Quick Byte Cafe

He tapped the PAUSE button and smiled. “I can wait.” 

“Why?” asked the barista, waving a menu at Phil. 

Phil clarified. “He should be here any minute.” 

“Who should?” 

“My friend—Joe.”

“Oh,” the moody scarecrow snickered, “a friend.” 

“Yeah.”

After adjusting a puffy gray scarf, the inquisitor and sole employee at QBC scowled. “Well, take your time.” 

“Thanks, I will.” 

“My name is Charles, by the way,” the barista announced. Two bloodshot eyes rolled dramatically and a bony finger pointed to a nametag that read: Waitron_Barista_TeamLead #QBC. “It just doesn't fit on the tag. But you should know that. You are here enough.”  

Phil confirmed he knew but silently wished the place was like it used to be, pre-Charles. And, of course, there was no need to rush; it was a ghost town. Just two other people sat in the corner. They were staring out the front window where an oversized unlit neon sign hung next to a tiny menu. 

The increasingly popular “Ten’s-Retro-Digitalist” style (coined by some self-identified juveniles as TRDs) harked back to the Terrific Twenty Tens. Phil was only a kid during that decade but often reminisced about those simpler times. Although the vintage sign and period-correct decor looked great when lit, that was rare. Electricity had to be rationed and remained unreliable since the Grid Decentralization Project. 

However, Phil always tried to see the hourglass as half full. 

Thanks to the United Republic’s (UR) robust satellite initiative, connectivity was better than ever. But as Phil buttoned his coat, he realized it was impossible to ignore the drawbacks of allocating the majority of funds to UR’s Department of Data. The dim and chilly cafe was proof of crippling energy shortages and supply chain issues, sacrifices they’d have to make, supposedly.  

What else was new, he thought, vaguely remembering a much different—pathological—crisis as a teenager. 

Phil heard a distant “bone-chilling” complaint from the Quiet Corner and grinned. With headphones reinstated, he tapped PLAY. It was dreary, but Texas's transformed climate was likely permanent.

Better get used to it, he thought. 

Although Phil never admitted it, he didn't mind the temperature. Originally from a town in northern Vermont, Phil was a transplant (like most residents) and now lived near UR’s capital, a quarter mile south of Austin. It was a damn shame the East Coast was uninhabitable, radiation spreading all the way to the Mississippi. 

He suddenly missed lobster and maple syrup and home. 

Phil tried to forget the traumatic flashbacks as an unfamiliar Brit band sang about surviving an apocalypse. Captivated by a few uncanny similarities, Phil was glad he had rescued the CD from the trash bin. Everyone else wanted to toss all analog junk, but then this wonderful music would’ve met the same fate as everything virtual.

Someone ran past the cafe at twice the speed of a marathon runner without enhancements. 

Phil laughed. All the delusional daredevil Hybroids were racing around, believing they were gods. He decided they were as vain and reckless as the Offliners. The only saving grace these days was that UR’s progressive President was a tech genius and entrepreneur who realized humanity's last hope was The Upgrade. Most referred to it by its developer’s name, which the President also co-founded: EternaLink. It was free (thanks to government subsidies), mandatory, and vastly superior to the corrupted yet widely adopted Legacy Implant (LI). 

The trending joke was that LI turned out to be a lie. 

However, EternaLink was the cure. And quite possibly the pinnacle of human evolution.  

Phil wanted to forget all these troublesome political and social dilemmas, so he tried increasing the volume and closing his eyes. The music soon reeled him into a distant—and somewhat enviable—time. Following the beat, his thumb knocked against the table, and his foot tapped the reclaimed vinyl floor. Phil was soon daydreaming about Karla and the kids, skiing, vacations to the lake, and spending Christmas in Boston. He occasionally wished The Virus (officially termed BitSiege) had taken him too. 

A loud thump derailed the bittersweet fantasy. 

“Philip!” 

He ripped off the headphones, turning to the door. 

“Phil, is that you?” 

“Joe!” Phil was smiling ear to ear, pointing at his friend. “My god,” he gasped, “I haven't seen you in what? Four years?”

Joe sat down. “Nice hat.”

