by Steve Alten
“What I’m in need of is sleep.”
“Then let’s get you tucked in. We just need a retinal scan to generate your identification card.”
Jessica jumped as a panel in the smart table top slid open by her elbow, releasing a small machine that resembled an electron microscope.
“Dr. Marulli, are you wearing contacts?”
“No.”
“If you are, the machine will detect them.”
“Then why bother to ask?”
“Because it’s my job.”
Jessica leaned over the machine and pressed both eyes to the rubber sockets, opening wide—the internal flash leaving purple floaters in her vision.
By the time she could see again, Kirsty had attached a black lanyard to her new I.D. badge. “Retinal access will get you anywhere you need to go, but it’s best to wear the I.D. badge as well; sometimes the MPs get a little testy. We’re on Level-5; you’ve been assigned Suite 512. I’ve already placed your belongings inside. Your cell phone won’t work down here; all calls must go through our private Skype service available in your suite. You can place outgoing calls and receive text and voice messages through the system from an assigned number. All calls are monitored and on a seven-second delay, which takes some getting used to. If you’re ready, I’ll show you to your room.”
“Go … get some rest,” Lydia ordered, returning to the awaiting elevator. “I’ll find you when I need you.”
Kirsty came out from behind the desk, leading Jessica down a concourse that was as wide as a three lane highway and seemed to run on forever. It was divided by a centrally-located elevated pedestrian walkway composed of a spongy red material sandwiched between two uni-directional Maglev tracks.
“The Maglev is only for hoverboards. Each side runs in one direction with the speeds varying from slow to fast from the center out.”
They turned as an Asian man in a white lab coat shot past them on a three-foot-long object that resembled a small surfboard.
“Wow.”
As they watched, he cut across the concourse, his speed reducing enough to allow him to flip the board out from under him. Crossing over the pedestrian walkway to the other side of the hall and the odd numbered suites, he entered a set of double doors labeled 505.
“Your work schedule has been programmed into the VC, along with a menu of personal selections. The gym on this level is located between Suite 530 and 532; the eatery is at 590. Most of my ‘Cosmic Crazies’ prefer room service, which is 24/7. To order, just summon your VC.”
“What’s a VC?”
“Sorry, your Virtual Concierge.”
Jessica mumbled to herself, “… better not serve virtual food.”
Kirsty led her down the catwalk servicing the even-numbered suites. As they stood before the door to Suite 512, a retinal scan locked on to Jessica’s eyes, unbolting and opening the door and turning on the interior lights.
“Oh my …”
The apartment was enormous, the plush living room featuring a wraparound taupe leather sofa and black easy chair. Part of the couch faced a twelve-foot-wide by fifteen-foot-high smart-glass wall that Jessica knew would function as a home theater, the other half looked upon a dazzling floor-to-ceiling night view of the French Riviera. The doors were open, leading out to a private balcony. A warm, balmy breeze flowed over the Mediterranean Sea to enter the dwelling, the humidity immediately neutralized by the air conditioning, the hypnotic sounds of the shoreline threatening to lull her into sleep while she was still on her feet—
—Jessica having to remind herself that none of it was real.
“This is incredible, and I love the sea—”
“—but what else is on the scenery menu … everyone asks the same question the first time they gaze upon that view.” Kirsty pointed out an iPad held within a plastic sleeve anchored to the wall by the door. “There’s a complete list of balcony settings on this device, along with your schedule, a built-in GPS that will get you where you need to go, and menus from each of our eateries and restaurants. But let’s find out what the VC thinks you might enjoy.”
Turning to the wall of smart glass she said, “Concierge, select Dr. Marulli’s favorite scene.”
Instantly the Mediterranean scene morphed into a dramatic second-story view of California’s Pacific Coast, the ocean crashing violently against the rocks below, the humid warmth replaced by a northwestern chill. A fireplace ignited, the holographic flames taking the edge off the cold.
“Perfect. And it’s so real.”
