The Game

by Christopher J. Thomasson

Rob’s body is not a pretty sight. His left arm is missing at the elbow. Most of his left leg is also gone. The heat melted most of Rob’s skin on that side, the tender flesh fusing with his uniform. There’s no way he could have survived that, Crowe thinks, searching the side of Rob’s throat for a pulse. He’s surprised at how little blood is on the ground. He checks Rob’s wounds. The heat of the explosion may have blown off his arm and leg, but it also cauterized the blood vessels.

  Dodger slides out from behind a tree and says, “Come on man, that explosion’s goin’ to draw ‘em down on us something fierce. We gotta’ get out of here.”

  Crowe snaps at him, “We’re not leaving him…alive or dead, he’s coming with us.”

  Dodger snarls, “That’s all well and good but none of us ‘er goin’ to be alive for very much longer if we don’t high-tail-it out of here.”

  “Well quit yappin’ and give me a hand.”

  Dodger spits a stream of tobacco onto the ground, slings his rifle over his shoulder, and helps Crowe half-carry, half-drag Rob’s body down the slope and into the valley. Sergeant Westborough approaches. He doesn’t say anything, but the look on his face conveys his concern. “He’s alive, Sergeant, but not for long. He needs medical assistance—and quick.”

  “I’ve already called for e-vac. The explosion jeopardized our mission and we’re being pulled out.” He points to the south, deeper into the valley. “There’s a clearing a half-mile away…that’s our pickup.”

  Crowe grabs a handful of Rob’s uniform and hauls him up. Dodger takes his leg and together, they carry him to the evacuation site.

  * * *

  The basement is dark as pitch. The stale air holds an acidic smell—an accumulation of dry rat urine and roach droppings. However, when Singleton finds the breaker and flips on the lights, the entire floor is surprisingly spotless, dry, and clean as a whistle.

  Paul expects to see a warehouse full of games—mazes of them. Instead, a large sphere fills a quarter of the room. The surface is milky white and semitransparent. Inside the sphere is what looks like an airplane cockpit. A framework of small metal beams surround the cockpit, like the skeleton of a giant cube. Tiny, black projectors, fixed upon both the vertical and horizontal beams, point inward, toward the sphere’s pale surface. There appears to be dozens of cameras, each of them fixed on a different section of the sphere.

  The entire contraption sits on a two-foot tall stage. Paul bends down to look underneath. Wires and cables spill from the cockpit in the center. More cables snake to the metal framework, supplying power and digital information to the projectors. A set of hydraulic arms connect the stage to the cockpit—he assumes the arms mimic motion.

  “What do you think?”

  Paul jumps. He’s so engrossed that Singleton’s voice startles him. “It's...it's...amazing,” he finally says, even though he has no clue what the contraption is supposed to do. “What is it?''

  “This is my baby,” Singleton says. He runs a hand across the sphere’s smooth surface like a lover caressing his partner. “This is the game to end all games. This is the next evolution in high tech video games.” He turns a serious glare toward Paul. “New video game systems are keeping kids at home—and that is destroying the arcade industry. This…” he sweeps his arm dramatically. “Is going to bring them back.”

  Paul follows Singleton to the back of the game. Affixed to the stage is a metal cabinet with computer monitor and keyboard. Singleton pushes a power button below the monitor. The screen flares to life and the word upload flashes across the top. He pushes enter and a long menu appears. Paul looks over the other man's shoulder and reads down the list.

  “Oohh...Choose the space scenario!”

  “Okay.” Singleton scrolls to the bottom of the list, hovers the cursor over the selection, and then presses the enter key again.

  Loading flashes across the monitor. The whole sphere lights up and the same word, projected in bright red letters, scrolls around its surface.

  “This’ll take about five minutes,” Singleton says as a quiet hum fills the room. He walks around the sphere, admiring his creation. Paul trails a few steps behind him—fairly certain the same look of awe is on his face.

