by Domino Finn
REBOOT
by Domino Finn
Copyright © 2017 by Domino Finn. All rights reserved.
Published by Blood & Treasure, Los Angeles
First Edition
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to reality is coincidental. This book represents the hard work of the author; please reproduce responsibly.
Cover Typography by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design LLC.
Print ISBN: 978-1-946-00881-7
DominoFinn.com
Also by Domino Finn
BLACK MAGIC OUTLAW
Dead Man
Shadow Play
Heart Strings
Powder Trade
Fire Water
SHADE CITY
SYCAMORE MOON
The Seventh Sons
The Blood of Brothers
The Green Children
Get a Free Book
There are dark places in our world that are better left alone.
The Black Door is a Cisco Suarez story unavailable anywhere else, but you can get it free by joining my reader group.
Get your free book!
0000 Burnout
My name is Tad Lonnerman and I'm a millennial.
These days that sounds like an apology, but it's not. I hate that word and all the baggage it brings. Problems are problems, and we all have them. A father we never knew. A mother who barely remembers her name. A debt well into five figures. I turn twenty-five years old today and share an apartment with my little brother Derek because he's all I have left. So don't talk to me about being a whiny, spoiled brat.
About the only problem I don't have is my job. I'm an associate programmer in the game industry. Kinda bucked the unemployment trend on that one, didn't I? It's a dream job and I've been treading water for two years, focusing on nothing but being good at what I do and supporting me and Derek.
And it was working. Portlandia: the beautiful Pacific Northwest. This was where everything turned right for me, even with all the rain. A solid paycheck. A challenging career. I finally had it made.
So why was everything so bland?
Here I was, on my birthday, stuck in rush-hour traffic in a snowstorm. Rain I could deal with. Portland's a nice town but all the hills and highways run through endless bottlenecks. Snow shuts everything down. It gave me plenty of time to ponder being twenty-five.
My conclusion? What a crappy milestone. Sixteen gets you behind the wheel. Eighteen makes you an adult. Twenty-one's party time. What did I get now?
A lower deductible for car insurance. Watch out, ladies.
Yup. Mid twenties. Might as well be thirty. Kill me now.
It's ironic how the harshest measures of life happen on birthdays. To be fair, it wasn't just weather and existential angst. My small boutique game studio had been acquired by a soulless mega-conglomerate named Kablammy Games some time ago. They didn't care about game mechanics or design, they cared about monetization and data mining. And making endless sequels and clones. And focus testing the crap out of good ideas until only the most sanitary leftovers remained.
Kablammy had so many branches and divisions it was impossible to get anything done. Two years of plucky grit making a name for myself and I was suddenly lost in a sea of middle managers and request forms. And don't get me started on the number of mandatory meetings. It was one such useless meeting I was late to already. Today we'd probably strategize methods of charging gamers extra money for regular game content. Sorry, the princess is in another castle; please pay $9.99 to access it.
I huffed and flicked on my blinker. Eager to get out of traffic, I turned up an empty side street sloping up a hill. Don't worry, my hatred of the snow left me anything but unprepared. I had proper chains on my tires to battle my nemesis. With the absolute weight of the world on my mind, my compact car steadily scaled the icy road.
Dying isn't like those Final Destination movies. Gory, yes. Inexplicable, sure. But it's not fated. A series of events don't collude to kill you.
Death isn't noble like all the stories shoveled out of Hollywood either. It's not a meaningful sacrifice that forever changes the rest of the world for the better.
Death is a fucking Pepsi tractor trailer driving down an icy road and swerving headlong into your Nissan Altima.
That's it. No meaning. No purpose.
It's random.
I laid on my horn but the semi was out of control. Dumbass didn't even have chains on his tires. I tried to pull off the narrow road but there simply wasn't anywhere to go and the truck was determined to hog both lanes.
As the Pepsi truck slid inevitably closer, all I could think about was if my insurance deductible would reflect my twenty-five-year-old discount.
0010 Dead or Alive
I opened my eyes to extreme calm and nothingness. The world was white. I was in a great expanse of it. Drifting.
The car accident.
My gut reaction was I was in a hospital. Lying in a bed watching an empty ceiling. How long had I been here?
A man behind me cleared his throat. "Tod Lonnerman, I presume?"
I blinked and focused. Realized I was standing up. I spun around. In the complete absence of any background, the motion was disorienting. I was moving but I wasn't. Then the man came into view. He settled in front of me as I stopped, standing casually with his weight on one leg, cradling a tablet in his arm, and looking like he could use a coffee.
My demeanor wasn't nearly as ordinary. I stooped in front of him with my arms splayed to either side, wary of falling.
He looked me up and down and waited patiently. If he wanted something from me, he didn't get it. I stayed hunched in place like a cat trying to blend in with a wood floor.
The man was getting on in years. Thinning white hair and a matching wraparound beard. He wore a strange golden twig around his head like a crown. Come to think of it, everything about him was strange. He was dressed in a full toga, cream-colored except for a stripe of maroon along the edge.
