“Should I? Shouldn’t I?” he asked aloud. The lights played among the waves – red, yellow and blue.
“Do you wish to continue with your programme, user?” The woman’s voice sounded garbled, as though filtering through the ocean’s waters.
“Yes…yes…I’ll stick with it for a while but I’m not happy…not the slightest bit happy!” His voice reverberated again, as though his head was contained within a steel bucket. His body started to become weightless and his arms began to ache; both familiar symptoms of a suspension in the programme. “It’s happening far too often. Are you sure there’s not some kind of fault…maybe a virus?”
“No virus has been detected by the background scan. Suspension was activated in auto response to metabolic changes indicating mental or physical distress.” The lights danced before him, shimmering in the salty sea. “Would you like to initiate a full extraction to allow a system check?”
“No. No. Just…let’s get on with it. Try again.” He felt irritable.
“Very well, user. Try to relax. Try to sleep as we re-boot.”
The voice faded. Fergus was alone.
The light of the stars seemed to be changing. The coldness of his world was suddenly less intense. He reached up, fighting the heaviness of his limbs, and pulled away the armour-plated helmet from his face. It fizzled into nothingness. He looked back toward the land. The village was gone. All he could see were stern cliffs. His world was changing again, taking on a new shape. It was the shape of his chosen fantasy…the one that had been meticulously programmed for him…one that did not feature dull, eventless Gower villages. His thoughts returned to the fortress as he turned once more and laboured across the sand, away from the encroaching tide.
*
Fergus McFae had returned home excitedly, parking the car on the gravel drive that swept round to the front of his parents’ impressive white mansion. His feet carried him swiftly to the towering oak door, which swung open at precisely the right moment to welcome him inside.
The house was empty. His father was undoubtedly at some meeting or other, perhaps fending off questions from company shareholders or exploring new avenues of creative tax evasion with his team of accountants. Equally he could be leaning over his desk, pounding away at his blonde secretary’s pert little buttocks. His mother would be, more than likely, with her gaggle of hardened socialites, sipping pink gin and snorting crystalline trails of ExoDust with gusto from their powder puff mirrors. Beyond caring.
Fergus visualised them both. His father, red-faced with animal lust, his mother’s blood-red eyes burning with the madness of the dust as she laughed hysterically at the engrossing details of a fellow inhabitant of the goldfish bowl in which they lived.
The door closed firmly behind him and he sailed across the grandiose foyer, between the cold marble Roman pillars and the polished stone miniature waterfall, toward the spiral staircase. The ServeBot watched him mount the first step. Its photoreceptive lenses had logged his arrival with a discreet retina-scan before switching from security mode to service mode. Its audioreceptors, voice-indexed to confirm identity, waited for a command. No command was forthcoming. Fergus disappeared from view. Its lenses dimmed and its stout polyplastic torso dipped forward into energy-saving ‘eco-idle’ mode.
Fergus had barely noticed the appliance, which his father had imported from Tokyo at enormous cost – one of only a handful in British Eurostate, as he made his ascent. He crossed the landing and made his way quickly to the end of the west wing, toward his own very private room.
A thousand gadgets littered the seemingly endless floor space, but none so imposing or impressive as the Virtual Reality Tank at the centre of his room. It was the ultimate in VR gaming technology. Like the ServeBot, it was the best money could buy – Fergus made certain of that before his father’s secretary arranged the purchase. The VR Tank guaranteed the most realistic synthetic experiences available - short of artificial memory implants, which were still illegal. Within its transparent confines waited an awesome sensory baptism…total immersion, literally, in the fantasy of your choice.
Fergus grinned. It was the smug, self-satisfied grin of someone who had been let in on a precious secret.
