by A W Wang
I gaze at the ceiling, wishing I could talk with someone without nullifying the offer.
In the best case, Nick is right, and the final remedy lies at the end of this trip. Then we’ll pay off the debts and survive the coming disaster together.
More likely, the cure fails or I die in the process. And if I die, then only the debts will remain.
My eyes drift back to the card.
Besides receiving a healthy body, I have no idea of what will happen in the Ten Sigma Program, and I hate the idea of being alone.
A few seconds lapse before I sigh at the selfish thoughts. This isn’t about me. This is only about doing what’s best for my loved ones. It’s time for Nick and me to diverge from our life plan. While I’ll hopefully survive like he wants, we’re going to be separated, and the thought tears at my insides.
After taking a sorrowful breath, I blank my mind and force my thumb onto the lower right corner.
The device chirps in acknowledgment and displays my enrollment information.
Test Subject: #30578A.
When my arm flops to the sheets, the damning thing slips through my fingers and tumbles off the bed, hitting the floor with a lonely clatter.
Five
The representatives of the Ten Sigma Program time their arrival with midnight. Instead of using names, they introduce themselves by their function. Mr. Leader, a workout warrior, dresses in a gray suit complete with a bold red tie. A taller woman, Ms. Lawyer, sports a professional haircut and conceals her femininity under a loose blue top covered by a conservative gray jacket. The last member of the team, Mr. Scientist, drapes a white lab coat over his pudgy frame.
Not wanting to stare up at the guests of necessary evil, I use a surge of adrenaline to grab the bed control and push myself into a sitting position.
As my torso rises, the leader ensures our privacy by locking the door. With crisp motions, Ms. Lawyer pulls a large glass tablet from her briefcase while Mr. Scientist sets a square black container on the EKG machine.
My heart thumps, and my nails crease my palms. Clenching my stomach and taking shallow breaths, I force aside the nausea; it’s important not to show weakness to these people.
“There are a few legalities to attend to before we begin,” Mr. Leader announces.
Sporting a professional smile, Ms. Lawyer holds the screen in front of me. While her wedding ring glimmers under the flickering light, a sexy perfume overpowers my ever-present odor of sickness. I wonder which of the gentlemen she fancies. My single healthy self would have picked the nerdy scientist, but I suspect she prefers the powerful official.
Glowing yellow text appears on the tablet, seeming to float over the clear surface.
“You’ll find everything as stipulated,” she says in a practiced tone that omits any softness. I make tiny bobs of my head as she swipes through various pages, the fine print blurring past my tired eyes. It’s only when she reaches the last section that I focus.
“In return for your cooperation, our organization shall pay all the medical bills you have accrued during your illness. In addition, your husband shall receive the equivalent of two years of salary from a new life insurance policy.”
She brings up the final page which requires a thumb and voice signature.
I shake my head. It hurts to form words, but I croak out, “And all liens on our home and lines of credit. Also, any loans from my sister Emily.” My husband will be alone, but I’ll make sure he gets a fresh start.
“You may think the recommendation from this program’s lead scientist entitles you to special dispensations, but we do not renegotiate our agreements.”
It’s torture, but I speak louder. “No. The debts too.”
“Nobody else entering this program gets anything.”
“Valerie, we need her,” Mr. Leader interrupts. His fingers gently touch the inside of her arm, which to me confirms their illicit affair.
“The family loans can be made up,” she replies with measured anger.
The muscular man considers then asks, “The rest of the documented debts and a year of salary for your sister?”
I dip my head.
“Fine, three years and debts,” the disgusted woman says. A moment passes before her face recovers a professional demeanor and with irritated flicks of her fingers, she alters the agreement.
This time, when she presents the acceptance form, I press my thumb onto the tablet and say, “I agree to abide by these terms.”
“Because of the secrecy of the program, you shall be declared dead ten minutes after the transfer of your consciousness. Your husband will receive the death certificate within three days. Upon completion of a seven-day waiting period, the life insurance policy will be paid to the appropriate parties and your debts zeroed. You are now the property of the United States of America.”
Although she is speaking on behalf of governmental responsibilities, the details are important because my husband must be one hundred percent certain I’m gone or he’ll never go on with his life. “Thank you,” I whisper.
With a huff, she passes the tablet to her lover.
He presses his thumb onto the glass, saying, “The United States of America accepts this contract.”
A moment later, the device beeps and a mechanical voice replies with a confirmation code.
The ordeal is finished, and I sigh in relief. Except for keeping my last promise to never give up, this reset is all I can do for my husband and family.
Now, there is only eternity to deal with the consequences.
The slim tablet disappears into the briefcase, and with the legal portion of the festivities complete, Ms. Lawyer steps aside.
Mr. Scientist takes her place. When he pulls the cover from the cube-shaped container, the black sides fall to reveal a glassy sphere crowned by a ring of gold. Attached wires lead to a silvery headband. The entire contraption looks completely innocent and incredibly fragile.
A proud smile crosses his face. “This is the download machine.”
As I push out the words, my throat burns. “I’ll be stored in that?”
