Death Dream

by Ben Bova

  Susan sighed. This can't be reality. Reality is the big old houses back in Dayton with their painted clapboards and doo-dad trim around the eaves. And porches. And real trees, big and lush in the summer, gauntly bare in the winter. Not these palms and bottle-brush pines. Leaves and litter in the autumn. Sidewalks! And people who waved to you, people you had known all your life. This isn't home, she thought as she gazed sadly at her Pine Lake Gardens neighborhood. This is a set for some TV advertisement.

  Then she noticed a car parked at the curb halfway up the block. A faded old green sedan. Unusual. Isn't there a town ordinance against parking overnight in the street? she asked herself. Maybe I ought to call the police and ask them to look it over.

  Dan's car finally disappeared from her view. I trust him, Susan told herself. I trust him. I shouldn't have gotten mad at him. It's not his fault that something went wrong and Doc needs him. But still she felt anger. Not at Dan; at Dorothy.

  She remembered the one and only time she had spoken with Dorothy. It was at the Christmas party Dr Appleton had given at his house more than a year after Dorothy's marriage to Ralph Martinez. The house was crowded, noisy with holiday cheer and people greeting each other with alcoholic effusiveness, as if they didn't work together every day of the year. Susan saw Dorothy come in with Ralph and kept as much of the crowd between her and Dorothy as possible. Mrs. Appleton, round and white as the Pillsbury Doughboy, bustled from kitchen to living room to enclosed porch, hauling trays of food and drinks.

  Susan slipped into the kitchen to lend her a hand and get away from the smoke and noise and overheated holiday cheer.

  Dorothy stepped through the swinging kitchen door a moment later. Her red sheath clung to her and made Susan feel skinny and plain.

  "Oh!" Dorothy seemed surprised, almost startled.

  "Merry Christmas;" said Susan coldly. It was all she could think of.

  "Feliz Navidad," Dorothy murmured. She went to the sink. "Do you know where Doc's wife keeps the water glasses?"

  Susan gave her a stare, not trusting herself to say anything more.

  Turning toward her, Dorothy said in a low, throaty voice, "Look, I'm sorry about what happened. I'm glad you and Dan got together again—"

  "No thanks to you."

  Dorothy accepted the slap without flinching.

  "I just hope somebody tries to wreck your marriage someday," Susan spat, "just so you'll know how it feels."

  "I wasn't trying to wreck your marriage."

  "Like hell!"

  "Did you ever think," Dorothy said softly, "that perhaps I saved your marriage?"

  Susan wanted to pick up the nearest bottle and hit her with it.

  "Dan was miserably unhappy. Anything could have happened. I sent him back to you."

  "I don't need your leavings!"

  "He was yours. All along, he was yours. He never loved me; it was just an adventure for him, a fantasy."

  "Bitch!"

  "I kept him safe for you. He was ready to explode, he might have done something foolish, something terrible. I'm not the only woman on the base, you know."

  Susan glared at Dorothy, speechless. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with such a broiling tangle of emotions that she turned and fled from the kitchen.

  And now he's going back to her, Susan thought as she stood in the shaded breezeway in the early Florida morning. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts away. That was twelve years ago, she told herself. We're all a lot older. Maybe we're even a bit wiser.

  I do trust Dan, she repeated. But I don't trust her.

  She went back into her kitchen and started the morning task of getting Angela off to school and Philip his breakfast. Life goes on, no matter what.

  At last Angie went skipping out to the school bus and Phil was safely in his playpen. She could start her business day.

  But first she called Kyle Muncrief.

  "He what?" Muncrief roared into the phone.

  Stung by his shout, Sue jerked the receiver away from her ear. Still she could hear Muncrief shouting, "Took off for Dayton? What on earth is he doing in Dayton?"

  "It's an emergency," she said, suddenly uncertain of how much she should tell Muncrief.

  "Emergency? What kind of emergency?"

  Taking a deep breath, she made up her mind. "Dan said that it could affect the work you're doing at ParaReality. Something's gone wrong with one of the simulations he worked on for the Air Force and he's worried that something similar could happen with the programs he's developing for you."

  That stopped Muncrief. She could hear him breathing, taking in what she had said.

  "I don't understand," he said, in a calmer tone. "What went wrong?"

  "I'm not sure I can tell you, Kyle. It's Air Force business."

  "Well if you know what it is, why can't you tell me? You're a civilian too, aren't you?"

  That was true enough. Reluctantly, Susan replied, "It seems that somebody's had a stroke while in a VR simulation."

  "A stroke?"

  "While he was using the simulator."

  "That could be just a coincidence, couldn't it?"

  "He wasn't the first. There was another one, earlier. In the same simulation. And he died."

  She could feel his brows beetling as he digested her news.

  Finally he said, "Look, you get Dan to phone me as soon as he calls you. Understand? I can't have employees traipsing off the job, especially when they're in such a vital position. I want to hear from him this morning! Understand?"

  "I'll tell him," Susan said, "as soon as he calls me."

  "Do that."