It wasn’t so long ago that the best video gaming experience relied on VR SkinSuits. They were essentially rubber wetsuits comprehensively wired from head to toe and prompted by a sub-programme in the game to generate artificial sensations that complemented the sounds and images projected into your VR Mask. SkinSuit technology was barely evolved from the outdated VR hand, foot and groin attachment accessories he’d relied on to enhance his gaming experiences during his early teens. Software and supporting audiovisual hardware had moved on apace since then, generating holographics and holophonics so realistic it was a challenge to tell them from the real thing. Sensory realism remained the stumbling block…until the arrival of the VR Tank.
Fergus was the only person he knew who had one.
The greeny-blue liquid within the VR Tank could replicate anything. The melting heat of a desert sun; the soul-biting wind of the North Pole; the lung-testing humidity of an Amazonian jungle; the crushing pressure of the ocean’s depths – all were within its gift. The blast of an explosion, the sting of a sword, the touch of a woman could all be translated into millions of microscopic chemical reactions that sparked against his naked flesh. It could even generate tastes and smells, though quite how baffled Fergus as his mouth and nose were covered by the VR Mask and fed oxygen from the mainframe.
It was, simply, the best…the ultimate trip. And, when mixed with some of the mind-bending hallucinogens available on his university campus, the VR Tank experience became so authentic that the boundaries between reality and unreality often became blurred. Fergus had experimented with a variety of substances, on their own and in cocktails. His favourite was Dream Weaver, a synthetic composite of opium and synthetic psilocybin. The opiate relaxed his body and allowed his mind to drift into a dreamlike state, unfettered by his subconscious and self-infuriating obsession with remaining in control at all times. The psilocybin accentuated the sensory illusions, a hundred or perhaps even a thousand fold. It was difficult to be scientifically precise about it.
He closed the door on the outside world and turned the key in its lock. For a minute or two he stood and savoured the stillness of the large and empty house. It would be hours before his mother returned and longer still before his father ventured home. He would not be disturbed for some time…long enough to have a whole new adventure.
Adventure.
Escape.
He reached into his jacket pocket and slid out the plastic Game-On carrier, carefully withdrawing the disc and its plastic case as though it might snap in his hot fingers. He gazed at the graphics on the cover: a dark foreboding tower rising from a steamy jungle; a beautiful Asian princess and an armour plated warlord with glowing red eyes and a twin-bladed light-sabre.
‘Goginan,’ he read for the tenth time that day, ‘Escape from an island prison, steal a stealth low-level attack craft and find the tower fortress of Goginan. Your mission is to slay the tyrant king Uberoth and rescue Princess Ashera, liberating her people.’ It was a fairly typical and clichéd plot but the reviews he’d read raved about the detail and realism of its graphics, particularly the obligatory sex scene with Princess Ashera.
In his other pocket he found his Givenchy wallet. The press-seal compartment contained four Dream Weaver capsules. That should be enough for an afternoon’s entertainment. He emptied them onto his palm and threw them down his throat in one swift movement. Then he began to strip.
Fergus stood, naked, before the mainframe. He loaded the game and ran through the obligatory system checks before finally clicking on the game’s extensive options list. He confirmed immortality mode to ensure his adventure wouldn’t end prematurely. It didn’t mean his character couldn’t be killed, rather that he would simply regenerate on the spot, enabling him to continue from the point of death instead of returning
to the start. He selected the ‘high pain threshold’ setting. It was the next best thing to dying. He chose ‘random hazard’ to make things more challenging. There was nothing more tedious than regenerating to encounter precisely the same life-threatening scenario time after time. Finally he activated the Sexual Intercourse mode options, unique to the 14+ versions of role-playing games.
“Let’s see…orientation, heterosexual male, of course.” Fergus had never been tempted to try the homosexual or female orientations in SI mode. Presumably Princess Ashera became Prince Ashera? He’d have to find out one day, experience life from the other side. “Full vaginal penetration…oral…anal…moderate S&M…watersports? Mmm…no watersports today, thank you.”
