by Travis Borne
Boron slowed—slower than his fucking slow-ass self—and turned to the right. Like abused shocks that had done sixty Baja-10,000s, his jerky arms and fingers manually unlocked a regular-sized door. With a tad more force than he seemed capable of producing, Boron forced the nearly one-foot-thick metal door open. Three steps in and he pulled an old throw switch; lights lit—and there was some stuff.
It was a small, rocky and dismal room, no bigger than 25 feet squared (squared barely), but after coming from the magnificent open outside-like areas it felt like choking hands.
“I scavenged these venerable units from ships once manned by humans.” Boron held his hand outward—zzz-ernt. Lion realized what they were; Kim surmised. Stuff for lending. The cases were black like glossy coffins and there were six of them mottled about. Each had dozens of thick black wires snaking out and onto the walls like living vines. An octopus of wires disappeared into a metal pipe on the right while a squid’s-worth went to a control panel. Nothing else was in the drab room but dust and must and probably some mold. All looked like it had been carelessly installed and thrown into the room; nothing was mounted and the wiring job was a hack, and seemingly, the room had been deserted for at least a decade, maybe longer; glossy black wires everywhere, tripwires, snakes slithering about the floor.
“What are they, capsules?” Crisp asked. “Looks like beds—you want us to get in these?”
“Yes. But first let me brief you. You may take a seat if you’d like, Mr. Crisp, inventor.” Boron gestured to the others likewise. The back wall was carved gray rock, no more burgundy mottles, and had been excavated in such a way as to leave a rocky platform plus-or-minus a few inches of deviation from standard ass height; Joey took a seat, Ivy too.
“It’s warm,” Joey said upon feeling, then rubbing the jagged texture. Curiously, others extended a hand. It was, very. Deep under the ocean, closer to Earth’s mantle; perhaps that was why the entire facility was oddly warm. Hugh, tired, drained from his injury, the last to feel the warm rock which appeared cold, also took a seat; half of the right side of his light-blue tailor uniform was purple, having had mixed with an elephant’s-worth of blood from his poor, unfortunate, lobster claw.
“You will log in and make contact with the others,” Boron continued. “Time is different inside. My systems work extremely fast and I make use of the processing speed to boost output significantly. The consciousness existing within performs near its limit. Out here, as I talk to you and maneuver around, I am slowing my mental capabilities to a near halt. But on the inside many months have passed since I first attempted to scan and introduce your people. Ten were successfully logged in, two were flushed upon first detection of the problem. From the moment the first person entered until the twelfth, all went wrong, and two and a half weeks passed on the inside. And since, I haven’t been able to access the interface or communicate with those who should be generating The Special.”
“And just what are we supposed to do when we get there?” Kim asked; she’d exploded when Boron said flushed but he simply ignored her.
“You will arrive to Midtown and you will have to convince the others to—return to work.”
Kim understood, and said, “You need them to kill dream characters.”
“Of what do you speak, Kim?” Boron replied. “I extract The Special using methods I have contrived, the only way I know how. That is, copies of each individual is meshed with their consciousness to create a viable character, a seemingly real-life person in a seemingly real and livable virtual world. I cultivated my own methods and have been able extract what I need, and I have little information or expertise otherwise. Although, I admit I copied the premise by capturing one of the post-war ships—yet the entire idea was learned from a memory within Jerry’s mind. When one of my pack scanned him, objectiveness allowed a temporary schism, a new path forward, and then and only then, I had become a traitor to my kind. I was the last surviving member of my unit of five drones and I departed rather than call for reinforcements. I fought my urges, orders, and instincts and eventually devised a way to fully complete the divide, covertly. In following up with the fabulous idea I retrieved some parts, but I had to invent my own way to extract The Special, to further my new and wonderful, and unique existence.”
