Episode 1 - The Beam

be able to sit in a chair beside a canvas and feel themselves fully somewhere else. With a snicker, Doc’s mind immediately drifted to the applications in immersive porn. Just imagine the filthy knots into which fetishists could twist themselves when those new tricks came on board.
    And that was just the stuff he’d seen. His new, unauthorized knowledge didn’t include the other devices Doc had seen around the lab — items Killian hadn’t had time to tell him about before they’d been interrupted. Some of those things had looked like weapons. Others had looked like spare body parts. The human arm hanging on the wall… what could it do? Could it shoot deadly rays like in old movies about the future? Could it punch a hole in Plasteel? Could it disrupt the life energy of anyone it touched, thus making it a hand of death? There was no way to know.
    In the lab, Killian’s eyes had been panicked when he’d realized his mistake. The guard had advanced. A few minutes later, another two guards had entered and Doc had found himself surrounded. He hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d raised his hands. Killian, regaining his composure, had then laughed and told Doc that there had been a mistake, but that he wasn’t in Nazi Germany. Killian had smiled wide and waved the guards away, chastising them for giving their guest the wrong impression. But Killian, Doc noticed, still hadn’t unlocked the door, or told the armed men to leave.
    “I’m so sorry, Mr. Stahl,” Killian had told him. “We seem to have made an unfortunate mistake.”
    “Hmm,” Doc replied, noncommittal.
    “Fortunately, our gaffe is reversible.”
    Doc had looked at the guards, his eyes wary. He was usually cool and in control, always smooth and often sarcastic — a sometimes-cocky asshole. But as he’d eyed the guards and their weapons (a sort he hadn’t seen before), Doc felt his usual persona melt away. He stood in the middle of the room unable to move.
    “Oh, please,” said Killian, laughing. “What is this, a standoff?”
    “I don’t know,” said Doc. “Is it?”
    “Of course not,” said Killian. “You’re one of our best salesmen.” But he was merely mouthing the words. Killian hadn’t even known who he was, and still didn’t.
    “Hmm,” Doc repeated. His arms had raised slightly from his sides when the guards had approached, even after he’d lowered them from over his head. He looked like a man about to sprint, once he determined the correct direction in which to run.
    “But I hope you understand,” said Killian, “these upgrades are for a client who demands high levels of discretion.” But that, too, was bullshit. Doc, who was well-steeped in the art of bullshit, knew bullshit when he heard it. What he was seeing wasn’t a custom order. It was a product line. This wasn’t all for one company or person; it was for a whole class of people — a class that Doc, while well-off, wasn’t elite enough to represent. What he was seeing represented a widening of the gap. Doc thought, The rich get richer .
    “Uh-huh,” he said.
    “So… and this is awkward, I know… we can’t allow you to remember these items. For the client’s privacy, you understand.”
    “I see,” said Doc. And now, he did see. They were going to wipe his memory. They wouldn’t have a Gauss Chamber, because this was a lab, not a hospital. Wholesale erasure wouldn’t be necessary, anyway. They’d use a hand unit. Doc would lose the last fifteen minutes, and would later find himself unsure whether he’d seen any new wares this week or not. He’d probably call Nero on Monday and ask for a new appointment. Nero, duly briefed, would play along.
    And so he’d told Killian that he understood, and he’d allowed Killian to wave him clean. Afterward, he’d affected the vacant, vaguely optimistic expression appropriate to a fresh wipe while a tech ran a small sensor above his long blond hair. The tech had declared him current as of approximately the time he’d been in the bathroom washing his face. Then Killian had led him out without hurry, knowing that Doc’s ability to form new memories would be impaired for several more minutes. He’d told him that there was nothing new this week, and had suggested Doc call Mr. Nero on Monday. Doc had thanked him, gone back down to the street, and had hailed a cab. He’d gotten the same cabbie as before. The cabbie had jerked the cab at every stoplight, nearly causing Doc to plow his face into the