Realizing what he must look like from the outside, he laughs quietly. I’m in a hamster ball!
Ready flashed across the sphere in front of him and he glances at the display attached to the gun—download complete.
“Here we go,” he says, and pushes the start button on top of the gun.
* * *
“Yes?”
“Singleton here. Sir, it’s time.”
There is a pause on the other end of the line. Then, “You’re not giving us much time to prepare.”
“With all due respect, sir. We knew it would be this way.”
“Yes, yes. You’re right. How much time do we have?”
“The boy’s in the space simulator now. Possibly thirty minutes before he ventures to the other one. I can maybe stall another ten minutes by reducing the upload bandwidth.”
“Give us as much time as you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
General Davis Potter hangs up the phone and steels his gaze across the faces of the other four people in the room. His eyes settle on her, the only female. He asks, “You ready, Georgia?”
Her shoulders straighten involuntarily. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, wake it up and get it to the practice range.”
Georgia storms from the room. The nerve of him, calling him it. Doesn’t Potter realize, this was once a man—that he fought for this country—that he gave his life for this country? That he once had a name! He still has a name.
She turns corner after corner through the maze of corridors then finally enters a door marked Research and Development – Advanced Weaponry. She swipes her clearance badge through the card reader then presses her thumb to the lock. Once identified, the security software automatically unlocks the steel door, granting her access to the rooms within.
Several coworkers look up at the sound of her entrance. She stops in the center of the room, drawing the attention of those present. “Okay everyone, it’s time.” She crosses to the far wall and runs her hand over the glass-faced cylinder. Floating inside is a human body; a man, a soldier, once named Robert Daley. The official word is that Robert Daley died in combat, but that isn’t entirely true. His body suffered traumatic injuries, and once on life support, medics were able to sustain his brain and vital organs even though he would never wake from the coma.
Unfortunately, for him, his condition was perfect for this experiment. The reason she though it unfortunate is because, somehow, she knows that somewhere inside that shell, Rob Daley is still conscious, still aware of what is happening to him—despite what the military doctors say.
She caresses the glass, expecting his eyes to open and look out at her. She should feel repulsed by the sight within—an abomination of flesh, metal, silicone, and computer. Where he once had a left arm and leg, there’s now a steel framed skeleton with fiber optic nerves hardwired to the spinal column. Looking at him reminds her of movies she saw as a child, where half-man, half-robot police chase down bad guys and bring them to justice in their own brutal way. The science fiction of it all excited and amazed her, but now, the scientific fact turns her stomach.
Why couldn’t they just let him die—die a hero?
She whispers, “I’m sorry, Robert Daley.” Her trailing fingers leave a hazy streak on the polished glass. She turns to a computer console and proceeds to input a series of commands, knowing that General Potter would be watching her from one of the many security cameras placed about the room.
The liquid in the tube begins to drain as another coworker, Harold, approaches. He pushes a hospital gurney and leaves it parked next to the cylinder.
Georgia enters a final command, presses enter, and steps back while the software finishes uploading into the microprocessors embedded in Rob’s skull.
“What now?” Harold asks.
“The software should finish booting up in a couple of minutes. Then we get him on the gurney and to the simulation area.” The computer chimes. “Okay, let’s get him out of there.”
She flips a switch on the side of the container and the glass cover slides open. Georgia reaches in and unplugs a cable from behind Rob’s left ear. Harold signals to a couple of other men and together, they lift Rob out of his glass cocoon and onto the waiting gurney.
She gently caresses his hand and thinks that maybe they will fail for the last time and they can abandon this Godforsaken experiment.
* * *
Singleton has his doubts too. He stands at the darkened window, looking out over the warehouse. Below, Paul pilots the virtual star fighter toward the blue planet. Singleton waits. He’s a patient man and waiting doesn’t bother him.
Here he goes.
Singleton leans toward the glass as Paul exits the sphere.
“Mr. Singleton?”
Paul takes a few wandering steps toward the door leading to the other room, stops, glances around, and then sets off at a more determined pace. Singleton moves down the glass, keeping pace with Paul as he moves from one room into the other.
* * *
The dull roar has stopped. Replaced by sounds of bubbles and dripping water, but that sound ends soon after it begins. He’s surprised too; he can hear muffled voices. It’s a woman’s voice. Must be an angel.
The line of light has not grown, but dark shadows pass back and forth. Maybe I’m not dying. Maybe I’m waking up. He tries to speak, but once again, his voice only echoes through the darkness of his own mind.
Suddenly, blinding light floods into his eyes. It is a girl; she’s shining a light into his eyes. First one eye, then the next, using her thumb and index finger to pry his eyelids open. She’s talking, but he can’t make out the words—as if a thick sheet of glass is hindering her voice. She shifts position. There’s a name badge attached to the pocket over her right breast—G. Cobb.
“Hello?” he screams. “Can you hear me? Miss Cobb?”
