Transformation.
Seven,
in the dark, listened intently. The deep booming knock that had brought her
forth from the depths was now silent. She kept ordering herself to stop being a
baby and just raise the lid; however, a terrifying thought kept the lid down.
Vividly, she remembered the Martians, with their identical faces and athletic
bodies, bulging eyes, eyes too large, lacking any real nose, the too sickly
white skin. The thought of the Martians up there, in RL, just outside her
chamber, well, it was too much. She felt overwhelmed, assaulted, powerless...until
she remembered something else. Another thought, another memory.
She
had not remembered that punch, the one she delivered, cocking back her fist and
letting fly right into that Martian’s face, and how the ugly man flew backward
as if kicked by a mule. Seven had done that. Something unlike any previous
action in her entire life. She defended herself. And she was not powerless. So,
what did that mean?
Seven
was powerful.
The
chamber lid lifted, and Seven swung her legs out over the edge of the chamber
bed to sit. She listened, intently, and it was completely quiet, as always, her
ears felt new and unused, and the dim lighting of the cubicle proved very
strong to her newly opened eyes. She rarely considered the fact, but within her
Inner Sanctum, she did not use her eyes, nor her hands. She lifted her hands
before her eyes and formed fists.
You
don’t mess with Seven.
She
heard a repetitive noise, a stuttering, breathy cry. It sounded like the
whimper of an animal, somewhere nearby. Her skin prickled with a wave of
gooseflesh.
Whuif. Whuif. Whuif.
The
hairs on the back of Seven’s neck lifted and her eyes began to water.
Sifting
through the databases of her mind, she could conjure no likely—or at least no
realistic image in her mind, of what in the world could be making that noise.
Terribly, the image that kept surfacing was something from her childhood, when
she watched an old movie. She must have only been seven years of age when she
watched The Fly, which was supposed
to be the remake of an even older science fiction flick. The mad scientist in
the movie sent a baboon through a teleporter, and what had appeared across the
room was an animal turned inside-out.
Some
things, once you’ve seen them realized, even if only in a movie, an old movie,
well, they are almost impossible to remove from the mental view screen. Seven,
a little girl, had dreamed of that inside-out baboon.
That
quivering mass of baboon organs, twitching, spasming, horribly still alive,
that’s the image that came to mind. Whatever made that whuiffing noise, did not sound human, and it did not sound like it
issued from an animal. Bizarrely, it sounded like an asthmatic heart, gasping
for its severed lungs, and it sounded as if it were here, somewhere close in
the long room, beat-gasping amidst the VR chambers.
Whuif. Whuif. Whuif.
Slowly,
she pushed herself away from the chamber bed. She wanted nothing more than to
lie back down, and lower the lid, and return to her safe Inner Sanctum, but
there was no way she could do that while her physical body remained here with
whatever made that inhuman noise. Her foot bumped into something warm and wet.
Seven
screamed and leaped aside from the hot and moist thing on the floor. As her
eyes picked out details she screamed again, because what she saw there, huddled
near the base of her chamber, was not preferable to discovering a disassociated
human heart, severed and beating upon the floor. She wished for the reversed
baboon. Despite herself, she screamed loud, her hands at her face, she wanted
to run, and just run, run forever from this thing.
In
a tangle of blanket was what appeared to be a human Mr. Potatohead, spongey and
shriveled. A human Mr. Potatohead gone
soft, and rotten.
Worse
than the sight of the shriveled creature, warped and terribly animated, was
that she recognized Number Six in the throbbing mass of pink flesh. Backing
away, she screamed again, and felt bad about screaming into his face—Toby
Winnur, that was his name, he was a person, a human being, not a thing—because
it, no—he—was staring at her, with
pleading in his distorted, sunken eyes. His attention focused upon her, with terrible
pleading emanating from every
quivering and distended pore of his being.
“Six?”
she breathed, unable to look away from the horror.
Whuif. Whuif. Whuif.
Swallowing
hard, suppressing the overwhelming need to vomit, she placed her hands over her
mouth and began to move slowly toward him, crouching low, onto her knees. She
had to help him, although her mind was empty of anything that anyone could
conceivably do for him, short of placing him back in the teleporter, sending
him back to his point of origin, and crossing your fingers that things could
ever go back to something close to normal. Poor guy, poor poor guy.
This
couldn’t be real, could it? It was
something like the twisted horror stories people created for themselves in VR.
People actually chose to live VR
lives as trolls, triffids, and trilobites; mummies, vampires, werewolves, and
zombies—every conceivable horror of the imagination. Her head whirled. How
could this be real? She desperately wanted to wake up, but it was all too
apparent, she was awake, this was real, and something had gone catastrophically...wrong.