  A large bay door separates this room from another, larger room. As they walk by, Paul glances into the other room. “Hey,” he says. “You've got another one in there.” It’s dark, but he can tell that the two machines are very similar. However, the one in the other room looks twice as large.

  “Yes, that one's still in its experimental stage. We still have a few bugs to work out.”

  Singleton stoops to point at the hydraulic arms under the stage and moves the conversation away from the larger game in the other room, “These are what make this game so lifelike. These move the cockpit in sync with the rear-video projection. This game is pretty much a flight simulator on acid.

  “You can do barrel rolls, loops, engage in dogfights, just about anything a plane or spaceship can do, you can do here.” He touches the sphere again. His hand blocks the projection of the cameras and casts a shadow across the face of the sphere in the shape of his hand. “Are you ready to try it?”

  “Am I? You bet.”

  Singleton leads him to a hidden door. The hinges and locking mechanisms are all made of the same milky material as the rest of the sphere. He opens it wide and Paul doesn't hesitate—he storms in to examine the cockpit.

  “Now, you must wear the safety harness, this thing will throw you around.”

  Paul climbs inside and straps himself in. He feels like he’s strapping himself into a metal cocoon. Singleton steps up to the side, placing his hand on top of a stick rising up between Paul’s knees. “This is the main control. Move it left, the ship turns left. Move it right, it goes right—push it forward and it dives—pull it toward you and it climbs. Easy enough?”

  “Sure. I’ve played flight simulators before.”

  “Good,” Singleton says, then points toward Paul’s feet. “Those pedals in the foot-well will bank the craft—the same principle as the control stick—left foot banks left—right banks right.”

  Paul grabs the control stick—the molded plastic fits his hand perfectly. At the top of the handle, near his thumb, are two buttons. There’s also a trigger at the front under his index finger. “The button on the left is target lock. Once you lock on, slide your thumb over and hit the other button—that launches your missiles.”

  Rising out of the left armrest, like the letter T, is a metal bar. He touches the polished surface. “That’s your throttle control,” says Singleton.

  “What are these?” Paul asks, indicating more buttons on the console. It’s obvious what the big red button does—it has the word START printed on it in bold, black letters. Above it are six orange buttons.

  “The top three are weapon selects and the bottom three are craft modes. You can mess with those as you play.”

  A helmet rests on top of the console—he grabs it and slides it over his head.

  “The helmet is more for show than protection. A wireless receiver transmits your location in the game and other information onto a heads up display built into the helmet. It's a little disorienting at first but I promise you, it's everything you would ever dream of in a flight simulator.”

  Above the buttons on the console is a computer screen. A message flashes, declaring: upload complete.

  “Now what?” He’s ready to try it.

  “First, let me get out and lock the sphere’s entry hatch. Then you push the start button. You're a smart kid, so I think you can figure out the controls in no time. Have fun, I'm going to go back upstairs to call Mr. Ervin—I’ll be back in a few minutes. If the game ends, just press the start button again and you can start over, or press the trigger when the game is over and the menu screen will display on the console and you can upload another scenario. Got it?”

  “Sure.” He’s ready for Singleton to leave. All he wants to do now is to push that bright red button.

  Sing
leton steps away from the cockpit, exits the sphere, and closes the door behind him. When he’s a safe distance from the sphere, he shouts, “Let ‘er rip, Paul.”

  Paul presses the start button.

  When he first entered the warehouse, he was under the impression that standard light fixtures illuminate the room, but he quickly learns he’s wrong. As soon as he depresses the button, darkness descends. When his eyes adjust, what’s before him is beyond his wildest dreams—the blackness of space stretches out forever—a dark curtain sprinkled with twinkling stars, purple galaxies, and supernovas painted in bright splashes of reds, oranges, and yellows. A large blue planet hovers to his right. To his left, a bright red sun.

  The cockpit is no longer just a cockpit—he’s now sitting atop a sleek star-fighter. The projected image is flawless, seamlessly merging digital imagery with the physical elements around him. He can even feel a gentle hum and vibration through his seat as the simulated engines idly wait to release their full energy.

