The Hidden Reality (Alex Pella, #2)

by Stephen Martino

“See for yourself,” Samantha answered.

  “Alex!” William said enthusiastically. “It’s great to see you alive again buddy.” Before he got out of the chair to greet his friend, he looked down into one of the pizza boxes. To his delight a single slice remained. While snatching it in one hand, he stood up and began to eat it as he approached the bed.

  Alex could not help but smile. William had been his college roommate, and they became instant lifelong friends. While Alex went for his PhD, William pursued his medical interests and became a virologist. Although appearing as if he could cultivate many new strains of viruses or bacteria from the samples that thrived on his unkempt attire, he was an extremely successful scientist and had also provided invaluable help in finding a cure for The Disease.

  “I never thought you were going to wake up,” William said with a mouth full of pizza. His cherub-like smile and boyish face certainly contrasted to his husky physique. Albeit not all muscle, he was built like a linebacker.

  “Thanks for your concern,” Alex responded as he pushed himself to his feet and began to stretch. Wearing nothing but boxers, he slowly walked over to a wooden dresser next to the wall. Placing his hand on it, he bent over and looked at his reflection on the mirror above it.

  Alex could not believe how sickly he appeared. Though he still had his athletic physique, his color was off, his hair was disheveled, and there were bags under his eyes. Within a second the mirror turned light gray and nothing but his reflection remained. Then in rapid succession, his reflection turned different colors as the mirror scanned his body in various wavelengths and quantum parameters.

  Different numbers and characters appeared around his reflection. The scan ended after a brief moment and a tall glass filled with a red liquid rose up from the corner of his dresser. As he slowly grabbed it with one hand, the mirror returned to normal, reflecting the ambient light.

  Alex turned and gulped the drink until it was done.

  “Does that thing make soda also?” William asked. “I’m parched from all the salt in the pizza.”

  “No,” Alex responded, placing the cup back on the dresser. “I invented this device years ago. It scans my body and creates a specific drink each day that supplements all the proteins, minerals and nutrients that my body lacks.” He smiled at his friend. “Though a birch beer dispenser would be a nice addition.”

  “A man can hope.”

  “So what’d I miss while I was out?” Alex went on to ask.

  “Well,” William responded, “there was this fantastic chase that kept broadcasting over and over again. Some top executive guy at The New Reality named Jules Windsor was caught stealing from the company. And when they went to arrest him, he put up one hell of a chase. It preempted many of the programs running at the time. You’ve got to see it! It was awesome.”

  Alex really had no interest in watching a manhunt. He doubted the authenticity of the charges against this Jules Windsor and knew the chase was aired more for propaganda purposes than to provide information.

  Before he completely disregarded the statement, Alex abruptly stopped moving and looked back at the mirror as if he’d had an epiphany. “Show the Jules Windsor chase,” he said aloud.

  “I knew you would be interested!” William said, thrilled to see it again.

  The mirror began to display the chase. Although highly edited and devoid of any scenes depicting harm to the WOGs, the capture of Jules Windsor kept on repeating.

  “Really?” Marissa asked inquisitively, after viewing it three times. “I’m kind of surprised you’d want to watch it.”

  “Maybe his PCC is acting up again,” Samantha said.

  Now it makes sense, Alex thought, ignoring both Samantha and Marissa.

  The key to changing The New Reality is to break the pound.

  He finally understood the meaning of Albert Rosenberg’s riddle.

  Alex walked over to the other side of the room. Though still lightheaded and weak, he pressed on. He then placed his two hands on opposite sides of an abstract painting hanging on the wall.

  With a sizzling sound, the painting dematerialized and a bright light within it began to illuminate the room.

  “Is that a refrigerator?” William asked enthusiastically. “If so, how about that soda?”

  “I’ll give you something,” Alex responded, already calculating his next ten moves in rapid succession. Time was limited, especially after learning from the broadcast that Jules Windsor was transferred to the Camp Williams NewREMA facility just 25 miles south of Salt Lake City, Utah. Known as the Auschwitz of the NewREMA camps, survival would be unlikely.

  Alex grabbed a half-dollar sized sphere, twisted it once and pulled it apart into two halves. Taking them, he walked over to his friend.

  “You got my soda?” William heartily asked.

  Before his friend knew what was happening, Alex placed the two half spheres on each of his triceps. William gasped in horror as he watched each of them dissolve into his skin.

  “What—” William tried to ask but was too bewildered to continue. Although built like a tank, he was scared of his own proverbial shadow. “What’d you just do?”

  Samantha and Marissa were also in disbelief. Known for excellent judgment and foresight, Alex’s action seemed not only rash but also incoherent.

  “Why don’t you just sit down?” Samantha said, taking Alex by the shoulder and trying to speak with him like an older sister. “You’ve been through a lot this past day, and I know you’re probably not thinking right at the moment.”

  “My arms!” William frantically ranted.

  Alex looked at both Samantha and Marissa as William continued to gasp in terror. “Have either of you known me ever to be irrational?”