He frowned and marked something on his tablet with a stylus. At this point I noted it was an actual stone tablet.
"You are Tod Lonnerman," he said. "Please confirm."
"Tad. I'm Tad Lonnerman. Where am I?"
He squinted at his tablet critically. "We'll get to that." His stylus traced a checkmark.
I was still a bag of nerves. He was the only thing in the room that wasn't pure white so I found myself staring at his footwear. Straps ran over open feet and up half his shins. He had strangely buff calves for a man his age.
"Nice sandals," I said.
"You should see yourself," he returned without missing a beat.
I was naked except for a tan loincloth of dubious convenience. I threw my hands around it to keep it from falling.
"How do you feel?" asked the man while acting as if everything was wholly normal.
The car accident.
I looked myself over. My legs, arms. I twisted around to check my backside and felt at my head. Everything was where it was supposed to be. No blood, no wounds or stitches.
"I feel... strange."
His stylus paused over the tablet. "Strange?"
"Well, it's like—I don't feel bad, so that's good, I guess. But at the same time, I don't really feel good. You know what I mean?"
He studied me blankly. "I see. That's not altogether unexpected." He continued down his checklist. "And do you remember your accident, Tod?"
"Tad."
"What?"
"My name's Tad."
The man checked the tablet for verification. "So it is. Do you remember the accident?"
The car accident.
"Of course I do
." I studied the white space. "I must be on some really amazing pain meds right now. What happened? Where are we?"
His eyes remained on the tablet but he answered. "Focus testing indicates it's better to let residents ease into the realization rather than tell them right off the bat."
"Tell them what?"
"Would you mind doing a few calisthenic drills for me? Some jumps or sprints. Anything that comes to mind."
"What?" I asked, getting annoyed. "Wait a minute. Where are we? I wanna know what's going on."
I stomped past the old man. The white background was so absolute that I couldn't distinguish the floor from the wall, much less find any doors. I circled him quickly, making two full revolutions before I realized it was pointless. I spun angrily.
"Yes, yes," he said. "That will be enough. Thank you."
I smoldered, red as a beet. "Look, buddy—"
"You're not on pain meds. You're not dreaming or hallucinating or suffering a nervous breakdown. Simply put, you're dead, Tod. You're dead and your consciousness has been uploaded to a redundant server farm owned by Kablammy Games."
I blinked quickly and fell backwards a step. "It's Tad," I whispered.
I looked around again, absorbing his words. The wide-open space was suddenly claustrophobic. I found myself huddling closer to the old man, the only thing around me besides oblivion. As he scribbled on his tablet, I raised a cautious finger and pressed it into his forehead.
He was solid. I felt him, in the flesh.
"Yup, great pain meds," I concluded.
He swatted my hand away with the stylus. "You're not one of those close talkers, are you?"
I took a meek step away. "Sorry." I kept my raised finger in the air.
He sighed. "You don't need to raise your hand if you have a question. Just ask."
"Right. Are you saying I'm in a simulation right now? Like virtual reality?"
"VR?" The old guy snickered. "All reality is perception. There's nothing virtual about this. You're experiencing a brand-new technology. State-of-the-art DR."
"D—" I strained trying to fill in the blanks.
"This is pure digital reality, young man. Your new reality, I might add. Welcome to a brave new era. A second chance at life."
Life. I'd kinda liked my first one. I remained silent a moment, then asked, "Are you...?"
"Real? Yes. I'm not an AI, if that's what you mean. But I'm not dead either. I'm a real, live human, interfacing in DR to personally welcome you. Focus testing indicates new residents prefer a human touch."
"Focus testing," I repeated, having flashbacks from work. "You're testing the afterlife?"
"Beta testing to be exact. Kablammy has spent years perfecting this technology. Not only is the sum of your consciousness residing in a server farm, but you have access to the latest and greatest online role-playing game ever created."
I stared, dumbfounded. "Heaven is an MMO?"
0020 Second Life
"We prefer to call it Haven," said the old man, finally clipping the stylus to the stone tablet.
"Seriously? The afterlife is an RPG?"
He chuckled. "Sloth is sin, and all that. Focus testing indicates new residents need to apply themselves. Maintain goals. Keep busy, keep motivated. Otherwise they might fall into an irreversible depression loop. Let's get started, shall we?"
He motioned me to a stool that wasn't there before. The plain white wood sat flush with a bare table. The man sat on a similar stool on the opposite side and placed his tablet on its edge. It sat at an angle facing him, suspended on nothing at all.
In most circumstances I wouldn't have sat so easily, but I was desperate to feel something solid. The stool and table gave me something to whiten my knuckles against.
"Who are you?" I asked.
The old man smiled and motioned upward. When I stared blankly, he said, "Look above my head."
I frowned. "What, the motivational cat poster?"