Nothing. There is no recognition in her face.
He whimpers, “Please. Please help me.”
He’s lying down, that he can tell. When the woman finishes her examination, she moves away, giving him a view of the ceiling. She must be out of earshot because several men appear—they put a shirt over his head and talk quietly amongst themselves. They are talking about Cobb. They call her Georgia. They talk about how pretty she is. They discuss in hushed whispers the things they’d like to do to her if they ever have the opportunity. If there was ever a time Rob wished he wasn’t helpless, this was it. He’d enjoy teaching them a lesson on manners and how to treat a lady—even when she isn’t present.
Then the ceiling begins scrolling by above him and a few minutes later, he’s outside. The sky is a deep, penetrating blue. He feels as if he hasn’t seen a sky that blue in ages. They raise him upright—whether he’s standing or sitting, he can’t tell. He thinks he’s standing. The ground seems like a long way away. The men move out of his field of view and the pretty woman in the white lab coat reappears.
“Are you in there?” Her lips move slowly—each word enunciated as if she is speaking to a child.
Rob screams, “Yes! Yes! I’m here.”
“If you’re in there…”
“I am! I am!” He tries to raise his head, to move his arms, but nothing works. He wants to beat against the barrier separating them.
Her head jerks upward as if something has caught her eye. When she finally looks back down, the intensity of her gaze sends a tingle of ice through his consciousness.
She says again, “If you’re in there, please, please go easy on the boy.” She leans closer, and her next words send another chill through him. “This next part is going to hurt.”
* * *
“This next part is going to hurt,” she says—and it will. Behind his left ear, just below the port where she unplugged the computer cable, is a small switch. It’s not a power switch—no, the power is already on—but the connections from the brain to the body are off. This switch activates those connections and from previous test subjects, all
lab results indicate that when those nerve endings begin to send and receive signals to the brain, all the trauma and pain of the subject’s injuries flood through like a burst damn. It’s a phantom sensation, but nonetheless real to the subject.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. She stares deeply into Rob’s eyes and flips the switch. She’s looking for slightest indication of consciousness.
Nothing. The eyes don’t even flinch.
She looks up toward the observation deck where General Potter glares down at her. He shrugs his shoulders and spreads his hands apart as if to say, “Well?”
She takes one last look into Rob’s eyes then turns to join the others on the observation deck.
* * *
He doesn’t know what she did, but it’s as if all the suns of the universe have converged around him to bake his skin—and yet he does not burn. This is hell, he thinks as another burst of pain floods his consciousness. I’m in hell.
In a flash, all the memories of that afternoon crash down on him. The hillside. The bird in the bush. The hidden explosives. The flames…oh, God, the flames. The fire lasted only an instant, but it completely overshadowed the instantaneous loss of his arm and leg. He screams at the memory of boiling, bubbling skin: turning black as char—cracking apart under the relentless desert sun.
If he could just move, he thinks the pain wouldn’t be so bad, but as it is, he remains motionless, forced to endure.
Finally, whether it’s the pain actually abating or he’s just getting used to it, the sensations slowly diminish. His screams turn to gentle whispers. As hard as he screamed, he’s surprised he’s not hoarse; but then he has to remind himself—his internal voice would never fade or crack as his physical vocal chords would.
The pain stops and he breathes a mental sigh of relief.
He still can’t move, but he is aware of his own skin now. He can feel his one leg, the way the wind tickles at the hair. He can even feel the warmth of the sun on his skin. Something (a mask?) covers the lower part of his face. Something else pulls down and forward on his shoulders—a heavy weight strapped to his chest.
And then there are his missing limbs. He’s heard the stories before—from other veterans that have lost appendages. They say that the mind remembers the missing arm or leg. The mind will trick you into believing it’s there—and you’ll reach over to scratch an itch, but good hand passes through empty air.
Rob feels that now, but it’s completely unlike how they described it. They called it a tingling feeling—like when your foot falls asleep but never wakes up, no matter how hard you stomp it into the floor. He doesn’t feel a tingle; he feels a metallic cold—as if something is there in place of his arm and leg.
* * *
She can’t stand being so close to Potter, but the room is crowded and he hovers close to her in case he has a question. That’s the problem though, isn’t it? He insists on asking questions in which he already knows the answers—he is the project leader after all. Deep down, however, she knows why Potter insists on all the repeated questions—it’s mainly for the benefit of the others in the room—the invited guests that have no clue how any of this technology works.
“What now?” he asks.
She rolls her eyes. Thankfully, from where he’s standing, he can’t see her. “We wait. I’ve already linked the programs. Now we wait for the initialization trigger.”
“And that is?”
She cuts her eyes toward him, not bothering to hide her dislike this time. “The boy presses the start button.” She stresses the word boy. It’s one thing to use consenting adults for this experiment—but it’s another thing to use a child who has no idea what’s about to happen to him.
