gob of flesh would suffice as payment. He considered (rather quickly) that as Nila, nor anyone else he had seen from the window, was missing bits, that he must be mistaken about the meaning.
Perhaps sensing his confusion, after a moment, Philoctetes explained in more detail. “In this time period, all adults are embedded with a microscopic reactive identity chip. These are typically placed under the skin and once the incision heals, are hardly noticable, or so I’m told.”
“The chip contains identifying information, including your name, official residence, social contract and ranking, which is commonly abreviated to SCR and idiomatically called ‘score’, as well as consumer credits.”
“I took the liberty of creating an identity for you.”
Aristo Pool Tagore, 87262aa7 Londbridge District, Bretan Management Zone; SCR 4; CC 367.721
It all sounded arcane to Pool as Philoctetes intoned the information. “You made me a relative of Ms Tagore?”
“Yes, so as to not arouse suspicion. These devices also generally allow for retroactive tracking, and because you have been staying in her flat here, if you were to be questioned, being her cousin would allay some of that suspicion if the authorities did not pursue the matter too deeply. I have not created a genealogy linking you at this moment, but if you desire it I can update the chip a later time.”
“A social rank of four, you say? Is that good?”
“It is not ‘good’. However, neither is it ‘bad’. A SCR of 0 would designate a human as a criminal element. A SCR of 5 is consistent with a lower level laborer, with no obvious infractions and coincide with the credits available to you for your presumed long distance vacation to Singhapolis. Travel is prohibited beyond district boundaries for SCRs of 1 or 2, and 3s and 4s are limited to their own native Management Zone.”
Pool’s head was spinning from all of the new information and noodles had slipped again from the grasp of the plastic sticks that he was clinging too like a pair of pencils.
“I suggest you stay out of unnecessary trouble.”
“Do not worry about that. I have years of experience acting within the bounds of the law.”
“Having the chip itself is necessary for travel, but if our ruse is discovered, your SCR would drop by at least 2 ranks.”
Pool thought about that for a while, his respect for Nila’s wiliness grew, knowing now what she had to put up with just living here.
“I chose a name that is close enough to your birth name so as to make it easy for you to remember. I could not use the entire name, however, because that might ping historical records.”
Without warning, when Pool had finished his noodles, Philoctetes took his right hand, and placing the chip “Injector” up to the back of his hand, stung him with it. The pain soon subsided, it was very much like the sting of a bee.
Ion Fyr 