“Yes, this is an electro-magnetic containment field for your consciousness, until we can get you into the virtual environment.”
“What happens in there?”
Ms. Lawyer steps forward. “Whatever we deem necessary, which is stipulated in the agreement.”
I roll my eyes at both my question and her answer.
What does it matter and what difference does it make?
Regardless of the program’s secrecy, I will have no opportunity to divulge any information.
And regardless of knowing what will happen, my body is going to waste away.
Whatever will be, will be…
Mr. Leader quietly says, “This is a special access project to create a specific type of warrior.”
His lover shoots daggers at him. He’ll need a week of perfect behavior to return to her good graces.
He ignores her anger. “We are creating fighters who will be essentially impossible to kill. The virtual environment is a proving ground to hone your skills.”
I get my husband to kill insects and mice. I’m not even sure I could hit another person. If they want a fighter, they have their work cut out for them. However, I’m too tired to tell them the flaw in their plan.
“So, I can come back?”
“Not to that body. But yes, the goal is to create warriors in this world.”
It’s all I need to know. I made a promise to my husband, and when I return whole and healthy from the virtual universe, that pledge will be kept.
“Okay.”
Wearing a curious look of reverence, Mr. Scientist places the cold metal band snugly around the wisps of hair remaining on my scalp.
In a final goodbye, my eyes wander down the filthy sheets, trailing the flatness of my form. Besides ridding myself of the sickness and fixing the finances of my family, I have one other reason to commit to such a drastic unknown.
I can’t st
and losing, especially to the hanging gloom of death.
“Whenever you’re ready?” Mr. Leader asks.
With these people, I don’t feel the need for last words or fanfare. “Just do it.”
He nods and Mr. Scientist touches a switch on the device, giving an unnecessary countdown.
“Three.”
I relax by closing my eyes and enjoying the salty taste of my thumbnail. As my final sensory input, it’s oddly satisfying.
“Two, one…”
Instead of zero, a jolt ripples through my reality.
My eyes fly open.
The dreary surroundings have flattened into a picture, as if it had originally been a two-dimensional cutout folded to create a 3D room. Cracks extend from the floor, crawling over the flat surface, and follow the outlines of my IV tubes, the rails of my bed, the visitor’s chair, and the EKG machine, extending up and past the darkened TV and into the ceiling. When they reach the flickering light at the apex, the material shatters into long geometric shapes that spin as they fall into the distance and disappear.
Next, the center of the gray backdrop behind my splintering reality pulls away with an awful shredding sound, stretching the fabric of space and creating an endless tunnel that darkens into infinity.
My arms flail as my existence tilts, and suddenly I’m above the passage, slipping forward and then tumbling into the virtual universe, accompanied only by my pointless screams.
Six
Surrounded by shrieking echoes of hysteria, my sickened, naked form falls faster, even as the dark end of the tunnel rockets into the distance.
What mystery awaits there, I have no idea
“This can’t be real, this is a virtual computer simulation,” I repeat, fighting the fear consuming my insides.
The meaning of the words dies when a new force arrives and buffets me, penetrating my skin and softening my tissues and bones.
Quaking with panic, I scream louder when my flesh starts stretching into goo.
The incoherent sound leaks past my mushy lips, slowly joining all the other notes of my previous screams, which somehow are matching pace with my descent.
Rationality abandons my thoughts as everything from the toes of my gimpy leg to the wisps of hair on my head liquefy and drift apart, the streaked droplets riding alongside the accompanying chorus of fear.
The unseen forces continue shredding the elongating blobs of flesh until I’m only a streaking rain of dust accelerating down an ever-lengthening tunnel.
My self-control disintegrates, but when I cry out, nothing comes out of my now nonexistent mouth.
Then, even the dust disappears, leaving only my consciousness riding on the crazy journey.
To keep a sliver of my sanity, I focus on my husband and my promise to him.
I will never quit until I return whole and healthy.
The passage meets a glassy sphere and stops stretching.
My speed rockets higher.
Engulfed by terror, I cling to the image of my husband sleeping next to my hospital bed and brace for the collision.
At the final instant, a tiny aperture appears in the curved surface.
As I flash through it, the invisible forces leave, and an abrupt halt jars my consciousness, ending the awful descent.
While I wail in mute horror, the accompanying chorus of fright withers into silence. Then the aperture shuts, sealing me alone without form or substance in an icy blackness.
When rational thought returns, I toss choice curses at the representatives of the Ten Sigma Program—the man in the broad-brimmed hat, Mr. Leader, Ms. Lawyer, and Mr. Scientist. Especially Ms. Lawyer, for her irrational devotion to secrecy.
Time stretches in the nothingness. Perhaps a minute passes, perhaps a century, until suddenly, I’m no longer alone.
Looming from the edge of my perception, giant presences hover like hazy shadows. They are the masters of this universe, the virtual overlords. Why that knowledge arrives, I have no idea.
As they trade indistinguishable whispers, I sense curiosity, anticipation, and surprisingly, twinges of envy, anger, and hate.
What have I gotten myself into?
