by A W Wang
He takes a short breath and casts angry eyes at the ceiling.
As I wait for a witty retort, I purse my lips.
A moment passes before he leans back and raises his hands in surrender. “This place is like bathing in saltpeter. I got nothing.”
Suri and Vela laugh. Syd can be a charmer when he wants, which is something I find more disconcerting than his covert glances.
Fingers wrapped around the end of her long blond hair, Carol asks the table, “I wonder why they hate sex so much?”
“It’s the Garden of Eden,” Ally cheerfully says.
I snort at the reference. “Right, this is the Garden of Eden, except that we have all the knowledge of killing and every other sin besides sex.”
“We can ask Haiku,” Walt says.
Plastic scrapes over the cheap floor tiles as Sergeant Rick adjusts his chair. “I know the answer,” he says with focused blue eyes.
When everyone stops to listen, I give him props for having a commanding presence.
“It’s about simplicity.”
I tilt my head. “Simplicity?”
Rick’s crooked teeth show when he smiles. “We’re warriors, and in war, the less going on in your head besides surviving and accomplishing your mission, the better. With men and women together, having sex or relationships would cloud the thought process. Removing sexual tension is the best thing that could have been done to save your lives.”
Although Rick’s words work at an intellectual level, Ally bites her lip while Jock grumbles. Suri sends me a clandestine eye roll.
Except for a shy nod from the teenaged Walt, mostly embarrassed smiles complete the remaining reactions. My guess is that bodily pleasures are more important to the rest of us. At least until the virtual overlords wipe those desires from our minds.
Pretending not to notice the dissent, I tighten my cheeks and tug at the thin material covering my breasts. “Well, I still don’t understand why we’re dressed like this.”
Rick thumps his chest. “The bare skin is refreshing. This is the finest uniform you can wear. It’s natural, honest, and never leaves you. As a matter of fact, it would be better if everyone was completely naked.”
I grimace at the thought of Syd staring at my completely naked body.
No matter the situation, things can always be worse.
“That is brilliant,” Syd says with an enthralled expression, his gaze flickering over my chest.
I groan at the lewd image involving me that is almost certainly dancing in his imagination.
Rick adds in a commanding tone, “Now I know some of you are suspicious of our virtual overlords. But give them a chance. Everything has a purpose. Not worrying about sex or clothing is for the best, people. It might seem funny now, but we’ll get used to it.”
Scrunching my lips, I suppress the urge to say something obnoxious. Sex is the creating life part of the human existence, and I’m not sure that eradicating any feelings toward it is in everyone’s best interests.
Jock leans forward, saying, “Remember, this program wasn’t created on a whim. The real world needs us.”
A nodding Rick holds his blue pouch over the table. “That’s right. So suck it up and let’s have a toast to the greatest team this program will ever see!”
Syd matches our leader’s enthusiasm, and when everyone else joins the happy parade, I force away a pang of guilt from leaving my loved ones and reluctantly add my bag to the mix.
“Cheers!” Rick bellows, lifting his arm.
Elbows rise, the inexpensive chairs squeak, and the team echoes Rick’s toast with shakes of their blue food. Then copying his lead, we each puncture the plastic seal of our meal with a sharpened straw.
Weird views of sex aside, whatever Rick’s reasoning, his straightforward attitude has me the most at-ease since they put the contraption on my head in the hospital room. I relax, watching the others sip the blue liquid.
Their faces express contentment while satisfied moans drift over the cheap surroundings.
“Hey, what’s it like?” I ask.
Suri scrutinizes her blue pouch. “Like the most wonderful food my mother made.”
“Better than anything I ever ate,” Walt timidly says.
“Back when I was the mayor of Seattle, we had this expensive banquet—” Simon announces as an introduction to a long self-aggrandizing story.
I give a silent thank you when Rick shakes the table with a massive fist thump. “Christmas dinner after you survive a dangerous mission.”
Syd stays mum, his forehead wrinkled in concentration.
Vela smiles. “Just imagine any food you want. It’s awesome.”
Somewhat nervous, I run through the remains of my culinary history. There was the waffle house I loved.
I take a sip of the gooey substance.
Buttery waffles smothered in thick maple syrup cascade over my taste buds. My lips twist in delight.
“Wow,” I say, my mouth dripping syrupy liquid.
Suri laughs when I wipe blue drops from my chin. If she only knew the truth about my eating habits.
While everyone else continues, I take another gulp and swish it around with my tongue. The stuff could be anything I want, but when I blank my mind, the flavor evaporates, leaving only a tasteless, gloppy substance. The effect is purely psychosomatic.
Syd yelps. From anyone else, the spontaneity would be funny, but coming from him, it’s disturbing.
“What? No remembrances of anything yummy?” Suri asks good-naturedly.
His plain face holds a bemused expression as he says to nobody, “The most decadent thing one can imagine.”
“Well, that was a fine meal,” Rick announces, squishing the empty pouch in his hand.
I snort bubbles of blue before I embarrassingly swallow the tasteless portion in my mouth.
“Come on everyone, finish up,” he says.
