[ WP ] It is law to die on a specific date that is dictated by the government . You escape your death date , but the reason why its a law in the first place is revealed to you .

Danny Rubella thought he was clever—was clever, in fact, in a certain milieu. When a cashier returned too much money, Danny always accepted it smoothly. Danny Rubella knew his co-workers' passwords, and that made him feel good, never mind that they got all got promoted while he stayed behind, punching silicon on the foundry floor, year after year. 
 
 Was it fucked? Sure was. No point pretending otherwise.'Far as Danny knew, world's an endless expanse of greasy concrete and that special New York City hobo-piss stink. People said it used to be better before, but everyone's been saying that since Eden. Fuck'em. 
 
 As a chime rings in his head, Danny stands, feeling tight hips, slumped shoulders, a stooped neck. He subvocalizes `` logging out'' and the command is received wirelessly. He takes a righteous piss, aiming and shooting down colorful targets that appear at the bottom of the urinal with his steam. A high score, actually. The notification gets pushed to his deck, where it occludes some part of his subconscious attention. Danny is n't very good with notifications. 
 
 Today is Danny's last day on Earth. He has until 8pm to visit the commissar, receive a a lethal dose of MDMA and DMT ( a'thank you' holiday, really ), before having his deck bone-sawed out of his skull. It's 7:55pm, and Danny's not headed to the commissar, he's headed to Perla's, his local bar. 
 
 Where Danny lives, people have a productivity composite score, a positive or negative number that acts as the coefficient on a very simple equation. Each week, your productivity score is measured and used to determine an increase or decrease in remaining lifespan, which is initially set at 55 years. Everyone knows how it works, and everyone agrees that it's only fair. 
 
 Danny does n't give a shit about any of that, or that his number was called and is sitting in a stack of notifications somewhere in his mind alongside a heap of crystal clear exo-memories about feeding the cat and approving some software updates. Danny's not going to the commissar's. Danny's going to Perla's, and as he steps out into the alley behind the foundry, a ribbon of light points his towards the bar. 
 
 Danny, like everyone else, has perfect memory. He heard that writers and artists can turn off their exo-memories so they can think better, but he's never tried it. He remembers everything from 7th grade history class, from the first time he had sex, and from a few book-downloads he bought over the years, so he can recite Socrates if he wants to, which he does n't. Right about now, he's thinking that forgetting everything would be kinda nice. 
 
 At 8pm, one block from Perla's, Danny's wish is granted. A small voice in his ear canal says `` IPV6 name space exceeded. Reclamation process is underway.'' And then Danny Rubella's mind evaporates. What is left behind is human only at the genetic level. Every benefit of developmental biology, socialization, and logic has been stripped away—he ca n't count to three, he ca n't light a fire, and by Chomsky, he sure as fuck ca n't use language. Danny is feral child in the body of 43 year old alcoholic. 
 
 In a few hours, a few barflies will come this way and walk past Danny, but even though they were his friends once, they wo n't recognize him—his IP address has been reallocated and his files wiped from the world's servers. Anyway, he's hard to identify now that he's smeared his own feces across his face. 
 
 Danny should have taken the'holiday'. By the time the techs find him, Danny Rubella is slumped over, dead. Tried to drink a rainbow puddle, looks like. 
 
 `` Tabula Rasa'', says one of the techs, before getting to work. 
 