Before I can consider the question, the ether of my form coalesces into a vortex of golden sparks. While the glittering dots swirl, they lengthen and become fine golden threads weaving into a tight lattice until I’m a glowing tapestry of memories and essence.
A vast dome of the most perfect blue appears.
I’m awestruck, and the fabric of my being trembles at its beauty.
The invisible vortex returns and shreds my woven form.
My mind shrieks as I struggle to hold the material together.
As the golden scraps tumble into the cyclone, I abandon the effort to preserve my physical self and fight to retain my sanity, concentrating on my husband Nick and my family—all the good things from my life.
Agony twists through my core as the decaying pieces whip around the whirlwind’s center and dissolve into their individual threads. Many of the shimmering strands split and regrow. A few crumble into dust.
Sparks of red and specks of black materialize, instantly getting swept into the maelstrom. When they stretch into filaments matching the length of my gold threads, a shock hits me.
They are altering my essence.
Before I can resist, a black filament slams against my consciousness, wrapping and tugging at my perception until my world alters into …
Salty air tainted with sulfur under a cloud-streaked sky. I blink to fight the sting in my eyes as my combat boots dig into loose sand and I sprint up a blackened shoreline. Nearby, friends fall in thick splashes of red while bullets spray dirt and whiz past my face. I lurch from an explosion spraying sand over my helmet then plow through puffs of greasy smoke, reaching the cusp of the beach. The wooden stock of my rifle pounds into my shoulder as I fire at the nearest enemy, whose head bursts into bits of blood and bone. Quickly reloading, I charge over a slit trench and fire again.
Shocked by the ferocity, I wrench myself from the clutches of the foreign memory, spinning back into the black and red blizzard.
A red filament instantly grabs me and hijacks my reality.
The heavy weight of a short sword rests in my grip. Despite seeing quite a few Roman movies, I never knew it was called a gladius. I take a tentative swing and then a thrust. Moving faster, my hand and body practice combinations of attack and defense. The pace increases and soon, the parries, thrusts, dodges, swings, and footwork blur into a long smear of motion. When the dizzying training finally stops, I understand everything I didn’t want to know about fighting with a short sword.
I’m ripped back into the whirling threads. Helpless against the mysterious forces, I grasp at the memories of my loved ones to combat the militaristic knowledge flooding into my being.
A black strand engulfs my mind.
I thud up and down inside the confines of a suit of armor, the heavy air stinking of fermented sweat. Resisting the urge to heave, I aim my lance at an escaping swordsman. The tip punches past his flimsy leather protection. Impaled, he drops in a puddle of blood as screams pour through his contorted lips. After yanking the lance from his twitching body, I twist my stallion to pursue another fleeing enemy. Elation spreads throughout my being as the distance shrinks.
The savage emotion drives me back to sanity. Blood makes me squeamish.
I am not a fighter.
A tangle of red slashes across my mind.
Under a cone of illumination in a black space, a .22 semi-automatic pistol rests on a table in front of me. I disassemble and reassemble the weapon in twenty-six seconds. Not fast enough. I try again and again, continuing until my speed is acceptable. Another pistol, this one a .45, appears. I repeat the same process, my fingers blurring under the bright light.
After each success, a different gun, one of every type of rifle and pistol, materializes for a new round of learning.
When the firearm instruction finishes, more red thre
ads overrun my consciousness.
Dressed in a white Karategi, I stand under the midday sun in a dirt square. After assuming a horse stance, my body flows into the different positions, practicing the dance of a martial arts form. Like everything else, the speed increases until my motions blur. When I stop, my mind overflows with every nuance of Karate. An instant later, my body resets and repeats the exhausting process for Kendo. Jujutsu follows. Then another one. Seemingly lasting forever, the session covers every variation of moving and punching and kicking in everything from Aikido to Wing Chun Kung Fu.
When the last of the empty-handed techniques concludes, other red threads pound knife fighting lessons into me. Having only rudimentary culinary skills in the real world, the sheer number of ways a sharp edge can be used to kill or maim is amazing.
After I’m kicked back into the tempest, I understand. The red threads contain martial knowledge and the black ones hold combat experiences.
The understanding vanishes as more of them claw at my consciousness. Ugly skirmishes from trench warfare in WWI fill my mind. Surrounded by the hordes of Genghis Khan, I help destroy a long-lost civilization. Pens, glasses, rulers, cards—every mundane item becomes a deadly weapon in my hands. The lessons move into all forms of street fighting. Then techniques for every bladed weapon. Guns. Explosives. Moving in all possible terrains. Combat in jungle, deserts, ice, steppes, and forests become second nature.
And I kill in every conceivable way. Hundreds of thousands of people fall under my hands or feet or whatever exotic weapon is available.
Mercifully, I maintain my sense of self by focusing on my husband and family as I lose count of the number of times the process repeats.
The maelstrom abruptly stops.
Wind gusts down a lonely, frost-covered avenue while a dusting of snow swirls around my huddled, shivering body. The jagged ruins of a large factory surround me. Ice covers my matted hair and inside my frozen boots, my toes tingle from frostbite.