  He gave them both a grin. “You’ve got to trust me now more than ever. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

  He then grabbed his robe hanging on a hook next to him. “If you all could please excuse me, I have an aero-bike race today.”

  Chapter_5

  The dark, dingy room only provided just enough light to showcase its deplorable conditions. Dried blood covered much of the floor and walls, while the stagnant smell of human excrement permeated the area. Suffering and death lingered about the room. Even the rats dared not enter.

  Mold dripped from the ceiling, while a vent on the floor that was supposed to recirculate the air only spewed out black and acrid smoke. Screams emanating from adjacent rooms also found their way through the vent, creating a horrific melody of human suffering.

  Jules Windsor hung precariously in the air as if crucified and mounted for all to gawk. His wrists and ankles were bound by dark silver straps that levitated in the air; large magnets positioned around the room kept them in precise position. His clothing was torn and dried blood covered his face, hair, and shirt.

  Despite the intense pain in his wrist and shoulders, Jules smiled at his two captors sitting behind a black console at the far end of the room. Acting as if he were having a pleasant, leisurely discussion with old friends, he grinned.

  Dressed similarly to the WOGs, these NewREMA guards’ uniforms were a dark shade of blue. In addition to having the diamond and gold New Reality emblem on their shoulders, the NewREMA insignia with an eagle looking right and holding a key was displayed on their helmet, chest, and back.

  “Now tell us again,” one of the faceless guards reiterated in a menacing tone. “What information did you steal from The New Reality?”

  Jules laughed. “I presume you two gentleman sitting behind that console there are of the utmost intelligence and fortitude.” He continued to talk despite the pain. In spite of the broken ribs he suffered, he forced himself to talk as though he were having a cup of tea with old friends. “You do realize that I have done nothing of the sort. Nor would I ever entertain such a thought.”

  Led by the magnetically-controlled strap, Jules’ left wrist wrenched over the top his head and behind his back, creating an excruciating position. A few beads of sweat trickled dow
n his forehead, but he would not provide the captors with any other indication of the pain.

  “My intentions with The New Reality are of the purest kind. I adhere to the bountiful guidance of her president Myra Keres and all for which she stands,” Jules said.

  His arm twisted just a slight bit more, creating almost enough tension to pull his shoulder out of its socket.

  “Jules Winsor,” the other guard chimed in, “I must insist that you tell us what you have taken from The New Reality before I have to cause you permanent damage.”

  Jules attempted not to laugh. He clearly understood that his termination would be the culmination to this torture session. As a high-ranking executive at The New Reality, he realized what occurred at these facilities and abhorred their existence. He believed that humanity should not be bound and forced to conform to an omnipotent central governmental power. He believed the New World Order only proved to stifle the human spirit instead of letting its great potential reign free. This NewREMA camp personified The New Reality’s totalitarian control over its people and represented all that was wrong with the entity that created it.

  “My dear boy,” Jules said affectionately. “If I had anything to tell, I would have told it to you two fine gentleman already.”

  “Jules,” the other guard smirked with growing admiration for the man, “you’re one tough bastard. We should have had you playing for our team at this year’s World Football Competition. You could’ve singlehandedly brought us home the cup.”

  Jules joked, holding back the pain, “No one invited me.”

  “If you get out of here one day, I’ll personally sign you up.”

  “I agree.” The other guard commented. “I’ve never seen someone take so much physical pain and not break. It’s like he’s actually enjoying it.”

  Jules continued to smile. His goal to gain the guards’ respect was working. Plus, the more admiration they had for him, the less they inflicted bodily harm. They were also growing increasingly distracted, offering the slightest possibility of escape.

  “How much you think we could get if we tried to ransom him?”

  “At least twenty million Reality Marks,” the other guard answered.

  “Twenty million?” Jules scoffed. “You could get at least forty. I’m worth much more than that. Maybe a few years ago I’d go for that pittance of a sum. But now, with all I know about The New Reality added to my economic genius, I would most certainly require a much greater bounty.”

  “He’s probably right,” answered one guard. “Old Jules here is probably worth a lot more than that.”

  “Hey Jules,” shouted the other guard in amusement. “How about we just quantumly scan your brain and sell whatever we discover. I’m sure we could easily retire on that sum.”

  “You could quantumly scan my brain down until it began to smoke,” Jules mocked, “but, the best quantum scan would only provide you with broad concepts—not the juicy details that you two lads would need to retire.”

  One of the guards began to relax Jules’ arm that was behind his back and placed it in a more comfortable position above his head. Though thankful for the slight reprieve, Jules’ discomfort remained acute.

  “Plus,” Jules continued, “if the directors of this facility believed that a quantum mind scrub would give them even the smallest pittance of information, it would have been done already. That’s why I’m down here with you two fine gentleman instead of in another room on an examination table.”

  “You’re a smart guy Jules,” one guard commented. “Now I understand how you made it to the top of The New Reality.”

  “Did you see how he almost escaped from the WOGs?” the other guard asked. “I saw the unedited version of the whole event. He took out a dozen of them before they caught him.”