“Pain?” Lion finally broke his silence with the utterance. He knew more than the others by light years and it was all coming back to him, and, he was surprised Kim had picked him, for if she only knew what he and Jim had once done; well, he would have been branded a psychopathic murderer. As partners, Jim and he were so effective because they had hatred, loads—had caused pain, loads. They loathed being trapped in Jewel City, hated what the machines had stolen and vented by forcing pain onto their dream characters before death. It had become a game, a sickness gone mad. And Ted vacuumed in the data, and although Ted never declared the effectiveness out loud or directly, most lenders came to know—by feel: that drag after a good kill, after a bloody slaughter. Lending produced huge surges in the feed when DCs felt pain, prolonged agony, and mental trauma before death.
“Yes, Lion,” Boron spoke. “I didn’t catch your occupation, sir…”
Lion hesitated, he was going to say it, Lender, but said, “Weed puller,” instead.
Boron quirked his head—zzz-ernt—yet continued. “It is the only way I have been able to extract it. And you six must log in and convince them to continue, to return to work.”
“It’s deranged,” Lion said.
Deranged: Kim absorbed him with her every perception—not expecting the word to come from, of all people, Lion. But she felt the same.
“I understand it might be deranged from one perspective, but not from my point of view. I have provided all who are logged in with time off and a very special home. It is thus far the only way I’ve discovered as functional in extracting The Special.”
“You inflict pain upon the people inside?” Kim asked. “How could we ask anyone to continue with that?”
“I attempted to learn how the other towns, likewise yours, have done it, but I have been unable to replicate any of the techniques. With the first humans I had rescued there were residual traces of dream characters being manifested and output seemed to flow out faster, requiring less inflicted discomfort, but that remainder has long since ceased to—”
“Because they are being held against their will!” Lion blasted.
“It is the only way, Lion the weed puller. The generated realm, as you will soon discover, is one of peace and harmony, a reproduction of a time when humans were relatively peaceful, when humanity lacked the over-proportional amount of technology in contrast to later years. All rotate for the work that must be done—it is their occupation. Those who have higher output gains, those who are complicit, get more time off. I have learned the optimum balance for obedience versus output. There are officers who enforce the system and if one does not go to work, they are forced. Disobedience results in more overall working hours and less time off enjoying the peaceful world I have created.”
“That’s insane,” Kim said. Ivy nuzzled into her; if Ivy was made of tin she would be rusting herself as solid as a singularity.
Boron, seeing the emotional pique, reacted, “You need not concern yourselves of the work that must be done, that is not for you.”
But as if Boron expected some sort of easement subsequent to the last five words following his comma—none arrived.
“There must be another way?” Hugh said in a weakened, raspy voice.
“None that I have found, Hugh the...”
“Tailor,” Hugh said, knowing the idiosyncratic bot wanted to know his— “Why must you know our occupations?”
“I choose to, in order to be more authentic, at your level—and I do possess curiosity.” Boron continued, “I must admit, Hugh the tailor, your system is somehow superior. I’ve observed your human cities for years and I know you have been, as you call it, lending, yet I have been unsuccessful at cracking any of that programing, and the ships I
’d found to loot were mostly destroyed. As well the programming was locked with encryption even I could not decode. Furthermore, attempts to trick your systems, hack them and retrieve the data, have also proved to be futile. I have been attempting this steadily for years, most unsuccessfully. I must say, the creator of your systems, whom I’ve aforementioned to be Herald from Jerry’s memories, must have possessed an extraordinary mind. The fact that you’ve managed to survive this long can only be attributed to a magnificent feat, Herald’s, which tilted the scales in your favor, for humanity possessed insignificant magnitude to accomplish what he’d achieved.”
“And what exactly is that?” Joey asked.
“Survival of the human race.”
“Herald was human.”
Zzz-it. “I—you are correct, Kim.” Boron shifted as if a circuit had popped at the base of his numbskull.
