Lord Dulance.
Six
paced outside his chamber, in the small corral of space allotted to each unit,
his body ticking with nervous energy, he talked to himself, saying inside his
head that it was not that he desperately wanted back into reality, as he
thought of it, but that he couldn’t stand another second in this gray, lifeless
unreality, this place they called the real world; however, even the vibrant
existence of VR could become a grim horror show, although he knew deep down
that he was not afraid of what he must face again inside his own personal
truth. He punched his right fist into his left hand. The muscles in his face
clenched and jerked. He was unaware that drool ran down his neck.
 |
| Illustration by Harrison Christian Larsen ©2016 - Vestigial Surreality: FIVE |
In
RL he was a popular guy, with several girlfriends, lots of party friends, and
even two or three friends that he might know and cherish years from now, a
large family back home with high expectations for him, and everything the
American Dream could promise. Six knew that a gloriously high-paying job
awaited him, only two years away if he worked hard, yes, yes, that was life, he
could berate himself, that was life, where you were born, the home of the
brave, things worked for him there in RL, he would assure himself, but you
know, you know, oh but you know you fool, all that does not matter, not any
longer, not any more.
Because
Six had tasted reality, paradise. He experienced what it meant to be alive,
fully alive, loved and loving.
Here.
Oh here. In RL, now, he was Six. A walking, shuddering bone, twitching, spasmodic,
and nameless. Here he was Six, a number, a being who dreamed of reality.
Oh
but he was in a quandary, locked in a conundrum, battering his bony head at a
dilemma. Stupid, he shouted in his own head, and he slapped himself, hard,
across the face. Think, you are supposed to be smart, and you are certainly
smarter now, right now, than you were two months ago. He slapped himself again,
first with his right hand, and then with his left, battering each of his cheeks
until his face felt like a fireball.
High
Vale was locked. He had that bookmark right there, just mere hours before the
attack on his manor. The bastards had come inland from the Northern Sea,
inching their cursed dragon boat up along the peaceful, most beautiful of
rivers, the Unduline, and they had crept by night through the rich pastures
where grazed the plump cattle and woolly sheep of Lord Dulance, and then they
came quickly and quietly up into the highlands. That is where the bookmark
wedged. There, damn it, at the most inappropriate place.
If
only he had bookmarked the simulation two hours earlier, he might have brought
up defenses, if even only his farmers and ranch hands, strong men. They were
not soldiers, but they were brave men, and very good men, and he knew them all,
personally. The farms, however, were spread out in the lowlands, and many of
these good men, along with their families, perished even before the torching of
High Vale Manor.
He
had tried it, so many ways, so many exhausting, excruciatingly futile ways,
twenty times he had tried to save the manor. He had tried riding out to meet
the invaders, he had attempted fleeing higher into the rocks and caves above
the manor, he had tried leading them away from his people, and it always ended
the same way, with Varrashallaine dead, his precious Varra, she died, sometimes
in his arms, sometimes he heard them raping her as he lay pinned to the floor
by a large, rustic spear. He always lay there, grasping the shaft of the spear
in his hands, and he always thought it reminded him of the tetherball pole when
he was a child, in the third grade, lying on the ground on his back, legs up
and batting the yellow ball with his foot, watching the rope twine around and
around, and Varra died.
The
love of his life, his soul mate, his most precious person, she died, and there
never was anything he could do, no matter how many different ways he tried to
change things. He could not save his Varra. And he could not reverse the sim.
It wasn’t a game, there was no reboot.
Of
course, there was a reboot, but the land would be different, the people
different, and Varra would be different, or not there at all.
Six
went into the adjoining bathroom and washed his face in the sink, pouring cold
water over his close-cropped head, slapping cold handfuls onto the back of his
neck. How long had it been since Seven joined him in the break room? Was that
just an hour ago? His body shook and trembled worse now than then. He sat on
the toilet and drew his knees up to his chest. He must look like Gollum, all
sinew and bone, stringy ropes of muscle.
He
wished he could use the toilet. That might prove he was human here in RL. But
the chamber cleansed him in every way. His kidneys, pancreas, liver, all that
goo inside him, it was all sparkly new, fresh off the shelf. His brain aligned
and configured and perfect and yet he sat here on a porcelain toilet trembling
like an ancient Chihuahua yapper. He sat here weeping, shaking, and terrified
to go back to reality. He lifted his hands before his tear-streaked eyes and
saw his fingers vibrating with palsy. He concentrated his improved brain and
commanded his hands to be still. Peace, be still. If it were possible, his
hands shook even more.