Phil laughed. “It's wool. My dad’s.”

Joe looked the same except more scruffy. He planted both hands together, index fingers resting on his chin, elbows on the table. “Must be at least four years. What’s that then, Thirty-Nine?”

“Yeah,” corroborated Phil, struggling to count backward. Everything was a blur when crisis after crisis popped up every month. He focused on an outdated calendar on the wall next to a replica digital clock, though the correct year was 2043. 

Joe hated math and gave up. “Well, not since The Virus, anyway.”

The two triggering words instantly sucked any energy out of the room, but the barista had arrived to spare them from a brief—uncomfortable—silence.

“Hello, welcome to QBC. What can I get you?” He handed the new arrival a single-page menu. One side was a QR code; the other was handwritten. 

“Thanks, kid.” Joe held it two inches from his face, perplexed. 

“I’m Charles,” the barista corrected, eyes rolling at the error. “Flip it—the other side. You probably need the text. Not upgraded yet, right?”

Joe ignored the question, still squinting.

“Coffee, please,” Phil said.

After Joe spun the paper around five times like he was senile or blind, he simply said: “same.”

“Great.” The barista plucked the menu from Joe’s hand, about to mention something about a new type of pie.

But Joe abruptly made a request. “With a little sugar and cream, Charles.” He winked at Phil, who was in shock. 

The barista appeared ill. “Are you kidding?”  

Joe’s poker face was legendary. “Never mind. I just thought I’d try it for old-time’s sake. You know, nostalgia!”

The barista was unamused. “That’s what I thought—a comic. It was that or one of those Great Disposal nuts we’re supposed to report. What will they come up with next? That Aliens created BitSiege?”

Joe’s face tightened. He asked for the coffee to be scalding. “Kills the contaminates. Fucking battery pollution.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” 

The barista pretended to laugh. “Sure. Anything for Comic Joe.”

Joe clapped his hands together. “Guess I’m popular here, Phil. They know my name.”

Phil set his headphones down. “God, I thought you lost it. Fragmented or something.”  

“Might be, Phil. Nice CD player, by the way. I love actual music. Too bad they stopped producing it.” 

“Too bad The Cloud got wiped.”

“Tragic, right? They say it was mostly selfies and smut, though.”

Phil was trying to read his friend but wasn’t detecting a profile, assuming it was just LI glitching again. So he took a few guesses. “You grew a beard?”

“Yes.”

“Your vision is terrible now and LI acts up?”

“No, no. I just love messing with these strung-out suckers,” Joe explained, replicating the confused expression he flashed at the QR menu.

Phil grinned. “So what are you doing these days? Besides comedy.”

Joe crossed his burly arms, coat sleeves shortening to reveal tattoos. “Planning to get the hell out. Took a while, but I'm ready.”

“What? Are you serious?” Leaving the UR was suicide. The alternative was the enemy—the Eastern Republic (ER). Or, the unsafe and ungoverned pockets where Offliner rebels thrived. They allegedly drank oil, ate animals, and worshiped nature.   

“Well, it’s the only way to go, you know. I can’t live in this techno-slave world anymore. Bad enough we had to deal with the nukes, The War, and before that, all the toxic mining and acid rain. And the currency collapse.” 

Phil didn’t realize his friend was this political. Something about him had drastically changed. 

But Joe was merely taking a breather. “And the crypto terrorists, the Oil Scandal, the Solar Scam, and the Drought of Twenty-Eight. Then that foreign Virus that fucked up the Legacy Lie—what are they calling it, again?”

“BitSiege.”

“Yeah, BitSiege. Wiped half of us out, and now they want to give us a shiny new solution ...”  

“Hey!” interrupted Phil, his face turning red. He had to end this lunacy—it was all Error Speech, a serious crime. “That’s dangerous, Joe. We all need EternaLink. This was the last extension.”

“Sure. Well, I'll be long gone by then, buddy. Good luck with all that.”

“All what?”

“The Eterna-bullshit. The Upgrade. Just call it for what it is, Phil. I won't report you.” Joe pointed to the flustered barista, who was rambling about not getting adequate heat for the water. “Not sure I’d trust him, though.” 