Potter turns to someone else and begins talking quietly. Georgia is thankful; she might just have to throw up if she has to speak to him anymore today. Please let this be over soon. For the hundredth time, she considers quitting. In the beginning, this project was supposed to support and protect soldiers on the ground, but the General’s penchant for success has taken them down a dark road—a road she never intended to travel.
Behind her, his gravelly voice, though quiet, still penetrates her core; it’s as if he’s speaking directly into her ear. He says, “It’s so exciting, don’t you think? I’m confident this is going to work this time.”
Georgia holds her doubts secret.
* * *
At first, nothing appears to happen. The sphere remains dim—humming and vibrating but barely glowing. He examines the plastic assault rifle to make sure he didn’t miss another button somewhere. He’s about to press the start button again when something flashes across the sphere’s surface.
Initialization Complete
Polarity Achieved
Pull Trigger to Begin Simulation
Paul pulls the trigger.
He jerks involuntarily. “What the hell?” he yells. If felt as if his upper body had just received an electric shock. It only lasted a second, but it was enough to illicit that involuntary curse—something he rarely did.
Above him, the words disappear, replaced by the number ten—which changes to nine, then eight. He half-expects another jolt of electricity, but thankfully, there is no more.
The numbers fall steadily before him, and by the time the countdown reaches five, he’s counting along—having already forgotten the shock.
* * *
Out on the simulation field, yellow lights begin to spin, throwing splashes of yellow light on nearby surfaces. A voice announces through the intercom, “Initialization complete—polarity achieved. Beginning simulation in ten—nine—eight.”
Everyone in the room, including Georgia, leans toward the glass to get a better view of Rob. He’s hard to look at, but she can’t seem to turn her eyes away.
He leans against the same gurney that brought him out here, although modifications allow it to stand nearly upright. Now he pushes away and takes a few tentative steps. He appears to test his footing but Georgia and the others know that it’s not really Rob.
Rob takes another step—then another. His left leg, the artificial one, contacts the ground with a heavy thud.
Beside her, Potter can’t contain his glee, “This is so exciting!”
* * *
What in the world? He’s moving—he’s walking, but he’s not the one doing it. He attempts to turn his head and survey the rest of his surroundings, but his neck muscles won’t obey. He fights desperately for control, but that part of him is disconnected from his consciousness.
“Oh my, God,” he screams. “I’m a puppet!” The worst part is he has no idea who’s controlling him.
* * *
“Oh, wow.” Paul can’t believe the clarity—how real everything looks. He takes a few tentative steps forward and the sphere glides beneath his feet, turning with each step. He takes a few more steps to orient himself.
He’s standing in a small dirt yard. Around him is what appears to be a plywood city. He can’t tell how large, but judging by the one alley he can see down, the buildings stretch for at least a hundred yards. He moves toward the alley’s entrance. He puts his right hand against the rough plywood and is surprised when he feels pressure along his palm—as if there is actually wood there to touch.
* * *
“What’s he doing?” Potter asks.
“He’s testing his surroundings. Remember, the boy isn’t interacting with physical wood. To him, even though it may look real enough, his subconscious still knows he’s seeing an illusion.”
“But he can feel the wood?”
“Yes. All the sensory perceptions feed from here and are relayed through the conductors built into the fabric. When the computer announced established polarity, that’s just another way of saying that their consciousness’ are connected—so what he feels here…” she points to Rob below them, “…the boy feels there.” Wherever there is, she thinks.
An alarm begins to blare out in the simulation course and the yellow lights change to red. A computerized voi
ce announces, “Eliminate enemy targets.”
“This is where it gets weird,” Potter says. For once, Georgia agrees. With the exception of Rob’s body and his physical surroundings, the participants of the upcoming battle are only going to appear within the program. The only way for them to see it is to watch the action is the video feed as it blends with the software within the computer program.
They move away from the window and take their seats. Somebody dims the lights and a projection screen slowly retracts from the ceiling. An image appears—a first-person perspective through Rob’s eyes—the same view the boy sees a thousand miles away.
* * *
“Eliminate enemy targets,” says a female voice. Paul checks his gun. There does not appear to be any cocking mechanisms to load bullets—the only moving part appears to be the trigger. Multi-colored graffiti covers the plywood buildings. One wall, about twenty yards away, sports a man’s black silhouette. He pulls the gun to his shoulder, aims, and then fires.
The gun does not move, but a heavy force pushes against his shoulder as if it really did fire. A flaming streak of purple light flies from the gun’s barrel and strikes the silhouette center mass. Chips of wood splinter away from the point of impact and a wisp of dark smoke curls from the newly formed hole.
A quick shadow darts from one side of the alley to the other. Paul tenses and brings the gun back to his shoulder. He waits. There’s a doorway about ten feet away on the right side of the alley. He darts into it. It’s a single story structure, but he sees light streaming in from the back. There’s another door back there.
The Game Page 3