“I’m
going to call an ambulance,” she said, her shaking voice scaring her almost as
much as the sight of Number Six reduced to a raisin shape. He looked like a big pink raisin, bald and fleshy,
heaving with agonizing breath. She would call the fire department, anyone.
“No,”
came a distinct word from the mass.
“You
need help, Toby,” she said, feeling odd calling him by his real name, because
there was nothing real about him, other than his agony. What remained of him
could barely be called a number, let alone a name.
It
said something, another word, but she couldn’t decipher the word. She didn’t
want to get any closer, but she tilted her head and concentrated.
“What,
Six, what did you say?”
Whuif. Whuif. Whuif.
Through
the palpitating gasp-cry, she thought she heard it forming a word.
“Chamber,”
she interpreted through the gurgle.
“You
want me to get you back into your chamber?” she whispered, her heart slamming
in her chest.
“Yes,
please,” it croaked, clearly. It must have taken incredible focus for it to say
the distinct words, because she could not even make out a mouth in the lumpy
mass of flesh.
She
did not wish to touch it, the thing, but she forced herself to help Number Six,
Toby Winnur. She gathered the wet blanket about the mass and experimented by
testing its weight, lifting portions of its bulk through the blanket. It seemed
incredibly light, unnaturally light, as if its flesh was made of foam. She
gathered what remained of the man into her arms as it whuiffed in agony. As she struggled to her feet she discerned a
pile of what could only be his remaining hair clumped about on the floor, and
blood, there was lots of blood, and viscous fluid that looked like snot.
The
thing in her arms must weigh no more than fifty pounds, but still she
struggled, leaning against her chamber, lugging the mass about and around her
cubicle into the Number Six alcove. Thankfully, the chamber was open. As gently
as she could, she placed her load upon the sponge bed. The chamber must still
be able to recognize Number Six, because the lid descended at the command of what
must remain of his mental consciousness.
She
hurried back around into her own cubicle and climbed into her chamber. The lid
descended and she closed her eyes.
She
was now in her Inner Sanctum with the red door at her back. She produced a
window and saw the blinking light that represented an incoming message. She
clicked on the icon.
“It’s
okay, Seven, come on over,” the message read. There was a link, but she
hesitated to click it, because what if even in his Inner Sanctum, he was yet a
deflated Mr. Potatohead?
She
called a thick hoodie upon herself, and warm slipper-boots onto her feet, and
then she clicked the link.
She
stood just before a red door much like her own, and glanced about herself. This
was the first time she had ever been in a different Inner Sanctum than her own,
and had only time to register that Number Six had gone with an Asian theme,
basic and clean, before Number Six himself appeared from deeper within his
sanctum, smiling, and whole, wearing a bright red silk kimono.
“Number
Six!” she cried, rushing forward, for he appeared completely normal, hale and
whole. She threw herself into his arms and he embraced her, chuckling warmly.
“See,
see?” he laughed, “it’s okay, everything’s okay!”
She
pushed back in his arms and looked at him. This was the good-looking and
somewhat beefy version of him she had only seen in a photo.
“Wow,”
she said, without thinking, “you’re gorgeous!”
He
laughed, putting back his head. The laugh was real, and heartfelt.
“Thanks,
you’re not so bad, yourself!” he chuckled, leading her into his sanctum,
drawing her to an upright futon couch, beautiful white and immaculate. “Come
on, I need to talk to you.”
They
seated close to each other on the futon, and Six produced a frosty mug of a
dark liquid.
“What
can I get you?” he asked, eyebrows raised, as he sipped at his brew.
She
experimented, not sure if she was breaking any VR protocol, but she easily
produced a crystal wine glass of port.
“I
am so sorry you had to witness that,” Six said. He glanced into his frosted
mug. “I should have just contacted you via text, but I guess I didn’t realize
it had progressed so far. But enough of that. Oh, stout is good, I’m glad that
I won’t be leaving this. Where I’m going now, there is stout. Plenty of stout!”
Whuif. Whuif. Whuif. Unbidden, the memory swirled in her
mind, that terrible noise. And yet, here he was, Six, handsome, and healthy.
“Where
are you going?” she asked.
“I’ve
been setting it up for some time, you can actually come and visit me. I’m
sending you a gold pass, right now. You can retrieve it in your mail. Whenever
you need a vacation, or someone to talk to, just come to High Vale.”
“High
Vale—the online game?” she said, blinking, still not registering what all this
meant, what was going on.