  Paul gently nudges the flight control stick to the right and the craft turns toward the blue planet. He pushes the stick forward—the ship dives and the planet rises above him. He pulls up, pointing the nose at the center of the planet. As the fighter approaches, the planet looms larger—almost filling his entire view. He rocks his feet gently on the foot pedals and the craft banks first left, then right. He pushes the flight control to the left and depresses the left pedal, sending the craft into a tight spin. The planet spins before him, making him dizzy.

  He pulls out of the spin and angles the craft parallel to the planet’s surface. Between the hydraulic motion of the cockpit and the dazzling visual effects, Paul has to remind himself this isn’t real. Having only worked the controls for a couple of minutes now, he’s amazed how quickly his mind has adapted to the illusions around him.

  “Warning, warning. Evasive maneuvers!”

  The synthetic voice is so loud and so close that he jerks his head around, expecting to find some computer generated woman standing near. Suddenly, the heads-up display built into the helmet’s visor springs to life. In the clear plastic, a transparent radar image appears. In the center is a triangle—he assumes it’s a simple replication of the ship he’s flying—and directly ahead of the triangle are four blinking, angry red dots. They get closer with each passing second.

  “Enemy fighters approaching,” announces the ship’s onboard computer.

  Paul’s eyes snap forward. The sun’s light reflects off four distant points ahead of him. Within seconds, the points grow into large, dark grey ships. The four crafts buzz past him with a deafening roar. He turns to look behind just as the ships break away from each other, turn in unison, reverse course, and then reestablish formation—directly behind Paul.

  Again, the system computer announces, “Evasive maneuvers!”

  “Okay, okay,” Paul shouts, as if the computer understands him. Adrenaline rushes through his veins as if injected directly into his bloodstream. He pushes the craft closer to the planet’s atmosphere and as it gets closer, the cockpit begins to shake violently, as the planet’s gravitational forces begin to play against the ship’s flight and maneuverability.

  A flaming ball of light streaks by—barely missing him on the left as one of the enemy ships flashes by to his right. He banks hard to follow it and toggles forward with the throttle controls. A boost of energy propels his craft forward and again, he’s amazed at how real the experience is. It felt as if the engine’s forward thrust were actually pushing him back into his seat. The burst of speed brings him to the rear of the other craft. He quickly adjusts the throttle to keep from passing it by.

  His head’s up display now has two, illuminated red lines—one vertical, the other horizontal. As the other craft lines up in the crosshairs, the lines brighten. Paul adjusts his trajectory and the other ship lines up perfectly. The lines flash and a circle appears around the enemy craft. He presses the trigger and bolts of blue light shoot forward, striking the enemy craft midway between the rear engines. The other ship explodes. Metal debris passes around him and bounces violently off the ship. The cockpit shudders with each impact.

  “Okay, maybe I was a little close,” says Paul, pulling the fighter up and away from the planet. Behind him, one of the other fighters mirrors his movements. Flaming projectiles streak by. He banks left, then immediately right in an attempt to shake his pursuer.

  More enemy fire streaks by. This time from above. “What?” He cranes his head up. In a world made up almost completely of lefts and rights, Paul didn’t expect an attack from there. Space isn’t limited to the horizontal—there’s also the vertical plane, and an infinite number of directions in between. In the vacuum of space, there is no up or down and the laws of gravity are thrown out the window.

  More enemy fire streaks by from below. They attack from three different directions and he doesn’t know which way to escape. His hesitation ends the game. Red lights strobe, stabbing his eyes, causing him to squint. He jerks the craft to the right but the action comes too late. The sphere fills with orange and yellow flames and as he watches, the virtual craft disintegrate around him.

  The illusion of space evaporates like a wisp of smoke and the words game over scrolls across the sphere’s shimmering surface.

  * * *

  This is what it’s like to die. When he was young, adults explained death as a passing from this world to the next, from the physical realm to the spiritual one. More often than not, they said it was a peaceful transition, as if the mind is gently floating through a tunnel toward a bright, warm light. Rob sees none of these things. What he sees is complete, utter darkness. What he hears is absolute silence—well, that’s not entirely true. He can hear a soft, low roar—as if he is sick with pneumonia and fluid congests his head. The feeling is relentless.