Phil was jittery. “So what do you call it, Joe?”

Joe smiled. “Straight up evil.”

“Evil?”

Joe leaned closer, inches away now. “Just between you and me, I call it The Great Disposal.” He held up two fingers. “Part Two.”

Both men were silent for a while. Phil was reeling at the Error Speech exhibition, and Joe was scanning the rest of the room, presumably looking for undercover agents of the Chip Illuminati.

Eventually, Phil tried to restart the dialogue with a lighter—saner—subject because living through what conspiracists labeled “The Great Disposal” was challenging enough. He couldn’t imagine Part Two. “So, how are you feeling? Your health? We are lucky to be alive, Joe.”

“Yeah, not dead—that’s the important thing.”

“Yet,” Phil snapped. “You are probably on a watchlist, though.” 

Joe laughed. “A decent chance, right?” His voice transformed, imitating the President. “That’s why you need the upgrade.”

Phil’s tone dipped to a whisper. “You seriously refuse to get it?” 

“Even better.” Joe glanced around again before tugging back his hat and lengthy hair, revealing a scar. “I’m offline, buddy.”

Phil’s stomach flipped. This conversation just shifted from conspiracy to criminal. “Did you …”

“Cut the evil bastard out? You bet! About two weeks after my girlfriend died, I started seeing the light. She was a journalist, you know. Must have been considered a threat.”

The air felt colder, if possible. Before Phil could process all this unexpected idiocy, Joe snapped his hair and hat back as the barista returned with two cups of Imitation Coffee. 

“Here you go. Fifty Credits, please. Tax included.” The barista’s tone turned icy after a dramatic pause. “But gratuities are not.” 

Joe exhaled deeply—slyly holding the cup to his nose. “Organic?”

The barista was offended. “Damn, you know how to drive the knife in, don’t you?” He pivoted to Phil. “Is your so-called friend sick in the head?”

“No. Not anymore, kid,” muttered Joe.

Phil shrugged. 

The barista refocused on Joe. “My name is Charles. It just didn't fit on the tag. Stupid underscores take up all the space.”

Phil didn't appreciate Joe’s combativeness. “This is pretty good,” he interjected. But he winced after taking a sip. Phil was sick of everything being imitation or bootleg and could understand Joe's frustration at an elementary level, but that was it. The rest of his outlandish theories were way, way off. 

“Who's paying?” demanded the barista. 

Joe didn't say a word. 

Phil couldn't stop thinking about that scar. “I am,” he said, “and add ten for yourself.” 

The barista was relieved. “Thank the gods. Or whatever those rebels say.” He laughed at his own joke and held a neon, retro E-watch near Phil’s head until the signal was processed. “Got it,” he said, a little more upbeat. “Seems like it gets faster every day.” 

Joe looked distracted, still holding the coffee cup up to his nose. “Yeah, because souls fuel it.” 

The barista missed the provocative comment and mumbled something about deeply discounted pie. “Let me know if you change your mind,” he said, returning to the barstool. 

Joe’s frown was frozen, gaze distant; something was bothering him. “You’re telling me you still play their game? After all that we went through?”

“Well, what else can I do?” retorted Phil, perplexed.

Joe smacked his own head, wide-eyed. “That’s a start.”

The reminder was troubling. 

Joe finally sat the coffee down, spitting it back into the cup.

“That bad, huh?”

Joe agreed, but his mind was elsewhere. “Listen, Phil. Everything is changing. Everything is corrupted. You know that, right?”

“Ok.” 

“The world has gone to shit, and this utopian upgrade is killing us.”

Phil feared the police would show up any minute. “So you are going to live like that—offline?” 

“You say that like it’s a crime.”

“Yeah, it is. Starting December 1st.”

“Legality is subjective. What we did in Europe in Twenty-Three was a crime and it triggered all this.”

Phil snorted, prepared to leave. “Sure.”

Joe continued his lecture. “We should have learned from our mistakes. I did.” He pointed to his head again and winked. “You can't trust them. EternaLink is in bed with everyone. The ER funds it, just like they funded the group that hit us with The Vi—I mean, BitSiege.” 

