“A distraction to let me find out what’s going on in here,” Toggs said. “Didn’t quite work out, so I improvised. Is everybody okay?”
“So far,” the protozoa said. “They’ve been doing more measuring, weighing, a series of touch-test strips, lots of things with their machines. Have you heard how long they’re going to keep us? Will they let us go?”
“I don’t really know. Hey, have you seen Kwed? Millipedoid, talks a lot, used to follow me around a lot. I was wondering if he might be in here.”
“Not in this tent,” the protozoa said.
One of the humans came over. Through the clear faceplate Toggs saw it was a female inside the lumpy plastic suit. A hose ran from the clear mask to a small tank on her back. She wore a bulky tool kit on her waist.
She looked Toggs in the eyes. “I’m going to examine you,” she said with exaggerated emphasis on each word. “So you’re a chatty fellow. None of the others talk much.”
Toggs didn’t reply or give any indication that he understood.
She had heard them speaking. Toggs sat quiet and still as the human used an infrared thermometer to take his temperature. She did some measuring with a retractable tape and a set of calipers. She pushed gently on various parts of his body. Toggs had seen her before. She had been in the camp since their initial induction and had done much the same to each of the two thousand guests, including Toggs. Basic measurements, nothing intrusive.
Other humans called her Cochran with the honorific of Doctor.
So why the second round of basic metrics and in isolation?
Measure twice, dig once, was the old Kloman saying.
She spoke as she worked. “You are all unique beings with little in common. I’m having a hard time determining any baselines except for the measurements we took when you were first brought in here. You had some sort of seizure. Did you faint? You seem fine. Records show you’ve been eating. You aren’t one of the guests that can’t tolerate direct sunlight. You haven’t shown any sensitivity to the air. I hope you’re feeling well, and maybe you can get a sense of what I’m trying to say.”
Toggs followed all of it but continued to say nothing. What would be the point? The consensus was to keep their ability to fully understand the humans hidden for now until their intentions became clear.
“Maybe like me you just were surprised at all that noise,” Doctor Cochran said.
The other human came over. They spoke softly. Toggs listened.
“What happened to him?” the attendant asked.
“Hard to say. The guard had a gun. Maybe it was a fear response. Maybe he fainted. It’s impossible to know at this point. My worry is that some of our guests will start succumbing to some of our native bacteria. It seems inevitable, either through the air or soil or from us. And if they don’t, that speaks to my other standing theory. Our visitors have some amazing tweaks to their immune system that allows them to interact with one another as well as travel to strange new worlds without getting horribly sick or dying.”
“Language discipline, Doctor Cochran,” said a new voice.
Someone new came in, suited up, carrying a black briefcase. Toggs saw the face and silver hair behind the suit’s mask. It was the Director.
“I’m sorry, Director,” Doctor Cochran said. “Using the keypad is just so laborious.”
“We have those devices for a reason. If it’s too burdensome, we can reassign this task to another.”
Doctor Cochran squared off with the Director. She put a hand to one hip.
“We’re stretched thin as it is, Director,” Doctor Cochran said. “We’re all working hard. If you have someone more qualified than me, send her in. Otherwise let me work. I could use ten more assistants to do all of the tests that are needed, and another ten to pore over the data. We have to work the numbers with the computers we have here on site since you won’t let us transmit anything. It’s like working with a hand tied behind my back, and you want me to restrict communication to text chat?”
“I’m sure you’ll manage,” the Director said. “And it’s not a request, it’s an order.”
She raised a wrist-mounted keypad and began to punch letters one at a time. At first, Toggs thought she was merely being theatrical. But her gloved hand didn’t allow for quick typing. When she finished, the Director looked down at a similar device on his wrist. Even through the face shield, Toggs could see the man’s face flush. A human response to heightened emotions, Toggs’ translator informed him.
The Director turned and left without another word.
The assistant did some typing on his wrist, looked at Doctor Cochran.
Doctor Cochran read the new message and said out loud, “Let him fire me. But he doesn’t have anyone else to do this job.”
“She’s feisty,” Toggs said to his neighbor in the next stall. “I like her.”
“Don’t get too attached,” the protozoa said. “Your attitude will change once you hear that she thinks the best way to get any new data is to start cutting.”
***
Doctor Cochran cut.
Toggs was first. The doctor had made a show of setting up a tray with various tools, including a scalpel.
If the point of this was to terrorize, she was succeeding. Yet Toggs wasn’t restrained and was certain he could throw the human female across the tent if the need arose. She gestured for Toggs to sit still. She pulled up a stool.
“I’m going to take a skin sample,” she said.
Her voice sounded muted and strained through the suit’s speaker, but Toggs imagined it was a good voice for a human, not too nasal nor high-pitched but a warm, mid-ranged sound that pleased both of his ear holes.
She poised the blade at the back of his hand.
“Ouch,” he said, although he barely felt the scrape.
***
“Okay, I’m an idiot,” Jordan said. This caught the attention of the other patrons of the tavern. “Choke on it, the lot of you.” Most returned to their drinks and food.