“It’s
much more than a game, it’s a whole world, as real as this world; oh, well, you
know what I mean, the outside world. I’ve been setting up my own firewalled
land for some time. It’s expensive, but I have my account paid for the next ten
years, and when I’m there I have it running at ten speed, so in ten years I
will have lived a hundred full, happy years, there, in my own version of
heaven.”
“Wait,”
she said, clasping her wineglass in two hands, holding it to her heart. “You’re
planning on living inside a virtual world?”
“That’s
what I’ve wanted to do, it’s like I’m fully me, there. Plus, Seven, you see
what I’ve become in RL. I doubt I have even minutes left there,” he said, and
he didn’t sound sad about the fact that he was dying, was perhaps on the very
door of death at this moment.
“But
what went wrong? Has this happened before, I mean in the chamber, does this
happen to all of us?” she said, feeling her heart slamming. She knew there was
quite a turnaround in the program, but she figured that was because most men
became addicted to the sexual potential of the program.
“As
far as I know, nothing went wrong,” Six said. “I think this has all been my
choice. The more I am there, the less
I am here. Don’t worry, I don’t think
anything terrible is going to happen to you, Seven. Don’t worry. There’s
nothing wrong with the program, or the chambers. Remember, what Old Ben said, don’t be afraid?”
“But
Six! You can’t just leave RL, I mean, that’s not possible. When you die, you’re
going to be gone, don’t you realize that? Maybe we can get help for you? Maybe
we can get you back to normal?” She was pleading with him, and she couldn’t
believe she was having this conversation, trying to explain reality to someone.
She doubted she even understood what the concept—reality—meant, any longer. She had been fighting with herself over
the concept.
A
gong sounded from somewhere off in the sanctum. It was a beautiful, rich tone,
with a very long reverberation.
“Don’t
worry about me, Seven,” he said, and took a long pull at his mug of stout. He
smacked his lips and belched, then grinned at her and excused himself. “It’s
about that time, Sweetheart”
“You’re
going, now?” she said, her eyes huge.
“I
made the decision a long time ago. Remember, this isn’t something that happened
to me. I wanted this. I chose it. I did run into a hitch in my plans, but Old
Ben is helping me solve the problem, otherwise my heaven might have become my
hell,” he said, looking happy, and young.
“But
what about after the ten years?” she said, attempting to think of something,
anything that might make him wait a while longer, and think about his choice.
She knew he wasn’t going to get any kind of magical ten years, not in this
world, nor any other. She fully realized, even if he couldn’t—or wouldn’t allow
himself to realize—that in perhaps moments, Toby Winnur, Number Six, would be
gone, forever.
“Don’t
worry, I don’t plan on living forever, or anything like that. If I’m still
alive in ten years, the worst that will happen is that my firewall will come
down and my slice of High Vale will just become a portion of the larger
property. It’s a full and rich land, and quite dangerous, but beautiful beyond
belief. A hundred years in High Vale, well, that’s a better dream than I’ve
ever dreamed. Don’t worry, Seven. They won’t cancel my account, or anything
like that. Come and see me. You’ll love it there. You can spend some time in
our chateau. You can meet Lady Varra, my wife, you’ll love her, and she’ll love
you!”
He
laughed, and lightly slapped her thigh.
“Really,”
he said, “this is like any version of reality. There are no guarantees.
Everything can be over, in a heartbeat, for any of us, at any time. I’m okay with
this. I will even be in touch with my family, over there. I can bring them to
visit, even communicate with them on a daily basis, via text, e-mail, even
video chat.”
She
was about to speak, argue, but the gong sounded again. She shuddered,
remembering her grandfather clock tolling the midnight hour, and her crystal
sandbox crashing down. She clutched at the locket beneath her hoodie.
Six
stood and drew Seven up from the futon.
“I
really have to go now, thanks so much, for everything,” he said, and hugged her
before she could protest. “I have to go before the gong sounds again. Plus I
have to say farewell to a few very nice mermaid friends of mine.”
She
nodded, her eyes filling with tears.
He
smiled and turned from her and waved his hand at the tatami floor. A pool
opened in the floor. Without another word, he stripped off his red kimono and
dove naked into the shallow pool. She watched as his form became fainter and
then vanished into shadow. She stood and watched the ripples and waves in the
water, as if he might come back for one last word.
The
gong sounded again and before its reverberations had stilled she was back in
her own Inner Sanctum, standing before her red door. She hugged her arms
tightly about herself and was surprised to find she still held the wineglass
from Six’s sanctum. Wine was sloshed about her feet, which she cleaned with
hardly a thought. She looked at the wineglass.