  Dan had forgotten how cold Dayton can be in mid-November. A brisk blustery wind smacked him as soon as he ducked through the plane's hatch. A lieutenant in Air Force blue was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, young and crew-cut and apparently oblivious to the icy breeze that cut through Dan's sports jacket and light slacks.

  The lieutenant bundled Dan into a waiting sedan and they drove to the familiar old concrete building that housed the Wright-Patterson simulations laboratories and offices. Ten thousand memories sprang up in Dan's mind at the sight and smell of the old place.

  Dorothy must be in shock, he thought. This must have hit her awfully hard. And he knew that no matter what he had told Susan he would have to see her. It would be inhuman not to. Sue would understand, he told himself.

  I've got to tell her how sorry I am. Then a new thought struck him. What if it's my fault? What if the reason Ralph's had the stroke is because I did something wrong with the simulation? What if I've killed him?

  Appleton looked as if he had aged ten years in the few months since Dan had last seen him. The Doc was waiting for him by his office door as Dan strode up the corridor he had walked so many times before. Appleton came out past his secretary's desk to take Dan's outstretched hand and shake it solemnly.

  "I truly appreciate your coming here like this, Dan," said his old boss. His face was etched with deep lines; his skin looked gray, unhealthy

  "I'm sorry all this has happened," Dan said. "I'll do what I can to help."

  Appleton's secretary, or overweight middle-aged woman with bleach-blonde hair, said, "Your wife phoned, Mr. Santorini, and asked you to call her as soon as you arrived."

  "Oh, yeah. Can I use your phone?" he asked the Doc.

  "Certainly." Appleton waved Dan into his office, staying outside with the secretary. "You have to dial nine to get an outside line, remember?"

  Dan stood in front of the Doc's desk as he picked up the phone and jabbed at the old-fashioned keyboard. He could not bring himself to go around and sit in Doc's chair.

  Susan sounded relieved to hear his voice. Not as frigid as she had been when he left. She told him that Muncrief wanted to hear from him immediately.

  "Dan," she said, "I had to tell him what's happened in the simulator there."

  "Why'd you tell him that?" Dan flared.

  "I had to! He was really pissed off with you. I had to make him se
e that what you're doing is important to him, too."

  "Okay, yeah, you're right." Dan's irritation subsided as quickly as it had risen. "Only—I'm sure as hell the Air Force doesn't want this hitting the news."

  "Muncrief isn't going to run to the media to tell them that people are having strokes in VR simulations," Susan said.

  "Yeah, I guess. Okay, let me give him a call I'll phone you tonight. And, listen, can you send my old topcoat up here, Federal Express? It's cold."

  "Oh, God, I should have thought of that. Don't get yourself sick."

  "I won't do it on purpose," he said. "But the topcoat'll help."

  "I'll call FedEx right now."

  "Better find the coat first. I don't remember where—"

  "In the storage box in the back of the garage. We put all our winter coats in there, remember?"

  He didn't, but he said, "Great. I'll call you tonight. I think they're going to put me up in the BOQ."

  "All right. "Then she added, "I love you." But it sounded lifeless, automatic, like a reflex bless you when a stranger sneezes.

  Turning his back to the office door, Dan lowered his voice to reply, "There's no one in the world for me except you, honey. I hope you know that."

  It took several moments for her to reply, "I know it."

  "I'll be back home as soon as I can."

  "Call me tonight."

  "I will."

  He hung up the phone and Appleton took it as a cue to step into his own office.

  "My boss wants to hear from me," Dan said. "He's pissed off that I came up here without telling him first."

  "I can understand that," Appleton said as he slid into his swivel chair. He gestured to the phone.

  "Uh—Sue had to tell him that two men have suffered strokes in the simulation here."

  Appleton puffed out his cheeks. "That's classified information."

  "I figured it might have been."

  "And you told Sue about it?"

  Dan grinned sardonically. "Do you think I could have made it here otherwise? Besides, My clearance lapsed when I quit the lab and you told me anyway."

  Obviously unhappy, Appleton said, "You'll have to ask your boss not to mention this to anyone else. For his own good. If our security people find out that you've told him they'll send an FBI team to check him out."

  Still standing, Dan picked up the phone again. He started to tell it to get Muncrief, then realized that the Air Force did not have voice-actuated telephones. It took him a moment to remember ParaReality's number.

  "Kyle Muncrief," he told the computer voice that answered. "Dan Santorini calling."

  "Dan!" Muncrief's voice exploded in his ear. "What's going on?"

  Dan swiftly explained the situation without really telling him more than Susan had, hearing Muncrief's angry huffing every step of the way.

  "This could have an effect on the work we're doing," he concluded.

  For a long moment Muncrief said nothing, then, "That's nonsense and you know it."

  "I don't know anything of the sort, Kyle. It's too important not to check out. Thoroughly."

  "And everything here is supposed to stop dead while you play Sherlock Holmes with your old Air Force pals?"

  "Do you want people dropping dead at Cyber World when it opens?"

  A low angry grumbling.

  Dan said, "I just want to make certain there's nothing inherently dangerous with the VR simulation."

  "How long are you going to be there?"