Jordan considered the cup in front of her. It was empty, the aroma of spices and fruit reminding her of the mulled wine that was now warming her belly and flushing her cheeks. It turned out that the game extended credit whenever she needed more. Jordan flagged the waiter down. Made a swirling motion with a downward finger above her cup.
The waiter came around with a pitcher of wine and filled her cup.
“I’m an idiot. Wouldn’t you agree?”
The waiter shrugged and moved on to another table. Jordan took a long drink, came up for air, and finished the wine. Spicy, sweet, and warm, and perfect for the setting. Her head was a bit fuzzy, but she felt charged up and ready to take the next step. She banged the cup down and got up. The solution was so simple. Any mouth-breathing racial-epithet-spewing ten-year-old on voice chat would know the quickest way out of a game they didn’t want to play.
Rage quit. In Jordan’s case, it meant suicide. She headed for the labyrinth. She couldn’t believe she had called the cops for help in logging out. She made her way across town and down the stairs to the labyrinth. The rave was still going strong. If Shannanon was still somewhere in the throng, Jordan couldn’t tell. Four signs, two players, and a talking cat all warned her not to go down to level two or any points below, as she wasn’t high enough level. She marched past them and down the stairs with confidence.
It took seventeen seconds walking down a gloomy, damp corridor before something dropped down from the dark. The flames of the torches burning in sconces overhead flickered and curled.
“Jordan, party of one, your monster will eat you now,” Jordan said.
But instead, the thing spoke. The orange light played across the monster’s giant craggy, spiked snail shell. Six kangaroo legs grew from either side of the shell. A long snout comprised the entirety of the thing’s head. It opened wide, showing three rows of crooked teeth.
“Before you pass my arched way, with a test of knowledge you must pay,” the monster said in a dry rasp.
She rushed the thing.
Death had no sting, not even a tingle. The monster murdered her in a flash. The only thing that followed her from the game to the login menu was an adrenaline rush that made her want to dive back in and fight, but instead she whooped triumphantly.
“We hope the game was to your liking,” a woman said.
She appeared next to Jordan, a stately dame in a long formal gown. Jordan took a step back. It took but a moment to confirm that her other apps were there and running. She could log out any moment. But who was this?
Even as the thought crossed her mind, the woman said, “We want you to enjoy your game experience, and we look forward to your returning soon.”
“Not likely.” But Jordan didn’t entirely believe herself.
“If you choose to stay, bots will be dispatched to care for your bodily needs. Let me show you what else we have on offer.”
The woman gestured and started to bring up the other sims and programs Jordan had already perused, along with other titles she hadn’t noticed before. Her eyes were drawn to one screen that showed Jordan’s childhood home in Mexico City and her old gang of elementary school friends. They beckoned her over, one holding a baseball glove and ball. Her father was sitting in a lounge chair on the front porch. She didn’t have any pictures of her father, all of that having been lost in her parents’ divorce and multiple moves. Her father waved. Jordan just shook her head.
She logged out. Her throat was tight. How had a stupid program found those images? Were they from inside her head, buried somewhere to be retrieved in perfect resolution? It felt wrong, yet she wanted nothing more than to go look.
Fang warbled. The cloud-wrapped creature sat next to Jordan and had a tentacle around her wrist. She was back in the kitchen of the caretaker cabin.
“I’m sorry, Fang. I was gone longer than I said. Give me a minute, and I’ll take you outside.”
The back door buckled as something large crashed into it. A second blow came, breaking the door into pieces. An orangutan with four brilliant emerald eyes erupted into the kitchen, and she carried a long, black knife.
CHAPTER 18
Jeff woke up strapped to a hospital bed, a handcuff on either wrist securing him to the side railings. The walls of the room weren’t painted the off-green color of the hospital but were covered with vanilla-white vinyl panels. The windows appeared to be small and square with plastic latches and frames. A dim blue light came in from the outside. He couldn’t tell if it was day or night. The flat ceiling had fluorescent light fixtures attached with visible conduits for power running to exposed junction boxes. A pair of small camper skylights in the ceiling were closed. This was a temporary structure of some kind, very similar to the ones the last school he had worked for had used to accommodate their growing classroom needs.
Jeff tugged at the handcuffs. The bed looked like the most solidly built thing in the room. A nearby folding table had a few plastic chairs pushed in underneath. Several bare army-green cots took up one side of the room. There was only one door that Jeff could see.
He heard voices outside.
“Hello?” he called. “Hey!”
The voices stopped talking. Someone clomped up a few steps on the opposite side of the door and paused.
Would it be Doctor Carol? Big Albert? Sergeant ALPO? Was this some third game where he would be introduced to another cast of tormentors? He reached out with his mind for the reset switches, found they were still there. Next to them in the mental virtual space was another toggle labeled Enter Game Worlds! Jeff tried to ignore the mind sign, but had a hard time doing so. Now that he saw it, it was like a flashing neon marquee in his field of vision. But if he could enter, he wasn’t actually in-game. He struggled anew against the cuffs.
“I’m afraid those are necessary for now,” a woman’s voice said.