“Nevertheless, we cannot convince them to be—tortured,” Lion said. “We won’t.” He knew he couldn’t log in and convince anyone to continue—with that. He knew what torture was. And his memories kept returning. The longer he thought about any specific detail the more it grew and blossomed and intensified. He envisioned a tree with lightning for branches and every thought sprouted more branches in turn launching new memories—it was dynamically exploding within his mind. He remembered Ted and his data. He recalled Rico, in the box of a control room. He remembered the nod Ted had passed to him and Jim before their final log in together; they were bottoming out at yellow status, in dire need of a boost. Ted nodded, and both he and Jim, being die-hard veterans of the kill, knew, torture the shit out of the motherfuckers—it would surge the feed like a fist to an unready ass. Lion realized the people Boron had stolen were logged in to his system, one designed not with humans in mind. It was a callous extractor based on statistics and needs, maximizing for the greatest output, and Lion thought about something as branches on the tree of light reenergized his brain: Boron would never experience this suffering for himself. Boron didn’t consider and couldn’t fathom the human capacity, the will and strength of the human spirit when freed, not bound. Prisoners would never provide much to the system and there would be no dream characters to dissipate with an oppressed system, so there’d be no siphon of any remainder in a painless and humane way. Boron extracted the feed directly from each and every person, maximizing output in a direct, unscrupulous manner, forcing the human mind, squeezing it like a washrag, one soaked in blood. Boron was a child. Perhaps he possessed immense calculating ability, yes, but he had little ability to think abstractly—and of course little to no compassion.
“Lion is right, Boron,” Rick added. “We just can’t ask them to—”
“You must, and you will, or we all die.”
Lion felt his mind on fire and remembered more; the trunk of the white-lightning tree rose as if growing from the base of his skull. It all started when he entered the ship, then became a prisoner—that small purple zap just before rushing in. He was able to think with more clarity and focus now, more than he’d had in a very long time.
“Lion,” Kim said. “Are you okay?” She watched him zone out. His eyes went up in thought and he took in a deep breath then let it out.
“Kim, I’ve never felt better, and, I have an idea. How much time do we have, Boron?”
32. Part V - A Broken Promise
“He’s not in there.” It was all Marlo said to Jim, Jon, and Rico. He spoke just as Jim set the head on the panel before his main screen. Rob had departed for the broadcast room as Rico advised he could begin learning the systems by working closely with Ted.
In the control room, on this largest 3D screen, Marlo just stood there, his back facing them. The symbol and star embellished linings of his robe glistened, swaying like Persian-blue carpet drapes in, this time, a strong breeze. Before him were the castle’s ramparts, and beyond was a view of rolling grassy hills beyond a quarter mile of gardens, and something else. In the distant sky were what seemed snakes, sinuating like living shadows. The camera’s viewpoint was as if, fifty feet to Marlo’s back, looking down on him and his pristine castle, unworn in its massive, majestic greatness. No moat needed. And the green grass around it looked as if Marlo had spent a fortune on the best sod gold coins could purchase.
“The sphere is just a container, isn’t it?” Jon replied, while the viewpoint edged closer down and toward Marlo. “Empty. It can hold a consciousness, memories, ego, but there’s nothing there. Inserting it simply activated the head. That’s why it’s been making these weird faces at us.”
“Correct, Jon.” The viewpoint was now at Marlo’s back, and he turned around to face the three of them.
“So, it is just a blank slate,” Jim said. “Rafael truly is gone forever.” From the memories Jim had received he felt he knew Rafael personally, and his hopes had been a lottery-winner’s jolt after spotting the glossy bald head with a hole for a mouth. They looked to Marlo who seemed reluctant to speak; he’d lowered his head down and to the side. The three of them sensed it immediately: Marlo had another secret.
“That’s not entirely true,” Marlo responded slowly, as if guilty, lifting his head and the heavy carpet along with it. “Sirs, he explicitly told me never to say, no matter the consequences—”
“He is alive!” Jim burst.
“You have…already met him, Jim. Rafael is too intelligent and resourceful to end himself entirely, although unlike many, he did have the power to do so. And although he told me never to interfere with his new life, I believe even he knew this time would come.”
“Marlo spill it,” Jim said. “Tell us straight out.”
