forge netting 2: compounding an error

When he reached home he programmed the nanites with the information about how far back the unpleasant experience in the restaurant had been in his day and then he injected them. He momentarily wondered whether or not it was the wisest thing to be doing – erasing a memory of an event which suggested that the things he was doing to himself were having dangerous side effects.
He knew he had read somewhere about some drug where it felt like you were slipping into a bath full of warm water – you would start to nod off and then you would wake into a dream world where nothing concerned you; all the sharp edges were blunted and you felt better able to deal with things, or you didn’t care about the things which had to be dealt with, which seemed to him even better. That drug was what the procedure he was now undergoing felt like to him – except that he wasn’t aware of any loss of consciousness.
He sat there not really thinking about anything – his mind a total blank, and then it was as if he came to, almost shocking himself with how still he had been. He rubbed his temples, unwittingly touch his nose and noticed some dried blood crusted around his left nostril. That wasn’t good but he was sure that the benefits seriously outweighed a few negligible inconveniences. He sat staring into space for a while longer – trying to bring to mind what he had been doing; failing; worrying; letting it slide. He sighed.
He wasn’t sure exactly how long had passed since he had injected himself but he knew that it had been recently because it still stung slightly. He knew that he had to do something that day but he was having trouble putting together the pieces of the plan he had made. He was sure to have recorded it electronically somewhere, because even without the patchiness his memory was suffering of late he had never been too great at remembering tasks he was supposed to complete by certain deadlines.
His skullphone buzzed – and that meant it was someone he’d given the ringkey too – anyone not having that code got silenced and ansaphoned. There was a barely audible click and the voice of the automaton that made LEthe announcements whispered robot-seductive in his ear.
Slight pause  – ‘Mr Ruebeau’ – ‘We are calling to advise that there have been some reports of previously unrecorded side-effects with the procedure and we would like you to come in for a check up as soon as possible. There is no need to make an appointment; if you turn up you will be seen immediately by one of our technicians.’
He smiled – wow, they were up to speed, eh? But these people didn’t get it – all the fuck-ups they had made with this drug didn’t negate the importance of what it did for him. He tapped his throat twice and the message erased. He could set up a filter to block out certain calls but it wouldn’t be wise to do that with LEthe because it might interfere with the flow of his supply, and if he did that who knew what might happen to him and the submerged memories he was wanting to keep drowned?
If they suspected that he was ignoring them rather than just missing the calls they might send someone out to investigate, and he knew he wouldn’t stand up to that kind of scrutiny. This was going to be yet another source of worry, so he repeated the process of preparing his dosage and injected it.
Gone, totally gone. Degrading pathways, connections failing, and then what? The collapse of the self? Was any of that so bad?

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