  Then something happens. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel—more a feeling that he is rising and about to surface from a dark, oceanic abyss. It’s a feeling of speed even though there is no movement; there is no wind against his skin; no pressure against his flesh. He feels as if he is waking from a dream—even though he hasn’t been dreaming.

  Where am I? he asks, but the words do not come from his mouth, they are just there, appearing from nothing, echoing through the darkness as if the darkness has the substance to propel sound.

  Suddenly, there is light. Not a tunnel, but a thin line of brilliant energy, a horizon reflecting a bright sun. Maybe he’s not dead after all.

  * * *

  Paul unclasps the harness belt and climbs to the floor. His legs shake and he places a hand on the side of the cockpit to steady himself. “Wow,” he says. He’s never felt so unsteady before.

  He crosses to the door and exits the sphere. “Hello? Mr. Singleton?” His eyes wander to the doorway leading to the other part of the warehouse—to the other, larger game. He slinks across the floor and pauses at the threshold, listening. All is quiet, still no sign of Mr. Singleton.

  He steps into the other room and quietly crosses the open floor.

  Why does he want to see the other one so badly? The flight simulator was perfect, everything he could ever want in a game—but this one—this one is twice as large—and that makes it twice as good, right? He touches the smooth surface of the sphere and the game begins to hum and vibrate. He takes a tentative step back. The sphere begins to glow and he sneaks a glance over his shoulder toward the other room.

  Before he can talk himself out of it, Paul tiptoes to the rear of the platform. It’s set up almost like the other system. He turns on the main power to the computer and nervously shifts from one foot to the other while he waits. Finally, the menu appears and unlike the other game, this one has only one item listed. He selects it and loading appears on the screen. Above him, the sphere brightens and the humming increases, vibrating the floor.

  Below the computer monitor is a shelf with a heavy plastic replica of an automatic assault rifle. He lifts it to test its weight but there is something else att
ached to it. A thin network of wires connect the gun’s grip to a folded piece of fabric. He unfolds it. It’s a long-sleeved shirt made of black, stretchy material. The wires connect to the right sleeve and disappear into the fabric. He rubs his fingers along the fabric, tracing the outline of wires cleverly hidden within. At the neck is another patch of fabric with more wires embedded within. He stretches it out—it’s a hood. He checks the bottom of the gun—a quick release connector attaches it to the cables and the shirt. He separates the cable and slides the shirt over his head. He picks up the gun, reattaches the cable, and then begins circling the sphere, searching for the door. He makes a complete circuit. What? He makes another circuit. There’s no door? He steps up and presses his palm against the surface again—and the sphere moves. Startled, he jerks his hand away. “What in the world?” He places his hand back against the glowing surface and pushes upward. The sphere moves. He pushes to the left and the sphere turns left.

  Something catches his eye. Toward the ceiling, near the top of the globe, is a faint outline—a rectangle cut in the otherwise completely smooth surface. The door! He slides his palm downward and the door descends until finally, he has it lined up with the steps leading to the platform. He unlatches the door and steps inside, closing it behind him. The moment he steps inside, a myriad of concealed lights illuminate within the plastic assault rifle. On the side of the rifle is a flat panel that flips outward, revealing a tiny computer screen. A scrollbar pulses onscreen, announcing that ninety-one percent of the program is loaded.

  Paul pulls the hood over his head, surprised that he can’t feel any of the hidden wires. While the program loads, he takes a tentative step forward—the weight of his body presses down against the sphere, causing it to turn beneath his feet with each step he takes. It reminds him of walking through one of those moving tunnels at a carnival funhouse, but instead of it moving in only a single direction, this one moves in every direction. Stopping is a little awkward because the sphere still moves under his feet—maybe that’s one of the bugs Mr. Singleton is trying to correct. At any rate, it’s only slightly noticeable.