Image from Juan Ochoa
Commerce Vignette:As my body finished recycling, revenue metrics finally spiked into the green. The profits from the Ceremony of the Final Auction were meager, but profit is profit. In the background of my consciousness I could sense the negotiating of vot traders; haggling, millisecond by millisecond, over the repackaged products of their dissection - every centimeter of my wet surfaces tattooed beautifully with the heirloom logos of the last of my sponsors. Further still into the layer of quantitative abstractions that overlay the room in the augmented reality, I watched the surveillance network's careful repackaging of the process into media- recording the procedure so that even the image of my old body and its decay through an ecosystem of data brokers and chop shop partner vots could recoup every morsel of value. I'd streamed most of the procedure for several niches; some particularly bloodthirsty fans, who part of me hoped were spread as far across the system as possible. More royalties that way, hopefully, when my Cartel reps finished negotiating. Commerce of this kind was very, very rare in the sephirotics, from what I knew. A few more consumers with a carnivore fetish had paid top token for exclusive views from camera worms, and to sample the flavor of my blood, even if it was tasted through drones. I couldn't judge too much though, since I was the one selling, even if I've wiped half the details from memory and undergone the mandatory therapy. They consumed the feast of hyperreal gore recordings and images of carnage with relish, apparently, and turned one into a joke that went viral in some inner system habitat's social net. Thankfully I purged the customer reviews from my head. I'm told they paid for me to be conscious for part of it , and scream at them as the drones bit. Apparently I'd even adjusted my personal preferences to feel like I enjoyed it, for a while. We'd negotiated down to a fair price , signed the contracts, and wiped my new body's memory of any of that. No coercion. Everything's voluntary in the market, as they say. Everything's voluntary.
The following scene may be disturbing to some EG readers, especially if experienced fully simulated (Uplink). Sophonts sensitive to depictions of blood and gore are advised to adjust their neural interface to censored settings.
On the more pleasant end that I did remember, we'd taken glamour pictures before I transferred over in hopes of selling my physical or digital remains as a permanent collectors item, but even in this habitat, 43rd century revival body art doesn't go for enough to cover the cost of transporting the matter too far. Only the other recordings sold. Some 3D designs would be incorporated later into someone's chest decor, according to the trader vots . Finally, half my old relationships traded as sales leads for introductions to the new partners, here, in the new habitat. I didn't need most of them anyway. Nothing could stop me now. I was born anew, ready with enough funds to start my next venture, with my old body consumed.
Liquidating assets. Dust to dust in the freedom of the market.
"Selling My Body" Journals of the G. GEKKO/ NOCOZO orbitals, RedTree System. 8688 AT