  “You’d be a fun guy to watch a game of football with,” he then said, looking up at this captive. “I’d even buy the first round of beer if you’re ever set free.”

  “My boy,” Jules said with a cringe of hatred in his voice. “You know the first thing that I’d do when I become free?”

  He stared at them with a menacing grin. “I’d crucify both of you.”

  Both of the guards burst out into laughter.

  Jules began to work on the straps around his wrist, slowly attempting to manipulate one of his hands free, but they were both strapped too tight to make even the slightest gain.

  “Crucify us,” one guard said while still laughing. “This guy’s a riot. I’m going to buy him a beer, and he wants to crucify me.”

  Such simpletons, Jules thought. Now I understand how The New Reality can fool billions of you sheeple while you stand idly by as they condemn this and subsequent generations of humanity into a life of servitude. Too wrapped up in your football, beer, and other trite misappropriations to see what is happening. When you both die, your loss to humanity will prove negligible.

  “What’s all the laughter?” a stern voice erupted over the telecommunicator on the console.

  Both guards immediately composed themselves and cleared their throats. “Yes, sir. Sir, may I help you?”

  “I hope you two morons down there aren’t playing tiddlywinks and have already abstracted the required information from our client,” the voice demanded. “We have a timeline that must not be broken.”

  Client? Jules scoffed. Calling me a client is like saying a skydiver falling to his death without a parachute is inconvenienced.

  “Tell your superior,” Jules said in a loud, boisterous tone, “that if he wants any information from this client, he will have to come down and retrieve it himself.”

  “What was that?” the indignation in the voice was clear.

  “Sir,” one of the guards answered. “Our client has failed to divulge any sensitive information at all and has unfortunately not provided us with anything of use.”

  “Yes,” the other guard then added, “and he remains nothing but defiant the entire time—despite our best efforts.”

  There was silence over the telecommunicator. The guards could hear the man on the other side breathe heavily as he contemplated the next course of action.

  “Were you able to obtain any information at all?” he then asked.

  “Nothing,” one guard answered. “Not a single thing.”

  “How long have you been in discussion with our client?” their superior then asked.

  “Eleven straight hours,” one guard answered. “Nonstop. Most clients would have passed out or even died by the fifth.”

  The guards then heard muffled voices as their superior obviously began to discuss further options with another unseen face.

  “For the security of The New Reality and the world, President Myra Keres insists that we provide her with a full and detailed account of what our client knows by morning.” He then added, “Because he still won’t talk, I’ll send down the pathologist within the hour to microdissect his brain.”

  “Prepare our client’s head for removal,” the man on the other end of the telecommunicator concluded as he ended their conversation.

  “Yes sir,” one guard said in a commanding voice as he magnetically forced Jules’ arms to the side and lowered his body flat so that he was positioned about four feet parallel to the floor. “Consider it done.”

  “Sorry Jules,” the other guard said, standing up from behind the console. “It looks like we’ll have to hold off on that beer.”

  “Don’t worry,” he added, taking what looked like a saw from under the console. Instead of possessing a serrated edge, the tool boasted a thin glowing strip that ran across the bottom edge. “I’ll toast to your memory when I’m in the bar tonight.”

  With his head dangling helplessly in the air, Jules turned to the guards and smiled. “I hope that bar is in Hades because that’s the only place you’ll be drinking by then.”

  Chapter_6

  Alex positioned himself on his aero-bike, ready for the race to begin. Shaped like a motorcycle but with a flat bottom and two cylindric
al magnetic, gravity dampeners along the sides instead of wheels, the bike was designed by Alex and boasted the golden NT insignia for Neurono-Tek along its side.

  He had competed successfully in numerous Ultimate Aero-Bike competitions in the past; this was the first time he had made it to this level of competition.

  Marissa stood by his side affectionately holding his hand. “I understand that you think you know what you are doing,” she implored, “but you are in no shape to race. Between the G-force and altitudinal changes, you will not be able to physically handle the stress of racing. Your brain is far from back to normal, and the stress level in your muscle and joints are reading unsafe to fly.”

  “That’s the best pep talk I ever had before racing,” Alex joked. Even so, he knew she spoke the truth. His head still throbbed, and he felt as if he had just run a marathon. Still not sure why Albert activated his PCC, he again realized that it was no accident or mere coincidence.

  “I wish you would reconsider,” she insisted. “It’s not worth it.”

  Alex caressed her shoulder with his other hand. “This is more than just a race. I’m doing this for you and for everyone else on this planet. Remember, ‘All men are created equal and are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men.’” He shook his head. “Instead of protecting these rights, The New Reality government has taken them away.”

  “But how would a silly race change anything?”

  Alex knew this competition was more than some race meant to entertain the masses.

  “Hey,” William interrupted. “Racing today may be the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen Alex do, but the sport is anything but silly. Hell, I’d still be on one of those things right now if my motion sickness didn’t get worse as I get older.”

  Marissa smiled at William, but she was slightly startled by how pale he appeared, especially out in the midday sun. Usually donning a golden tan, he looked much more ashen than he had earlier in the morning. “William, are you alright?”