Sergeant Rick is the type of person who doesn’t need three cups of coffee to power up for the day, which automatically makes him a better person than me. For my own sanity, I hope the gung-ho attitude is contagious.
After wiping the wetness from under my nose, an action that feels all too natural, I put the straw back to my lips and close my eyes, thinking of the holiday dinner right before I met the man in the broad-brimmed hat.
When I concentrate, my memories produce a blank.
I drop the pack, accidentally spilling blue droplets on the table. Tensing the muscles across my face, I try harder. After a moment, the delectable flavor of prime rib and the creamy texture of mashed potatoes smothered in gravy roam over my tongue.
Mission accomplished!
I pause. Not accomplished. When I attempt to recall the seating positions and guests, there are only featureless mannequins around a featureless kitchen as if painted by an insane impressionist. Worse, as I focus, pieces of people break off and evaporate while parts of the furniture wither and turn gray. When the form at the head of the table blackens and crumbles into its body, I flinch.
“What’s wrong?” Suri asks.
The thought of losing my past, the sole remaining link to my loved ones, is more terrifying than my fear of the bald giant. It’s my one pillar of support, the one decent thing I need to keep my sense of self in this crazy place.
“Haiku!”
Everyone stares in surprise, but I’m not sure what volume I need to get her attention.
She pops above the table with her dirt-streaked feet across from my eyes.
I look up. “I have a memory disintegrating into literal ash. Can you explain that?”
“Of course.” Her eyes deepen, and her smile flattens. “The memories specific to your prior life can interfere with the threads. They are being erased to increase your effectiveness. This is a perfectly natural part of the optimization process. Please don’t be alarmed; this is for your own good.”
“The longer we’re here, the more our memories fade?”
She bobs her head.
“Until wh
en?”
“Until you are your own essence,” she replies with perfect innocence.
I shudder.
It’s another way of saying ‘until nothing is left.’
Eleven
Three days pass. Besides panic rising from our fading memories and the rest of the acclimation process, the specter of what the next phase will bring hovers over everything.
To increase our readiness for anything that might happen in a scenario, Sergeant Rick has scheduled four two-hour training periods per day. Since nobody has any idea of what might happen in a scenario, we tediously practice everything imaginable from our threads.
A large, multi-purpose room overlooking the fun district holds our current session. Eight of us, and one angry Rick, practice empty-handed fighting inside the glass cube-shaped space. Missing is Syd, who participated in the first boring session about firearm safety but has since gone off to do whatever Syd does when we prepare. Although the behavior is a flagrant rejection of all Rick’s pleas for unity and teamwork, he’s not AWOL because technically, there isn’t a formal military command structure.
While nobody mentions Syd’s absence, occasional glances sneak beyond the glass walls, looking for our missing teammate.
Vela fires a punch at the bridge of my nose. The fist comes slightly high with too much committed action.
With a quick half-step, I lower my head and guide her attack past my face. Then, seizing her arm and twisting into her body, I flip her over my shoulder.
She lands on a foam practice mat with a terrific thump. Before turning, she slams her fists.
“You’ll get it,” I say with encouragement.
“Sorry, it’s just that you’re not even sweaty. Can you at least pretend to be breathing hard?”
I shrug and help her to her feet.
As she steadies herself, adjusting the ribbons of her clothing, she says, “You said you were a pencil pusher in real life. Not some superhero, right?”
Letting my fingers brush through my hair, I reply, “Just a nerd with a superb head of red hair.”
She glances at my body with suspicion. “I don’t understand why you look like that. Sorry, I mean, everyone else looks great too, like at the best point in their lives but in better shape. But it’s an extension of their original appearance. Why are you different?”
“The hair is the same.”
“You know what I mean.” Shyly rubbing her cheek, she adds, “Sorry, I don’t mean to be so distrustful.”
While Ally is the most outgoing of the group, Vela falls to the opposite end of the social spectrum, being more awkward than even Walt. Although I’m the one she’s opened to, she keeps quiet about her past except for her love of animals. But the attack that disfigured her face erased that love and now she has to fight against her mistrust of all things. I hope one day before her memories die she’ll talk about it because I know she has a good heart.
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” I say. “Let’s do it again.”
“Just go easy.”
“I’ll go hard to make you better.”
She responds to the tough love with a tense smile and resumes a combat stance.
We run another bout of hand-to-hand combat. When I focus, it’s as if I’m in her mind and can see which thread she’s using for her next attack.
In seconds, she’s awkwardly sprawled on the mat.
Rubbing her bottom, she faces me with an expression that’s more bewildered than annoyed. “I just can’t understand how you keep winning so easily. We have the same training and experiences. You had to be some kind of superhero in real life.”
“No,” I say, stretching the word into a long syllable, more from embarrassment than anything else.
While her words are true, I have no explanation for why I’m better at fighting than anyone else. Especially since everyone passed the test of “Acid Island.” Maybe I’m improving because I’m gaining confidence in my new body. Or it could be that the credit belongs with Rick’s extensive training regimen.
Or perhaps I’ve received a gift from the overlords.
However, no matter the reason, even though we all have identical threads, I react faster and with more precision than any of the others.
Except for the bald giant, I remind myself, irritated I still can’t mention him to anyone else.