“It also serves a purpose. No matter what scene you select, each reflects the time of day within our complex, helping to maintain our body clocks and with it, our mental health, which can be challenged when one lives underground for weeks or months at a time. Come on, I’ll show you the kitchen and bedroom, then I’ll let you get some rest.”
The kitchen and dining area flowed to the right, the cabinets and chairs made of oak, the appliances camouflaged in the same wood. Jessica had never seen anything like the dark granite used on the countertops and matching table, the material seemingly alive with liquid splashes of color that changed as she altered her sightline. Forcing herself to look away, she followed Kirsty down a short hall to the master bedroom.
“Nice …”
The king-size bed faced another smart wall and the same fifteen-foot-high, floor-to-ceiling view of the Pacific Coast. Gusts of wind rattled the sliding glass doors, which were closed, the flames of the virtual fireplace adjusting its heat accordingly.
Jessica joined Kirsty by the walk-in closet where someone had already unpacked her belongings.
“As you can see, I had your closet stocked with uniforms, workout clothes, silk pajamas, undergarments, shoes, sneakers … everything you could possibly need. The personal items are yours to take with you when you leave, the uniforms stay with us.”
“Thank you.”
She followed the Englishwoman into the master bath. Decorated in Italian marble, the rectangular space was divided by its centerpiece—an enormous Jacuzzi tub. Behind the marble wall that contained its built-in waterfall was a step-down drain which handled his-and-her showers. A water closet lent privacy to a toilet and bidet; a small linen closet held a variety of linens and towels.
Overwhelmed by her accommodations, Jessica struggled to triage her immediate needs.
“I know you’re exhausted, sleep as long as you want; your orientation doesn’t begin until Monday morning at ten.”
“Sorry, I can’t remember … what day is it?”
“It’s Friday evening. By the way, all holographic landscapes face west so that you won’t be disturbed by the rising sun. I suggest you order in, shower, and then sleep in; you’ve got the entire weekend to be pampered. Remember, whatever you want, simply say ‘Concierge’ and it will be taken care of.”
“Concierge … got it.”
Jessica walked Kirsty to the front door, said good night, and bolted the lock.
A cold gust of salty air rushed into the apartment. Jessica closed the French doors, surprised to hear running water coming from the bathroom.
She entered to find the tub filling with hot water and scented bath oil beads.
“The bath oils were my idea.”
She jumped, her heart racing at the Hispanic male’s voice. “Who said that?”
“I did. I’m Raul, your Virtual Concierge.”
She looked around, discovering—to her relief—the stranger speaking to her from the other side of the sink mirror.
Athletic and tan … she guessed he was about twenty-five, his wavy dark hair highlighting deep-blue eyes.
Nicely done …
“What did you say your name was?”
“Raul.”
“Well, you scared the shit out of me, Raul. Are you going to be popping in and out of mirrors whenever you feel like it?”
“Only when you summon me.”
“I didn’t summon you.”
“You were debating whether to bathe firs
t or eat.”
“You can read my thoughts? How …? Oh wait, the retinal scan … that’s impressive. But I can’t have a strange man popping in on me, even if he is a computer-generated creation, and especially when I’m in the bathroom.”
“Perhaps you’d be more comfortable with someone from your childhood?”
Raul morphed into a stout gray-haired Swedish woman in her sixties.
“Ingrid? Oh my God, oh my God … I haven’t seen you since I was seven years old. This is freaky, this is really freaky.”
“But comforting, ja?”
“God, you sound exactly like her … of course you do, you’re pulling my memory of her straight out of the recesses of my brain.”
“Your blood sugar is low; you need to eat. I ordered you something special. How does lobster thermidor topped with lump crabmeat and a velvety sauce sound, served on garlic whipped potatoes. And for dessert … a decadent chocolate crème brûlée with a hint of Grand Marnier.”
“That sounds … incredible.”
“Would you like to dine on the terrace?”
“It’s too cold.”
“Not in Tahiti.”
She was about to respond when the doorbell rang.
“Ah, there’s dinner. Go … I’ll meet you in the living room.”