"The what?" He twisted around and grumbled. "No, no." He waved his hand and the poster disappeared before my eyes. "Everyone's a practical joker these days. Whatever happened to being proud of a job well done?"
I didn't answer the rhetorical question and he shook off the malaise.
"What I meant was look at the space above my head inquisitively."
I was still shaken from seeing the poster disappear. If I couldn't rely on the inspiring wisdom of kittens, what could I rely on? But I took a breath and focused on the empty area above his head.
Gold letters faded in: [Saint Peter].
"I know," he said. "It's a bit dramatic, but fitting. Don't worry, there's no true judgment here."
My gaze sagged down to his face. I couldn't really focus on his words anymore. As the gold name above his head faded away, I could only hang my jaw in shock.
"Listen," said Saint Peter, "this is my job. I welcome new residents to Haven. Help them get started. Give them a shoulder to lean on." He scratched his white beard and waited until I was lucid. "My best advice to you is this: Don't overthink things. Take your new world in slowly, one step at a time. Follow our instructions and keep an open, active mind about things. I'm sure you still believe this is all a bizarre dream. If so, don't waste it moping. Be carefree and enjoy the experience."
I nodded absently. Didn't see the harm in that.
"Now," he said, sitting up straight, "let me answer some of your questions. First off, this is a limited, closed beta application. This isn't a public utility yet, so count yourself lucky. According to these records, your company was acquired by Kablammy, which makes you an employee. One of us. As such, your insurance plan has been upgraded."
"I didn't ask for that."
"Standard procedure with HMOs. You take what they give. But you're right, of course. We require your consent."
I scoffed.
"Haven is just an option. I mean that. If you refuse consent we can part ways and delete you right now."
"And then what? I'll be a vegetable in a hospital bed somewhere?"
He pressed his lips solemnly together. "No, Tod. You'll be dead."
I didn't correct him this time.
"You're not hooked into a VR unit. You've literally been uploaded. Your entire being—your memories, thoughts, and desires—are a collection of ones and zeroes. Your reality is digital now. As a programmer, I'm sure you can understand that, even if you can't wrap your head around it. But we still need your consent."
I swallowed, but my virtual mouth was dry. "It sounds like I'm at your mercy no matter what I do."
"Not true," said Saint Peter. "Haven is what we call a free system. Without the ability for residents to log off, it's imperative we give everyone autonomy. Once you accept, you'll become a permanent part of the simulation. Not even we would have the ability to delete you. Your profile is encrypted and redundantly copied across multiple servers." He paused to give his next declaration weight. "Once you enter Haven, you have eternal life. The Bible got that part right, anyway."
"Great," I said, deciding lucid dreams were more insane than fun. "I consent. Let's get on with it."
He nodded and spun the tablet around. Even though it was made of solid stone, the surface layer resembled an LCD screen. An empty line and checkbox awaited my entry. I took the stylus and filled them in.
"Debit or credit," I joked.
He smiled. "I know you weren't asking, but beta access confers you 100% insurance coverage. You're literally set for life. Now there's just one more thing." He spun the tablet around, swiped a few times with his finger, and faced it at me again.
I stared at the screen without humor. "Terms of service."
0030 Final Fantasy
I scrolled through page after page of legalese, giving my best effort to take the whole affair seriously.
Kablammy reserves the right to dictate terms of the beta.
All participants, heretofore referred to as RESIDENTS, agree to store all aspects of their personality on Kablammy servers.
Kablammy st
rongly believes in individual human rights and will never infringe on a RESIDENT'S privacy, security, and individuality.
It went on and on like that. There were privacy clauses, data-sharing agreements, beta addendums. I'll be honest here. I tapped out on page four. I swiped to the end, signed, and handed the stylus back to Saint Peter.
"Great," he said. "Perfect. I hope you feel better already."
I didn't mask my sarcasm. "I feel like the possibilities are limitless."
"They are, actually. Within reason. Now comes the fun part."
Saint Peter leaned over the table and spun me on the stool by my shoulder. Apparently I was standing now because matching me eye to eye but several yards away was my exact fucking duplicate.
A series of transparent two-dimensional panels hovered in the air beside the doppelganger. Images, slider bars, color pickers. A text heading above the screens read "Character Creation."
Okay, this was starting to blow my mind a little bit. But I was a gamer. I knew what needed to be done here.
The first choice was race, which was solidly set to human. There appeared to be other options but I was locked out of them. That was fine. I didn't really do the elf thing. There was no selection for gender. I took that to mean people would just be themselves inside Haven, without the need to specify a definition. So far, so good.
Next came the customization of physical traits. I could tweak stuff here and there, but I couldn't just pick a new face. Imagine you hadn't seen your cousin for five years before a family reunion. Had he gained weight and grown stocky? Had he become a gym rat and buffed up? Maybe college years of ramen had thinned his dimensions out, or he'd taken to the club scene and become a suave ladies' man. All these possibilities would affect his appearance, but you wouldn't expect a completely different face or body type. Just modified. The slider bars of real life.