  "I don't know. A few days. Maybe a week."

  "A week?"

  "I shouldn't even be telling you so much on an unscrambled phone line," Dan pointed out. "The Air Force regards this whole business as classified information."

  "Yeah, sure."

  "I mean it. The people here are very serious about it. If they have any doubts about you keeping quiet they'll send an FBI team to monitor you."

  A long silence. Finally, "I'll keep quiet, don't worry about that. I won't tell a blessed soul. But you get yourself back here as quick as you can, you hear me?"

  "Believe me, Kyle, nobody wants me back home as much as I do."

  But as he put the phone down, Dan realized that this office, this laboratory, this part of the world had been his home for much, much longer than ParaReality and Pine Lake Gardens.

  CHAPTER 24

  "They tell us, sir, that we are weak," Patrick Henry was saying, his face red with the emotion boiling through him, "unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house?"

  Angela had never seen a man make such an impassioned speech. The whole audience was sitting on their hard wooden benches spellbound. Patrick Henry was a little man, not even as tall as her own father. And he wore those funny knee pants with buckles on them, just like all the other men. His long coat was plain brown and he had no wig covering his brick-red hair.

  The room she was in looked more like a church than anything else. The big windows were clear glass, though, and late afternoon sunlight streamed through them. She was in Virginia and the day was 23 March 1775.

  "Our chains are forged, their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable—and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come!"

  Looking around at the others in the audience, Angela saw stern old men in white powdered wigs and silky embroidered coats. Lots of women, too, up here in the balcony where she was sitting. And, here and there, Angela recognized some of her classmates. Mrs. O'Connell had explained to all of them that this was a very special VR lesson. Six students would share the same session and they would be able to see each other.

  She wanted to wave to Johnny Lundsford or Mary Mackie, her best friend in the class, or even to stuck-up Connie Soscia, but she decided she'd better sit quietly and listen to the speech.

  Angela thought that Patrick Henry looked a little like Uncle Kyle. She was accustomed to seeing Uncle Kyle peeking at her in the lessons and games she took in the VR booths. She more than half expected Patrick Henry's face to change in mid-sentence, to turn into Uncle Kyle's, and for him to wink at her or smile or do something to show that he knew she was there watching him.

  But no, Patrick Henry kept right on with his thrilling speech and stayed himself. Maybe his speech was too important for Uncle Kyle to get into. Maybe he wants me to pay attention to what Patrick Henry is saying.

  And he was saying, "Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!"

  The big room fell absolutely silent. Patrick Henry stood there in the speaker's pulpit, his right arm raised over his head, his face beaded with perspiration. Then, as he slowly let his arm fall to his side, someone shouted, "Hear! Hear!" and all of a sudden the whole audience jumped to its feet and began cheering and clapping and stamping their feet and whistling. Angela had to peek between the two women standing in front of her to see the old man who seemed to be in charge of the meeting banging his gavel on his desktop and angrily hollering, "Order! Order!"

  The noise died away and the scene faded. But before Angela could realize that she was in one of the darkened VR booths at the rear of her classroom she found herself standing beside a wooden house on a warm spring morning.

  "It is now April nineteenth, seventeen seventy-five," a disembodied voice whispered in her ear. "This is Lexington, Massachusetts, and these are the local group of Minutemen."

  A couple of dozen men were gathering on the village green, across the dirt street from where she was standing. Each of them carried a long gun. They wore plain clothes, several of them had no coat at all, none of them had fancy buckles or those knee pants that looked so funny. Except the man who rode up on a horse and dismounted in front of them. He looked all dressed up. He even had a sword dangling from his belt.
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  Angela looked over the houses dotted around the green. She saw two, then three of her classmates. It was like a game: find the hidden faces in the puzzle. Yes, there was David hiding behind those bushes. And Louisa, beside the big gray house.

  The Minutemen had lined themselves up in a ragged row, two deep, facing the dirt road that led straight to the common. Angela heard the sounds of marching feet coming from up the road, the thump of a drum beating time.

  The Minutemen were fidgeting, some of them looking down at their guns, most of them staring up the road. Their leader paced calmly in front of them. "Hold your ground," he said firmly. "Don't fire unless fired upon. But if they mean to have a war, let it begin here."

  And then Angela saw the British soldiers, all dressed in brilliant red coats with clean white trousers, row after row of them, led by an officer on a beautiful glossy brown horse. They marched like a big machine, all in step, lined up in perfect ranks. There were a lot more of them than the few Minutemen, she saw.

  The officer prodded his horse across the green and stopped only a few feet in front of the Minutemen's commander. His soldiers marched mechanically behind him and only stopped when someone with a gravelly voice yelled, "Companyyyy, halt!"

  For a moment there was silence. Angela could hear a bird chirping in one of the trees. The breeze was cool, the sun warm.

  "Disband your rabble, sir," said the officer on horseback. "By order of His Majesty."

  "I will not, sir," said the commander of the Minutemen, craning his neck to look up at the British officer. "You have no right to be here. These are free English citizens, yeomen and town men. Go back to Boston."