Jessica hurried out of the master bedroom, feeling as if she were in a dream.
An eight-by-ten inch video panel by the front door revealed the room service attendant waiting on the catwalk, his name and identity number—BENEDICT GUZZO, Q-766-22-1103—flashing in green.
Jessica opened the door, her stomach rumbling.
“Good evening, Dr. Marulli.”
“Benedict.”
“I understand you’ll be eating on the main balcony, is that correct?”
“Yeah … sure. God, that smells good.”
“I’ll only be a minute.”
Feeling lightheaded, she stepped aside and watched as he pushed the dinner cart to the balcony—all the while her childhood nanny observing him from the living room smart glass, a cross look on the Swedish woman’s age-weathered face.
Oblivious, the waiter methodically opened one side of the French doors and then the other. Gone was the pounding Pacific, in its place—a calm lagoon shared by several private cottages on piers, their balconies lit by torches. Jessica recalled Adam showing her travel photos of Bora Bora, each guest house set on its own private dock over the water.
She closed her eyes, listening to the computer-generated waves lapping beneath the balcony. A warm, soothing breeze entered the apartment, mixing with the intoxicating aromas of her main course which still remained concealed beneath its metal serving container.
What the hell is taking him so long?
She watched as the waiter carefully laid out a white tablecloth over the heavy outdoor table. He meticulously arranged a place setting, filled her water glass and left the pitcher, then struggled to light the dinner candle.
It was Ingrid who finally snapped, her bellow bringing with it a tide of memories. “My girl hasn’t eaten in over a day and you stand there, fumbling with a candle? Why does she need a candle? Whoever heard of a romantic interlude for one … idiot!”
The red-faced attendant pocketed his lighter and returned to the cart, quickly carrying the hot dinner plate, salad, and dessert outside, not bothering to remove the covers.
Feeling embarrassed, Jessica attempted to apologize for her computer-generated nanny’s outburst. “I’m sorry. Ingrid means well, but she’s always had a short fuse when it comes to my well-being.”
The waiter shot her a “what-the-fuck” look before pushing the empty cart toward the front door.
Ingrid would have none of it. “Guzzo—leave the cart by the door and take the attitude with you … rövhål!”
The man stopped in his tracks, staring hard at Jessica. “What did you call me?”
“Me? No, it was—”
“It was me, lard ass,” Ingrid cried out, “and I called you an asshole! Since my English is sometimes not so good, I will spell it out for you. A-s-s …”
Benedict Guzzo exited the apartment, slamming the door.
“Ingrid, that was very rude of you. It’s only my first day and already someone dislikes me.”
“He was jealous; I could see it in his eyes. Just like those girls in middle school. Go and eat; I will put on some music that will soothe you.”
Jessica stepped out on to the balcony, attacking her meal. Within minutes she had devoured the main course, using chunks of warm garlic bread to mop up the remains of lump crabmeat and sauce. She was about to start in on the chocolate crème brûlée when she realized why the waiter had taken an attitude with her.
There is no Ingrid. Everything she says is an extension of my thoughts.
She looked back at the living room smart glass. The image of her nanny was nodding at her.
“Virtual concierge, remove Ingrid!”
The dark smart glass went blank.
“No more images of people unless I verbally command it. Acknowledge command by shooting three fireworks over the lagoon.”
A lone rose-red flame arced into the dark heavens, igniting into a pink, green, and blue blast of color over the water.
Nice.
“Leave the Tahiti setting; it might be nice to wake up to. Oh, and have Raul finish drawing me a hot bath … with the oil beads.”
She smiled. “Dress him in something … revealing.”
17
Charlottesville, Virginia
9:26 p.m.
“WELCOME TO OUR MEDITATION CIRCLE … does everyone have their circle buddy?”
Adam sat shivering in a folding chair, seeking warmth from an old wool sweater and a tattered baseball cap he had borrowed from Dr. Greer. They were situated in a six-acre clearing surrounded by woods, a good two hundred yards from the house. Wrapping his legs in a wool blanket, the Under Secretary of Defense now realized what the other twenty-two paying guests already knew—that there was a big difference in dressing for the weather and dressing for prolonged exposure to the weather.