Enough.
Enough. He unfolded from the toilet and switched off the light. He stumbled and
half-tripped back toward the chamber, salvation, and nearly got twisted in the
blanket on the floor. He chuckled. Funny. He couldn’t remember Seven’s name.
That wasn’t surprising, as he hardly remembered his own name. He was Six, here.
Six. Had they exchanged names? He didn’t remember.
The
chamber lifted as he neared and he almost threw himself upon the bed. He forced
his limbs out straight, and clasped his hands over his heart. The lid
descended.
Yes,
ah yes, as the darkness congealed and pooled over him, he sighed, and his body
relaxed. He did not even need to think…peace,
be still.
He
stood on the top step of his Inner Sanctum, the red door just behind him. He
lifted his right hand just before his face. It was his hand. He held it out
level, straight out before him, palm down, and there was nary a tremble.
Six
half-skipped down the steps, his bare feet embracing the warm clay of the dojo.
As he passed the small round table in the foyer his hand seized the warm sake
in the small clay cup and he lifted it to his mouth and belted down the liquor.
Yes, that was good.
Just
keep your mind off it, do not think of High Vale. Keep that in its compartment.
He
stretched his naked body and extended his arms out like the cross, filling his
lungs with the warm, humid air. It was so warm here, so rich.
If
he wanted, he could always go and live that precious two hours with Varra, once
a day, and so live out his life. He might have to do that, always locking the
sim prior to that first crash on the front door. He might have to do that.
Six
produced a window in the air just before him and glanced over his school
itinerary and without any feeling he ticked off with his eyes all his
requirements, all his deliverables. He was two months ahead in everything on
his double load, two-degree program. He saw he had a pop quiz in Physics. He
seized the quiz with his fingertips and pulled it out of the window into a
small white piece of paper. Without thinking much he ticked through the quiz,
answering each question automatically, and wrote a brief summation of how
scientists in the sim were bouncing laser beams off mirrors, looking for jags
in reality, and how of course the program itself neatly bent around the experiments,
proving to the scientists that everything was right as rain in the universe,
that real was real, and that they were all safe, safe and warm in their fuzzy
wuzzies.
Six
frowned, rubbed out the right as rain
with his pinky, then rethinking, he wiped out the bit about the fuzzy wuzzies,
glanced briefly over the whole quiz, then signed it by tapping the appropriate
spot. Done. He flicked the paper back into the window, and closed it. Well,
that was school for the day. School was getting so easy he wondered at whatever
could be the point.
He
tumbled forward onto the tatami and rolled forward, end over end, and then
backward. He did not invest much in exercise in this place, but it seemed to
loosen up his brain. He stretched and did some yoga poses, settling into a
lotus position.
What
if he took Varra up onto the roof, and hid her there just until the fires
erupted, then he could get her down over the backside of the house, and they
might try circling through the dark…
Just stop it!
Six
needed to stop thinking about it, just stop working on the problem. He had to
solve it, and the solution would come.
He
should have asked Seven. Perhaps she was a gamer. She was certainly bright. Six
wished he were that bright, or that he had ever played a video game in his
life. He did not like games, any kind of game.
What
had the mysterious homeless man said to Seven?
Don’t be afraid. Stop
freaking out. Enjoy yourself.
That
was the gist. Maybe he needed to relax, come at the problem from a whole new
angle.
The
thing was, he had spent literal days going back to a three-hour slot of time,
and he had faced a living nightmare, over and over again.
Sometimes
the seven-foot tall warrior cut him in half, sometimes the brute grasped him in
one hand and lifted him up to that face, that face of horror, where it mocked
him; but usually it pushed him back with the great head of its ax, not even
bothering with him, and an equally tall brute would come in from behind the
first warrior and drive the spear through him. He had rerun this so that he
sometimes could block the spear, but then the ax took him, and that proved more
painful.
Okay,
that did no good, to think about the home invasion at the manor. The first time
it happened, he was in that drowsy state, just prior to sleep. He and Varra,
his cherished wife, his Beloved, in each other’s arms, the afterglow of their
lovemaking sweet all about them. And then the door crashed. And the cries
began, and torchlight infused the manor as the invaders surrounded and
attacked.