It took a moment for Jeff’s eyes or brain to decide to see who was in front of him. The game portal faded. Jeff saw a woman in a dark suit standing at the foot of the bed. Unlike any of the agents Jeff had seen before leaving Earth, she wasn’t wearing a tie and her suit looked wrinkled. She held a tablet in her hand, the blue light from the screen making her pale skin glow. She had her brown hair up in a bun, but several random strands of hair hung loose. She had lines under her eyes.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Who are you?” Jeff asked.
“I’m Karen Cochran. I’m a doctor.”
She stepped close to the bed, gave Jeff a studied look.
“Of course you are,” Jeff said. “Would you mind?” He tried to gesture. The handcuffs clinked against the metal bars of the bed.
“I’m afraid those will have to stay for now. Those are for your own protection until we can find out who you are and what happened to you.”
Where to start with that? Galactic Commons cop? Ambassador of all humanity? Living life stuck as a game avatar in a psych ward simulation? Or how about the one where he was an alien abductee survivor with delusions of saving the entire planet as a blaster rifle–toting space marine? Forthrightness like he had while in group might get him literally admitted to a mental hospital.
“I’m having trouble remembering.”
“Let’s start with your name. You didn’t have any identification on you.”
Jeff thought about it, wondering what they might actually know about him. They were the government. They knew everything.
“Bernard Shakey,” he said.
She didn’t even look down at her tablet. Her eyes told him she knew he was lying. One corner of her mouth turned up.
“Okay, Mr. Shakey. What’s the last thing you remember?”
“It’s pretty fuzzy. Was I in a car accident?”
She frowned. “I’d like to help you,” she said. “I’m hoping you’ll be forthcoming when you do remember.”
More voices approached from outside. A man with silver hair and an impeccable dark suit entered, the creases on the slacks looking like they could cut you if you touched them. The man held Jeff in a piercing stare, his dark brown eyes fixing on Jeff with the warmth of a raptor bird about to peck his prey in the head.
“Hello, Mr. Abel, How are you feeling?” the man with silver hair said.
So much for Bernard Shakey. “Under lock and key,” Jeff said. “Am I under arrest?”
“You’re being detained. We found you unconscious. We want you to tell us where you’ve been the past two months.” The deep gravel in the man’s voice made him sound like he was used to delivering orders that wouldn’t be questioned.
“I’d like to know who you people are.”
The man with silver hair frowned. “We’re the people dealing with a national security threat. You seem to be in the center of things. We need information from you so we can determine your level of involvement.”
“Meet the Director,” Doctor Cochran said with just a touch of sass.
The Director ignored her and waited on Jeff. The fluorescent hum from the fixtures was now the loudest thing in the room.
Jeff sighed. And told them where he had been the past two months.
***
The Director gave no hints as to whether he believed anything Jeff said over the next hour. He didn’t ask questions and didn’t interrupt. Jeff didn’t mention the translator and left out the part where he was working with Galactic Commons security. This was the most Jeff had spoken to anyone in weeks outside of the psych ward sim. Talking to Oliop was usually small talk or work related. Jordan just wasn’t around. Perhaps it was because they were human and part of him was glad to be home.
“That’s quite the story,” Doctor Cochran said.
With that, both the Director and the doctor left the room. They were replaced by another man in a dark suit who kept his dark sunglasses on even in the forty-watt light beaming down from the fixtures. Jeff’s cuffs had been removed so he could g
et out of bed and use the small closet restroom.
Seeing the small sink with the cheap faucet and the toilet designed for people shorter than five feet still filled Jeff with a weird thrill, as he had seen more varieties of plumbing since leaving Earth than he could ever have wanted. Using a restroom in the Galactic Commons had been like solving an Escher painting while holding on to a full bladder.
Jeff flushed and washed up.
His guard ignored him when he tried to engage him with simple questions like “Where are we?” and “What’s the date?” and “What time is it?” The guard put a hand to a holster when Jeff stepped past the bed in the direction of the door. Jeff had only wanted to look out of the one window, but he scrapped the idea. He went and sat back down on the bed.
He felt strange. All of the weird happenings since his meeting Oliop and his abduction were too fantastic to believe. And here he was, back on Earth, a game program hard-baked into his brain. He touched the back of his head as casually as possible. His fingers found his null-space pouch with the translation unit still inside. It was real. What had happened to him was real. And here his adventure would grind to a stop as he was held captive, renditioned, and consigned to a black box site for human collaborators with the alien invasion forces. But had there been an invasion of Earth?
That all depended on who was asking. Mr. Director looked like he must be part of the most paranoid branch of the government that assumed anything not of this world was here to impregnate every nubile virgin college freshman coed. And who could blame him? The Bunnie made a crummy first impression. The spidery invaders had pounded the snot out of dozens of similarly dressed men during their pre–Galactic Commons invasion, all in pursuit of Jeff as a means to get to the Galactic Commons.
So the Director’s outlook would have to be pretty black and white. But would his opinion be different if the Director had been there to meet Oliop when Oliop had stolen an elevator and came to Earth for his own look at humankind? Jeff doubted it.
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