Seven
was not a packrat, and hardly sentimental, but she couldn’t do away with this
glass. It was her token of Six. She strode to her desk and placed the glass,
still wet with red wine, on the top shelf.
She
produced the locket she wore on a chain and studied the heart. She could do
something similar to Six, make some of the same choices. She could go to a
world, scrolling back to where Stacey and Jack compared coincidences in the park,
beneath Jack’s tree. She could come strolling across the park and greet them, introduce
herself, get to know them, Jack and Stacey. She smiled, wistfully. They could
stroll away from the park, in the opposite direction of the Coffee Dump, and
she could walk between them, holding each of their arms.
Her
smile vanished as she thought of her mother and father, called to identify a
pink raisin.
Jack
woke and yawned. He stretched out of his fetal ball. He had no idea how long he
had slept, and only slowly remembered his recent ordeal, the great snake lifted
up and hooded fifty feet in the air, the twinkling lights glittering in its
bat-like wings. He hugged himself, realizing he was still naked. He looked and
found that he had kicked the pile of clothes onto the floor. He peeked about
the room and was happy to see that he was still alone. Quickly, Jack clothed
himself in the garments, hoping that whoever lived in this tiny one-room
cottage wouldn’t come back suddenly and catch him here, and consider him a
thief. The clothes seemed to be some sort of renaissance fair garb, dark green
breeches and shapeless underwear, short and soft boots that rose to his calves,
a baggy shirt with drawstrings at the neck, a short jacket made of dark green
leather, and a peaked cap with a red feather, it reminded him of the old Robin
Hood cartoons.
He
felt better clothed, even though the temperature of the room was nice. Running
naked from a man-eating snake had to be about the most uncomfortable thing in
the world. He intended to do nothing of the kind, ever again.
Jack
noticed a small table under the glassed window—had that been there before? He
didn’t remember. But now he noticed a rounded loaf of bread with a wedge of
white cheese, a bottle of wine, a clump of yellow grapes, and strips of what
could only be beef jerky, all arranged pleasantly on a broad wooden platter. He
attacked the fare, ravenous. After vomiting up his guts, mostly onto the snake’s
head, he was famished beyond belief. How long had it been since he’d had water?
He uncorked the wine bottle and took a swig. He had never had wine before, but
this stuff didn’t seem all that alcoholic, it just tasted like lukewarm grape
juice. And it was good. He gulped the wine, and then ripped into the bread,
alternating bites of the crumbly cheese, and the jerky; he found the jerky
thick and tough, but very juicy, and tasting much gamier than beef. It was
probably elk, or moose, or whatever game was prevalent in this world.
He
chuckled. He had thought this place heaven. But there wouldn’t be rampaging
serpents in heaven, would there? And jerky? You wouldn’t kill the animals in
heaven and dry their meat for food, would you?
At
the moment, Jack had no philosophical cares. In the real world, he was a
vegetarian, but here, at least for now, bring on the slaughtered animals and
jerky! He didn’t really mean that, but he was starving. And he had to admit it,
he did enjoy the taste of blood, just like any other human carnivore.
Chewing
on jerky and sipping at the wine, he looked out the window onto a beautiful
grassy meadow. The first thing he checked on was that there were no giant snakes
slithering around out there. For all he knew, giant snakes might be the people here, and he might just be
another mouse. He immediately went to the hearth and retrieved the long dagger
hanging on a belt beneath the bow, and this he strapped around his waist. The
dagger, about eighteen inches long, jostled at his hip. He drew it from its
sheath and examined its mirrored surface. The pointy thing was beautiful, made out
of some white metal, sharp and double-edged, and the handle seemed to be carved
bone, slightly yellowed like ivory. Awesome!
Clothed,
armed, and with food and wine in his belly, he felt much more secure. He
belched, and his head swam. Oh boy, it was real wine, and he felt half-drunk,
but this thought just made him giggle, and snort.
What
did he care, he was Jack the Meateater! Jack the Wino!
These
thoughts should shame him, but he just sniggered some more. Then he started
laughing, and he knew he was probably half hysterical, but that knowledge only
made him laugh harder. It was hilarious, everything was hilarious! Here he
thought God had been sending him messages, and all along the great big fat
secret was that he was just a video game character, and now here he was dressed
like Robin Hood after all the world had crashed down about him and his new friends.
And he laughed harder.
So
what, was this his home now? This little one-room cottage?
And
why was he alone? Where was Stacey? Where was Michael, and Joshua? Where was
Sandy? He had thought they were all in this thing together, and now here he was
alone.
Weeping.