Six
sighed. Blanked his mind. Took deep cleansing breaths. He stood from the tatami
and waved a hand over the bamboo mat, rolling it up, and the floor opened
quietly where the clean salty water of his bath reflected light. He stepped
down into the bath, descended the five steps until the warm water was at his
chest. Just stop freaking out. He lazed in the water, rolling over and over,
feeling like an otter. He submerged and swam down into the pool. Just enjoy.
When
he was down in the tunnel, he opened his mouth and gulped in a rush of water,
allowing the warm salt water to fill his lungs. It was a weird moment, even
after all this time, but soon he breathed the water through the gills opening
in his neck. The whole experience was very similar to breathing air, except of
course it waved in and out much more slowly, much heavier. He loved this slow,
languorous crawl through the dark tunnel. The water shimmered with blue light
and he could just make out his hands moving before him. He kicked lazily,
spiraling through the water. He moved into an undulating porpoise swim, just
enjoying, just soothing, just moving.
And
then he was out in the open, the night sky full and bright with stars above
him. He pulled himself onto a rock that naturally conformed to his body, and he
half sat, half reclined, looking up at the stars. He produced a Guinness Stout
in a frosty mug, and when he was not sipping at the glass, he allowed it to
hang in space near his head. If he listened, he could hear the millions of tiny
bubbles exploding on the foamy surface of the stout.
He
sighed, luxuriating in the warm water. He heard a ripple out somewhere in the
dark. No, he thought, no mermaids, not tonight, I just need to hang out here
for a while, just need to sip my stout, and watch the stars. He found Venus,
which was always easy, way over there on the edge of the world, and there was
Mars, interesting, tonight they were all laid out like a belt across the belly
of the sky, Jupiter with its red eye watching him, and Saturn, looking
unusually large and clear.
Six
sighed, dimly becoming aware that by the time he got to the bottom of the
stout, he probably wouldn’t argue too much if the mermaids visited, because
they cared. Oh how they cared for him.
“Well?
Come on, what do you think?” Jack said, grinning over his own tall cup of
coffee.
They
had their coffee in big wide-mouthed mugs, on big saucers, long-handled spoons
jutting up over the edge of the mugs. This way they could get free refills, and
they both agreed they wanted to stay for some time, and talk.
Stacey
took another long pull on his coffee. Well, not coffee, not exactly, this was
much more like drinking a hot, frothy, coffee milkshake.
“It’s
good,” he said, wiping his mouth on a square napkin. “You know, I usually drink
my coffee black. This isn’t one of those sugary drinks, is it?”
“No!
No! No sugar, that’s honey you taste, but only one teaspoon. They have the raw
unfiltered honey here, it’s the best. What else do you taste?”
Stacey
drank again, considering. “Okay, cinnamon, of course. No nutmeg, thank
goodness. Something else, though, something spicy, a little...bitey.”
“Yes!
What is it?”
“Ginger?”
“Yes!
Kind of tastes like gingerbread cookies, right?”
“If
you say so,” Stacey said, smirking. “But I usually don’t like cream in my
coffee.”
“Right!
That’s not cream, it’s steamed almond milk, so what you’re drinking is actually
kind of a like a health food drink!” Jack said, practically hopping about on
his chair.
“Joy,”
said Stacey, then noticing the change in Jack’s expression, he said: “Hey, but
I like it. Really. It’s good. Um, it’s like drinking a hot frothy coffee
milkshake.”
“Yes!
It is! It is!” Jack laughed, bouncing up and down. “And that is strong coffee,
too, Italian roast espresso beans. I could drink it all day long.”
“Doesn’t
make you nervous?” Stacey smiled, enjoying the coffee more, watching the kid
across the small round table.
“Nope,
coffee doesn’t make me nervous, not at all. And do you know, I’ve been drinking
it since I was five years old,” Jack said, proudly.
Stacey
stared at him.
“What?”
Jack spluttered, spraying coffee foam. “Another one? Come on, what is it?”
“I
started drinking coffee when I was five years old,” Stacey said, softly. “All
my life I’ve told people that and they’ve been aghast. Now you just up and tell
me that you started drinking coffee when you were five years old, and was it
your grandmother, on your mother’s side, that mixed half a cup of whole milk
with three teaspoons of sugar?”
Jack
stared at him.
“Your
Hungarian grandmother?” Stacey said.
“She
made polachinta?” Jack returned.
“Do
you know, I haven’t heard that word since I was a little boy?” Stacey said. “I loved polachinta. She made real fancy kinds, with cottage cheese and
crushed nuts.”
“But
your favorite,” Jack said, “your very favorite, that she made especially for
you, was with grape jam.”