Completing the pre-programme routine, he slipped a hygiene cap over his foreskin and mounted the ladder to the immersion platform. There, he donned the VR Mask and breathing unit and lowered himself excitedly into the warm, welcoming liquid. It tingled against his skin as he descended: feet, legs, buttocks, stomach, chest, shoulders, neck and finally face. Now it was time to wait.
Fergus assumed the ‘floating face down’ position recommended by the manual – arms and legs hanging loosely by his sides, head dropped forward, his slight frame supported by the density of the blue-green liquid. Inside the mask the mainframe began the countin. Alternating red, yellow and blue lights danced in front of his eyes. The opening title sequence began to play.
‘Goginan,’ it began, swooping vistas rushing by, accompanied by an industrial metal score. He was sure as hell going to enjoy this one.
*
Droplets of rain clung to the tendrils that dangled from the moss-coated cave mouth. Outside, the downpour pattered and splashed the deep foliage that crept away along the forest floor. The cave was nestled into the abrupt face of an outcrop, but low enough to be protected from the worst of the torrential rainfall.
Fergus crouched beside the embers of a small fire. He turned his head from the sound of the storm and cast a fresh branch into the smouldering chaos. He listened to it spit and crackle as it succumbed to the caress of the flames. He’d found the cave after crossing the beach toward the headland where the Port Eynon-like village had nestled. It had faded in the mist but left a chill inside him that reminded him of home.
The chill was soon blown aside by a cool but tropical wind. The storm arrived and he only just managed to clamber across the final dunes and sprint across the grassy downs before finding the cover of the forest as the elements erupted.
In the solace of the cave, against the dull and distant thunder, Fergus tried to forget the unsettling intrusion and return his thoughts to the quest. He flexed his hands within the leather of the flying gloves. Peeling one away he reached down and touched the floor of the cave. The soil was soft and damp, as he would have expected. He rolled it between his fingers, savouring the texture of each grain. Then he blinked as the smoke stung his eyes. Everything was fine. Everything was back on track.
He remembered the fortress, the dark tower rising from the rainforest. It must have been a mile or so away when his aircraft plunged into the sea. It would be impossible to see the tower from within the heavy rain-soaked canopy of leaves, even after the storm cleared and the night passed. He couldn’t risk an approach from the open downs. The enemy would be watching…waiting. He would have to climb the outcrop in the morning to get his bearings.
Outside, a bough cracked and splintered, showering shards of singed wood across the undergrowth. Then there was a dull thud as the main branch, sheared from its perch by lighting, struck the unrelenting earth. His ears strained against the monotonous splash of the rain but he heard nothing more. He shrugged off the disturbance. The forest was full of sounds. It was unlikely any of them would bring him harm. For now, the storm was a common enemy.
The cave danced with the shapes and shadows of firelight. The rain hummed a constant backdrop and the thunder rolled its relentless drums to the whistle of the wind. Fergus smiled, the flames flickering in his dark eyes. A song swelled in his chest and his mouth filled with a voice like velvet. He could not remember whether this expression was part of the programme or simply his reaction to the stimuli, but he sang all the same.
“The sea is a place for dreamers,
Cold reality washed upon the shore.
The waves crash the barren sand,
But I’m not stranded any more.
The salty breeze lifts me higher
To the calling of the birds.
The ocean melts below, like wax,
In an epitaph of forgotten words.
We’re far away people…we’re ancient hearts.
We’re only the lonely…dreamers in the stars.
I sifted through your tears one day
And caught a glimpse of your eye.
White and grey, the clouds whispered
Like wind on a listless sky.
Silence, beautiful, is lifted
By the song of immortal souls.
A heavenly nation sings
With tongues of frosted gold.
We’re far away people…we’re ancient hearts.
We’re only the lonely…dreamers in the stars.”
His voice fell silent and the last note rang clear in the cool air. It lingered awhile then faded like vapour into the night. His voice was more beautiful than he remembered.