Yes,
stupid, stupid boy, here he was, at some point his uproarious laughter had
transformed into tears, and heart-wrenching hiccups. Poor Jack, oh poor, poor
Jack! He would be eighteen years old in just a month or so, and here he was
weeping like a baby, a big ole blubbering baby, Jack.
Waaaa, waaaa, WAAAAAAA!
Jack
burst into laughter. What did he care? He had a whole bottle of wine. Everything
was just too funny. He drank some more and finally calmed down, wow, that was
like riding on a rollercoaster. Insane emotions. Wine. Meat. He might have to
kick this terrible hobbit. He giggled. He pictured himself kicking a terrible
hobbit. No, that would be horrible, no matter how terrible the hobblible,
wobblible, and bobblible. He closed his eyes and shrieked laughter. Oh what a
drunk, he thought, I’ve become an alcoholic. Hello, my name is Jack, and I’m a
video game character, an NPC. He sipped some more wine and realized the bottle
was just about empty. Ah well, it had been a good run. Game over.
He
sighed and went to the door. Should he open it? Was he ready for this? Well, he
certainly wasn’t ready for racing another snake. He was done with snake
wrangling. No more snakes, and no more terrible hobbits. He lifted the rough
log from the brackets at the front door and set it alongside the door. He
seized the iron ring set in the door and lifted, and slowly pulled the door
toward him. He stuck his head out.
Oh
what a world. Yes, as he remembered, it was all a thing of beauty. Too beautiful.
Too many colors. Too bright. Too vivid. Too many notes, he thought, and giggled
half-heartedly.
He
tucked his head back into the cottage, feeling like a turtle. He closed the
door and barred it. He sighed. Then he remembered the bow above the hearth.
Jack
turned about and put his back to the door. He stared at the bow. It looked
complicated, and more like a snow ski than a weapon. He realized it looked
somewhat odd because it was unstrung. And then he realized that he knew how to
string a bow. He knew how to nock an arrow.
He
strode to the hearth, snatched the bow, strung it with hardly trying, seized an
arrow, whirled and found himself aiming at the door, the bow pulled taught, an
arrow ready to fly. What in the world? He must have done that all in one
second. He smiled.
Awesome.
He was awesome.
Jack
was an awesome archer.
“Beware,
villains,” Jack grated, in his best Clint Eastwood sneer, “of Agile Arrowboy!”
Jack
heard what could only be the clop of hooves, just outside. Hardly thinking, he
lowered the bow and popped the arrow back into its quiver. Maybe he should keep
the bow armed, you know, just in case? What if this was some new threat?
More
likely, it was the owner of the cottage, and Jack was just so...busted. He was like Goldilocks, sleeping
in the bed, consuming the food, and dressing in the owner’s clothing. Oh, but
he was just so busted!
Well,
best to face it, head-on. He returned the bow to above the hearth, but
maintained his dagger, and strode to the door and kicked the log up and out of
its bed, then snatched open the door and stepped forward, into the bright
sunlight.
Squinting,
Jack watched as the extremely large white horse, covered in black spots like a Dalmatian
dog, approached at a canter, clopping forward, still a hundred paces away. That
was a big horse. It must be bigger than a Clydesdale, and now that Jack could
see him better, that was some huge man riding the horse, with a blowing fur
cape, massive, and a gloved hand held high.
“Hail,
and well met!” the big man thundered.
“Hail!”
Jack returned, raising his own gloved hand, and then he snatched his hand back,
because it called to mind saluting Caesar, or worse, Hitler.
The
man slung himself off the majestic horse, slapped the animal’s neck, and then
just walked away from it, leaving the reigns to drag on the ground, and came
stomping forward in huge boots. The horse, looking ten feet tall, stood and
stared at Jack.
“I
am Lord Meren Dulance of High Vale, from the Lonely Chateau,” the big man said,
towering over Jack, extending a meaty hand.
Jack
shook the proffered hand and felt as if the bones of his own hand were crushed
into fragments.
“Well,
you’re not what I was expecting,” Lord Meren Dulance, said, with obvious
disappointment, measuring Jack with his eyes.
“I’m
not?” Jack said, feeling a little slow. At least he had ceased giggling. And crying.
“Well,
don’t worry about it, Jack me fine lad!” Lord Meren Dulance boomed, slapping
Jack on the shoulder. The blow, meant as a friendly gesture, nearly knocked
Jack off his feet. “We are alive, and all is well in High Vale! Well met, lad,
well met!”
“Yeah,
well met,” Jack said, rubbing his shoulder. “And you said your name is Lord—”
“Never
mind that,” the big man said, his face ruddy and weathered. “Just call me Number
Six. Yeah, I like that. Seven would, too. Just call me Six!”