“When
I’ve described it to people, they say I’m talking about crepes,” Stacey said,
sadly.
“Yeah,
me too. I like polachinta better,”
Jack said.
“Me
too,” Stacey agreed. “Plus, I think polachinta
was thinner than crepes, and I don’t know, just somehow a whole lot better.”
“Exactly,”
Jack said, nodding. “But you know, Stacey, you can come over to my house, and
my Grandma can fix it for us, today.”
The
older man looked at the youth strangely. “I think I might be afraid to meet
your Grandma.”
“Because
it might actually be your Grandma?” Jack said.
“No…because
it—might not be—her,” Stacey replied, too slowly leaning back in his chair. “I
don’t know which would be worse.”
“Yeah,”
Jack said, leaning back in his chair, “I don’t know, either.”
“My
Grandma was more than a second mother to me, in fact, I think she loved me more
than any other person in my whole life.
They
sat in silence a while, sipping their coffee. The place bustled, but not like a
Starbucks. Everyone here seemed to be talking quietly, in hushed tones, as if
this was more library than coffee house. Plus, the place was lined with books,
stacks of books in every conceivable place, wall-to-wall bookcases, books all
along the window ledge. The people were oddball, too, back in the corner Stacey
saw a tiny guy on double canes arguing with a giant overflowing from a chair
that looked as if it might burst under him at any second. The little guy on
canes looked like a movie star, beautiful, only he was obviously under five
feet in height. His body looked normal, except that his back might be twisted,
but his legs were not only shortened, but damaged in some way.
“We’re
not talking about it,” Jack murmured, staring into his coffee, stirring it with
a spoon.
“We’re
working our way up to it, gradually,” Stacey said, still watching the odd pair
in the corner. The giant was boisterous and loud, possibly the only loud person
in the whole packed coffee house, with a beard long and unruly, far too long
and shaggy to follow any current bearded fashion trend.
Jack
looked back to see who Stacey was watching, and he laughed.
“I
see those guys all the time, the little guy won’t look at you, and the big guy
might come over and hug you if you look at him,” Jack said.
“Really?”
Stacey said, bracing himself.
“Well,
not literally, I mean he seems to be that kind of person. I’ve actually studied
them, made sketches, you know, life sketches, plus I eavesdrop on them
sometimes, they’re always here, I make notes, they talk about religion all the
time.”
Stacey
guffawed. “You eavesdrop? And write down what they say?”
“Well,
not to be nosy. Just practicing, getting it down, like in writing, don’t you do
anything like that, listen to people? Get the hang of how people talk?”
“Maybe
subconsciously. I don’t think I’ve ever eavesdropped on people on purpose.
Better be careful, that giant looks like he could pull your arms off.”
Jack
snorted. “Not him. He’s the nicest guy. He kind of reminds me of Beorn.”
“The
Berserker, Tolkien,” Stacey said. “I was thinking of Hagrid.”
“Yeah,
Hagrid!” Jack laughed, “only shorter. Or Beorn, only nicer, not quite as scary.”
“So,
Jack,” Stacey said, leaning forward, stirring his coffee. “Saturn.”
“I’m
thinking the Government,” Jack whispered.
“The
Government?” Stacey said, eyebrows
lifted.
“Or
aliens,” Jack said. “I figure it’s the Government, doing some kind of hologram
experiment. Or aliens, playing with us. Or it could be…God.”
“Or
God is an alien that works for the Government,” Stacey replied, smiling into
his coffee.
Jack
snorted again. Then he laughed.
“Keep
looking at your coffee,” Stacey said. “Tall guy, very skinny. Bony, with
alien-looking cheekbones, very stubbly gray, expensive clothes, but very ratty
old-fashioned sneakers, like basketball shoes. Looks very nice, grandfatherly,
hair perfect, beautiful, white, but there’s something really—off about him, as a whole.”
Jack
stirred his coffee, looking excited. “Where?” he breathed.
“Back
by the fireplace, looking through the books on the hearth, only he’s not really
looking at the books,” Stacey said, in soft conversational tones, pretending to
study his coffee, but watching the man with his peripheral vision.
“Do
you want to treat us to some croissants?” Jack said, grinning.
“Of
course I want to treat us to some croissants,” Stacey replied.
Jack
was up and moving to the cashier, glancing casually about the room. He ordered
two big butter croissants from the beautiful girl behind the counter, and she
told him they could pay on the way out. He carried the two croissants back to
their table, the two pieces of bread looking like golden alien crabs on the
plate.