Rick claps and everyone stops sparring. “Okay, people. That was a great session. Gather around.”
Carol frowns as Suri helps her up. Besides myself, Suri has excelled too. With a grin, she tussles Carol’s hair and then points at me, mouthing, “You’re next.”
I reply with a wink.
As everyone meanders to Rick, Ally lets out a good-natured laugh while chatting in a loud voice with Simon and Jock.
“Come on people. Let’s act like we’re real soldiers. Have a little urgency,” Rick says.
After we crowd around him, Rick focuses on Walt. “Keep at it. You’re improving.”
Unsure of how to handle compliments, Walt giggles nervously and rubs his chin. Although lethal by real-world standards, he’s by far the worst of the group. For the virtual world, he’s only one step above hopeless.
I frown at Simon, who stands next to the thin teen. The former politician always partners with Walt and thinks he is tougher than he is.
Jock wipes his sweaty forehead and gazes at my clean appearance with a playful look of disgust. From across the group, Suri sends me an accusing smirk.
I raise an eyebrow and mouth, “Married.”
In addition to having zero libido running through my virtual body.
Suri breaks eye contact when Rick continues, “I appreciate all of your perseverance. With this type of effort, we’ll accomplish stupendous things.”
“Where’s Syd?” Simon asks. “We can only win with discipline. He’ll wind up getting one of us killed.”
Nervous heads bob in agreement.
I clench my teeth and say nothing. Although Syd’s stares at my body have subsided, his unnatural focus and strange mood swings are just as bad. I’m happier without his company.
As if my thoughts have power, I see him through the glass wall as he saunters on the path below the facility.
Walt naively points. “There he is.”
Simon flies out the door and runs down the slope with a frumpy gait.
So much for military discipline.
As we follow the ex-politician, Rick sprints past us.
When Simon cuts him off, Syd stops, his plain face expressing surprise. He’s playing coy because it isn’t possible he didn’t notice the gaggle of us running after him, especially with Simon’s heavy thumping steps.
A furious Rick plants himself next to Simon while I outrace the others, arriving as Syd says with nonchalance, “What?”
When the rest of the team catches up a moment later, I feel Jock’s large shoulders at my side.
“We’re a team,” Rick says.
Syd shrugs. “So?”
Simon cuts across Rick and gets in Syd’s face. “We rely on each other to stay alive.” Although pretending to be levelheaded, Simon’s more on edge than any of us. My theory is politicians don’t get shot at too often. But the knowledge of the threads and the power in his virtual body have put a whole new veneer of bravado over his mindset.
The physical threat does nothing to Syd’s demeanor. Without blinking, he states, “We’re ten random people thrown together as a unit. That is all. Haiku said we all have the threads of combat.” His voice rises higher to parody our avatar. “The red threads are your weapons training. The black threads give you the experiences of thousands of soldiers. That is all you need. No mean taskmasters here!” He finishes with a loud clap.
A vein pops out on Rick’s forehead. His ranger cool vanishes, and pushing Simon aside, he jabs his index finger into Syd’s chest. “For better or worse, we’re stuck with each other. And that means we’ve got to have each other’s backs.”
“Says who?”
“Says
the man who’s seen combat and who knows what can happen.”
“Oh, so you know what’s going to happen when the scenarios start?”
Rick pauses at Syd’s point. A scenario could be a knitting demonstration or a mass parade in skirts. Nobody knows. He recovers and replies, “That’s why we prepare.”
“Okay,” Syd says. “Make me. If practicing is so grand, you shouldn’t have a problem beating me in a fight.”
Used to pounding on Walt, Simon steps forward. “Fine.”
“Nobody fights except me,” Rick says. “Until someone taps out?”
Syd nods.
We form a loose circle around the two men as they assume combat postures.
Vela whispers, “Rick’s got army experience. Real training. He’ll win, right?”
I bite my lip. Sergeant Rick is bigger and more muscled. Syd is thin and only average height. “It’ll be closer than you think,” I whisper back.
Suri nods. “Agree.”
Ally claps. “Get him, Rick!”
Others yell encouragement for our team leader.
My thoughts stay sober. While I’d love to see Syd go down in a humiliating defeat, I’m smart enough to know encouragement won’t make the slightest difference. Given the military makeup of the threads, everyone is an expert. And if Rick loses…
Neither man is stupid, and the fight starts with a feeling out period. They circle, probing for weak points. While Rick exudes a sure competence, Syd moves with feet light enough to make his wiry form appear to float.
When they finish a semicircle, Rick attacks, snapping a jab into Syd’s face. It’s perfectly executed, the entire weight of Rick’s shoulder behind the punch, and Syd’s head snaps backward.
Of the ensuing cheers, Ally’s voice rings the loudest.
I refrain from celebrating, keeping silent and chewing on a thumbnail.
Eyes focused, Syd straightens and side-steps a jab. He takes a step and plows straight into a devastating right cross from Rick, the violence of the impact cutting through the shouts of the team.
As Syd staggers with a blank expression and regains his balance, I’m frightened. The punch would have dropped most people, but despite the force hitting his face, Syd didn’t blink.