“No, it was cyber terrorists.”

Joe was livid. “The same, buddy. They all work for—” His voice mimicked the President again. “That Cyber Stooge.”

Phil cringed at the callous label. After last year's election and the recent UR-ER Temp Truce, this was the most hopeful anyone had been in a decade. Besides, the polls showed dissent was statistically insignificant. Occasionally you heard of the fear-mongers who couldn’t accept facts—the rare zealot making the news who wound up canceled or reprogrammed or who renounced citizenship and ran away to join the Offliners. 

People like Joe. 

Phil coughed nervously. “We need unification more than ever. That’s what EternaLink is, Joe. It's hope, it’s … evolution.” 

Joe shook his head. “Do you believe all the propaganda?”

Phil’s repulsion was growing—so much for an amicable reunion. 

Joe grunted. “They want to unify, alright. And keep both sides fighting the other.”

“Why would they do that?”  

“Because fear is how they can control us. Besides, how can you trust any of them after this election?” 

Phil was considering calling this in, afraid he might look like an accomplice if he didn’t. He pointed angrily at his former friend. “You are insane. You are the problem, Joe.”

Joe grabbed Phil’s arm. “Hey, listen! I didn't mean to scare you.” 

Phil eased back into his seat, unconvinced. 

Joe slapped the table with both hands. “I think I want some of that pie. You want some?”

Phil said no but promised to stay if they talked about something else.

“Sure.” Joe waved his arm around. 

The barista perked up, bored with updating menus. “Oh, change your mind, Joe? You want pie?”

“Yeah, what is it again, Charles?”

“Banana. We call it Banana Byte.” 

“Real banana, right?”

The barista’s smugness dissolved. “Sure. Real banana, sugar, and cream. Are you aware of what’s happening in the world? I think I need to check your ID. I get a bad vibe about you, and I’m not detecting a profile, either. Legacy, right?”

“Not quite.” Joe stood up so quickly that no one had time to react. He pointed a small metallic device at the barista, who shuddered, whimpered, and collapsed. 

Phil was hysterical, jumping up. “What the hell is that!”

Joe slipped the device back into his coat pocket. “The future, Phil. It's what will happen when you drink the Eterna Punch. Doesn't look pretty, does it?” Joe tried to give Phil a business card, but the terrified man was already backing away toward the door. “Hey! You might want this!”

Phil stopped. “What was that? Weapons are illegal!”

Joe shrugged. “They will use it on us, and no fancy upgrade will save you. Gotta fight fire with fire, right?” He kept waving the business card.

Phil was stuttering. “What, what—what could I ever want from you? You’re brainwashed!”

Joe was unphased by the accusation, tossing the card on a nearby table. “It's a contact if you want to live again, buddy—quick procedure. I highly recommend it. We don't have to experience Part Two, Phil.”

“Fuck,” said Phil, who realized the Quiet Corner duo was now pointing at Joe.

Joe suddenly noticed them too. “Oh, sorry. I forgot about you guys. So quiet. Probably TRDs if you hang out here, right? Pining for the past, eh?” 

They were silent, eyes darting between Joe and Phil. 

Joe scrutinized them suspiciously before asking, “you two get The Upgrade?”

They both nodded.

Joe stepped closer, extending an arm. “Actually,” he declared sarcastically, “I’m not sorry.” He pointed the metallic device at their heads, and they fell to the ground just like the barista.  

The door made a sound. 

“Potent, isn’t it, Phil?” But when Joe turned around, Phil was gone, running down the street wishing he had enhancements. 

Joe sighed. “He used to have a brain.”

A sudden peripheral flash caused Joe to duck and curse, but within seconds he was chuckling so hard his ribs ached. 

All of the neon signs had lit up. The huge one in the front window was the brightest. 

“Quick—Byte—Cafe,” Joe read out loud, slowly. “Well, looks like I don't have time for a quick bite.” 

Joe remembered the analog player on the table and rushed over to grab it. Nothing would be better than some authentic music for the trip south, where it was much warmer, free, and offline. 

Joe noticed the CD was still spinning. 

He tapped the PAUSE button and smiled. “I can’t wait.”