“I
love croissants,” Stacey said, seizing one and biting off an end.
“You
know it,” Jack said. “Saw the dude. I’ve never seen him before, but he almost
looks like Obi-Wan Kenobi. Or, you know, Old Ben.”
“Did
he see you looking at him?” Stacey asked.
“Probably,”
Jack said, thoughtfully, “but I looked at him, you know, casually, just
glancing around.”
“I
think he might be studying us the way you study the guys in the corner,” Stacey
said.
Stacey
saw the elegant old man at the fireplace lift a book and crack it open, and
then he stood there, very relaxed, reading in the light of the fire.
“Could
be a coincidence,” Jack said.
“If
it wasn’t a coincidence, that would be a coincidence,” Stacey said, grinning. “Today,
something happening that wasn’t a coincidence might prove the biggest
coincidence.”
“So
you’re saying that if something happened that didn’t mean anything or link to
anything else, that would be more unlikely than two unlikely things happening
that do mean something, especially together?” Jack said, obviously enjoying the
mental exercise.
“Yeah,”
Stacey said, “something along those lines.”
The
little man from the corner came stumping past them on his canes. Stacey watched
him, feeling oddly, because it seemed that he knew him, but then that was
absurd because if you ever met this guy you wouldn’t easily forget him. The
little man glanced directly at Stacey and met his eyes, for just a moment, and
then he was past, making slow, painful progress to the cashier. The very pretty
girl behind the counter smiled at the little man and Stacey noticed that the
man on the canes couldn’t meet the cashier’s eyes. She went around to get
something out of the display cases and Stacey watched the little man watch the
cashier.
“Wow,
is he ever in love with her,” Stacey said under his breath.
Jack
glanced to the little drama at the display cases. “Really, you think so?”
“Oh
yeah,” Stacey said, “he’s looking at her like a dwarf looking at gold.”
Jack
and Stacey abruptly looked at each other, each with their eyebrows cocked.
“That
didn’t come out right,” Stacey said, showing his teeth in an exaggerated
grimace. “I should have said he’s looking at her like a leprechaun looking at a
pot of gold.”
Jack
sighed exaggeratedly. “Youch, that came out even worse. Quit while you’re
ahead, at least he didn’t hear you. I know what you mean, but for some reason I
didn’t think he liked…girls.”
“Oh,
he does, and specifically—that one,”
Stacey said.
But
the little guy was coming back along the corridor between tables, and again he
glanced directly into Stacey’s eyes as he passed.
“I
feel like I know him, somehow,” Stacey said.
“We
could go over and talk to them,” Jack said, rising in his seat, as if ready to
hurry over to the table in the corner.
“Oh,
no, I’m not that kind of guy,” Stacey said. “I’ve had a problem with shyness
all my life.”
“Really?
You don’t seem shy to me, not at all,” Jack said.
“Did
you ever see Old Ben leave?” Stacey queried.
Jack
looked back at the fireplace. The tall old man was gone.
“Weird,
I don’t usually lose track of someone like that,” Jack said.
“Me
neither. I’ll be right back.”
Stacey
rose from the table and hurried across to the fireplace. He had his eye on that
book, the one the old man cracked open, and he didn’t want it to do anything
ridiculous, like disappearing, as the old man had vanished. Stacey looked
around the room, briefly, then caught himself, and looked back at the book he
was approaching, thank goodness, it was still there. He seized the book and
immediately returned to the table, and placed it near the plate of croissants.
“Simulacron-3,” Jack read. “Daniel F.
Galouye. Ever read it?”
“No,”
Stacey said, almost afraid to touch the book now that he had placed it on the
table.
“There’s
a piece of paper stuck in it,” Jack said, bending close over the book, but not
touching it.
“Probably
a bookmark,” Stacey said.
“I’m
not going to look at it,” Jack said. “You do it.”
“What’s
there to be afraid of?” Stacey said, reaching for the book.
“I’ve
got a bad feeling,” Jack said.
Stacey
slowly pulled the piece of paper out of the book. It was a thin piece of
notepaper, folded once in half lengthwise. Stacey flipped the paper back and forth
showing Jack that there was nothing on either side, like a magician preparing
to do a trick.
“Go
ahead already,” Jack whispered.
With
Jack leaning forward to the side, exaggeratedly twisting his spine, and the
older man leaning likewise to meet him, Stacey slowly unfolded the paper,
opening it so that they could see whatever it was at the very same moment.