“There will be an end to all songs,” he said, solemnly. He wondered where the words had come from…and what they meant. It had to be his character, a part of the game. He wouldn’t say something like that.
The darkness in the cave was suddenly like a physical presence. Fergus sensed it and prickled with unease. Outside the wind was howling. The temperature seemed to be falling sharply. “Not again,” he whispered. The firelight twisted and contorted into grotesque caricatures of faces, though he could not describe them as human. They spoke with voices that hissed at him in accusation. He listened, shaking.
“Minstrel, your words are lies. Your song is ended. You will die.” The sequence of lights: red, yellow, blue. Reality encroaching.
Just as suddenly the faces were gone.
The flames played against the shadows. He could hear the rain and the thunder again and the wind had abated to a low moan.
“What did you mean?” he asked aloud. There was no answer.
Fergus stood alone with the darkness of his soul. Staring into the abyss and feeling the fear of facing himself, he wondered if he should press ‘escape’ and end the game. It was getting too heavy. There was too much happening in here, too much interference that he could not distinguish from the programme. It was happening more frequently now – twice in this game alone – and getting stronger every time. Was it time to quit?
“No. I just need some sleep,” he said to an empty chamber. Fergus slept.
*
Fergus had travelled far beneath the bleached moonlight that stained the starlit heavens. The rain had stopped and the dark brooding sky began to give way to the pale gleam that peeped through cracks in the thick canopy and ushered him briskly along a narrow silky trail through the tangled forest.
He had slept a troubled sleep, constantly buffeted in his galleon of rest by the fears that perpetually stalked him. He dreamt of a smouldering eye, an omniscient presence, watching him, studying him and conspiring against him…then woke in fright, his cry strange in the forest air. He dreamed of when he was a boy, awoken in the silent night to find his bed adrift on an endless sea of shallow waves, dancing with moonbeams. He looked up to see the moon impaled on soft willowy clouds. The pallid orb swept toward him and became an eye again…and he screamed. Finally he was an infant, born onto a cold stone slab in a gush of blood and fluid. Everything around him was hostile confusion…a bright, aggressive surgery white light loomed above his head. The eye. He woke again, screaming, and ran.
He ran through the dying embers of the fire, through the streams of rainwater and dripping fronds, tripping along the undergrowth into the darkness.
> It felt as if he’d been running all night. Finally he reached the edge of daylight. He stopped, his lungs heaving for breath, sweat trickling into his open mouth. After a few moments he stepped forward again and stumbled. He felt his body rolling, bouncing down a steep slope. Sharp edges of rocks and rough, gnarled roots caught and jabbed at him as he tumbled. Finally the motion stopped. He had reached the bottom.
He sat up. There was a bright light staring down at him, too low to be the moon. He remembered the eye and gasped. He stood, slowly, feeling the pain of his scrapes and bruises, the ache of his joints. “I am immortal,” he reminded himself as he summoned the courage to continue toward the light.
The undergrowth ripped aside reluctantly as he made slow progress, half walking and half falling through the difficult terrain. Suddenly he broke through. The forest ended abruptly and he was swaying on the edge of a wide grassy clearing, drenched in the blaze of a 1,000-watt beam.
His strength failed and he crumpled to the sodden earth.
Time slipped by but he could not tell how long he had lain there. His senses were drowned with fatigue and pain. Above him, the heavens had turned from midnight blue to azure and the stars had faded to the first traces of crimson skyline. Moments of delirium passed and Fergus slowly lifted his head.
At first all he could see was the blinding pure white light. His vision gradually cleared and he began to make out the detail of a wire fence, hung with vicious barbs. Beyond the fence, the dark stone towers pushed their sinister shapes like giant fists against the sky. He remembered the fortress.
“Goginan!” he wheezed.
This was the beast he had come to destroy. It was all part of the game. He had arrived! He summoned every ounce of will power and all his remaining strength to push himself from the ground and lunge forward in faltering steps toward the fence.
Experiment With Destiny Page 17