Emily Greer had attempted to warn him. “I realize it’s August, but it gets very cold out there. If you’re going to join the group then we’ll need to dress you in something warmer. Let me see if I can find you an old pair of Steven’s long johns and—”
“—That won’t be necessary. I Googled tonight’s local forecast; it’ll be a balmy 62-degrees Fahrenheit. I doubt we’ll see any UFOs with all this fog, but weather-wise I’ll be fine.”
“The skies will clear around ten when the temperatures drop. Unless the group goes on break, you’ll be stuck out there, and Steven gets very perturbed when his meditation circle is broken. At least bring a blanket.”
* * *
Adam glanced up at the cloud-choked heavens. As predicted, he could feel the temperature dropping, a few patches of stars slowly starting to appear. They hadn’t even begun yet and his teeth were already chattering.
Asshole. You should have listened to Greer and stayed inside to watch the damn baseball game instead of insisting on tagging along on this snipe hunt.
“Mr. Shariak, I’m your circle buddy. You okay?”
Adam glanced to his right where a woman in her mid-thirties—her name tag identifying her as Leslie Ann Mahurin from Park Hills, Missouri—was adjusting the volume on a machine emitting a rapid de-do-de-do-de-do sound.
“Missouri … the ‘Show Me’ state. What exactly is that thing?”
She smiled. “This is a laser detector. I’m running a battery test. If it starts making that sound once we begin, it means an ET craft may be vectoring in.”
“Vectoring in on what exactly?”
“The group’s consciousness. Dr. Greer will explain.”
* * *
The guests had begun arriving around six-fifteen, the CE-5 orientation meeting set to begin at eight. Plastic tags were worn on lanyards around their necks, identifying each person and their city and country of ori
gin. The farthest trek belonged to a brother and sister team who had traveled from New Zealand. A married French couple in their thirties hailed from Paris, an older woman and her younger female companion had flown in from Munich, Germany, and he managed a short conversation with a heavyset Briton bundled in an orange parka. The others were from the States. A third of the guests had been on at least one CE-5 expedition before, Greer matching up each veteran with a pair of excited “newbies.”
Adam stuck out like a sore thumb.
Greer had warned him. “These people were vetted before their applications were accepted; those who made it put in a lot of time and effort to get here. They were given instructions and a manual to study which included a waiver that allows me to dismiss them for any action or attitude that does not fit in with CE-5 protocol.”
“What kind of attitude?”
“Anything one might describe as self-serving. We’re here to welcome our ET ambassadors, Mr. Shariak, not to exploit them. If they sense the latter, they won’t join us.”
“How often do these ETs actually show up?”
“Every CE-5 expedition is different. Ultimately, the outcome is determined by the consciousness of the group. If I sense your presence to be a disturbance, I’ll ask you to leave … and not just the circle, but my home.”
* * *
A cold wind whipped across the field, howling through the surrounding woods.
Adam looked up as their leader took center stage, the surrounding darkness pierced by sporadic blips of blue and green lights coming from an assortment of electronic devices held by guests within the circle.
“Good evening. A few basic rules before we begin. There’s no smoking and please refrain from eating or drinking when we go into our meditation sessions. We’ll take a bathroom break in a few hours, but if you have to go there are plenty of trees nearby. If you must go, please do your best not to disturb other people in the circle.
“We’re positioned in a circle so the group has eyes on every direction. If you see something, you need to alert the group by calling out its location using a direction and degree of elevation. The horizon is zero degrees, straight up in the sky is ninety, so halfway in between would be forty-five degrees. As for directions, the house is to the east, the woods to my left, therefore, are west … then north and south. We also have northeast, northwest, southeast and southwest. It’s okay to lay your head back and watch the sky, but we have a no snoring rule … if someone falls asleep and starts snoring their neighbors must wake them.”