“I’ve run some calculations. I now have a time frame for the end of this city, and the planet. The coming destruction is unstoppable and I cannot see any possible way to save us, much less pull off this extraordinary rescue you’ve set us into a collision course with.” He paused. “So, for the sake of Rafael’s family, and perhaps to serve as a second opinion for you, I believe I must break my promise. Rafael is a very special mind and if anyone can convince you it’s finished, or we are to extend this looming deadline by even the slightest measure of time, well, he is the only one who can help us.”
“I’ve met him? You looked specifically to me,” Jim said. “What do you mean, I’ve met him? I—”
“Old Town?” Rico blurted. Jon stood puzzled, curiosity piquing the muscles of his classically good-looking face.
“Yes,” Marlo said. “Tomorrow you log in with me, but first you will log in to the Old Town map. Today, now. Find Felix and the others who live there and tell them it will soon be time to depart. There’s no longer a need for any of them to remain in the system.”
“Marlo,” Jim barked. He felt like he’d inherited Amy’s impatience. “Fucking spill it!”
“The best tacos in Old Town, you’ll know when you look into his eyes. And that, Jim, is all I will say. I have reconfigured the system so the three of you can log in, together. I’ll also instill into each of you a special reconfiguration: time will be slowed upon your arrival so your four-hour afternoon login will equal three full days. Rico, inform your father, and the few others who are not merely DCs, tell them to be ready. Jon and Jim, it won’t be easy but you’ll have to bring Rafael back. And he will not go easily. In fact, he won’t even remember Rafael or who he once was. It’s how he wanted it. And it’ll take time and lots of convincing but I think you just may be able to get him back, if you are clever enough, resourceful enough, but mostly, convincing enough. Be authentic, be yourselves, be strong and be wise, and get the job done before the third day is up.
“Now go, get it done. And tomorrow, along with Lia, you’ll log in with me and I’ll show you what’s really gone down over the past twenty years—and what we’re up against, exactly why you should have boarded that ship when you had the chance.”
33. Old Town Reunion
The night was fresh with a calm westerly breeze. A tumbleweed had picked up a hitchhiker, it and its sock passenger went roll
ing by under the saturating light of the Milky Way galaxy currently enslaving their attention. A place one could just melt into, become the road, maybe the glistening water in that trough over there, that hand-painted wooden sign or the tumbleweed driving itself along without a care in the world; it was quiescent, peaceful—save for echoes leaking from the saloon fifty feet behind them. The three had materialized standing, center of the extra-wide, dusty ol’ street. Two clockwise, one counter, they turned to face the only lit structure upon hearing a bottle break and laughter cackle; there was no mistaking Felix’s laugh.
The immaculate, ornately carved interior was empty save for the bartender on the left cleaning glasses, a lone man at the bar with his head down under dim lights, and seven rowdy, incongruent souls sittin’ round a round table on the right. The sweet skunk of mezcal dueling with cigarette smoke was badinage in the friendly atmosphere. And there was Felix, a hand-rolled smoke about to slide off the edge of his dry lips.
It was a colorful version of Bingo, with shots.
Felix downed one after a whooo-damn after another, a full row of four from his board while his friends cheered and blustered, and laughed. Before the last he felt the cool outside air brush against his leathery face. He turned to see several dudes who looked more incongruent than his bunch. The shot halted beneath his nose as if it’d become a rose to smell; he saw six of them: at least two in blue jumpsuits, two in an oddly familiar tan vest, and two wearing clothing he hadn’t seen the likeness of since he lived in LA, 2025. Shaking his head and mentally slapping himself, familiarity solidified his distorted sight, and six became three.
“Rico!” He yelled, finishing the shot, then nearly impaling the table by slamming it down: CRACK! He rose to his feet, pushing on the chair for support. The others around the table displayed intrigue in his sobering burst of elation as if they received a bit of Felix’s supercharged vibes. He wobbled his way over with happy cackles. Sobered in the least—no.
