by Travis Borne
“But my hair is—” Jim stood up. “—my skin, I have pores now, big ones, and my eyes are dull! Why would we do this, Ted?”
“Jim, I’m sorry but those are some of the changes that will affect you and the others as we move forward. You will lose your hair because you were predisposed to baldness, your eyes will be their natural color and—”
“I don’t think I like this,” George said, thrusting his ideally sculpted chin. “Why is this necessary?” A few others rallied with agreeing commotion. George was handsome in every way, the masculine counterweight to his dazzling partner, the beautiful Jessie. He was taller than Jim, 6 foot 1 with flawless bronze skin and flowing, dark mahogany hair. He was athletically muscular and thin with incongruous but gorgeous crystal-blue eyes under a thick, determined brow.
Rico interrupted the disagreement once again, “I specifically invited each of you here today because you are the best we have and this is how we will be moving forward. There will be no exceptions.”
The group continued with disagreement then Jim spoke again, with a different tone, loud enough to catch their attention: “I must admit. This morning it hit me hard, scared me to be honest.” The group sat, got quiet, listened attentively. “I was seriously worried because I didn’t know why my hair was falling out, my eyes appeared less bright, and there were other minor physical changes, but, I must admit—I actually feel more alive now, more so than, well, ever. I feel, human, like I should be. And this morning for the first time I wanted to create something. I feel a new passion to be somebody, something more. I have hope for the future. I—”
“What is it, Jim?” Jessie asked. George turned away, not wanting to hear it.
“I dream and, I fuckin’ like it,” Jim replied. “And I think it is worth it, if humanity needs this in order to survive. Well…I’m in.”
“You can’t change it anyway, so why should you even have a say?” George fumed. “Look at us, we’re perfect. Why fuck us up just because—” He turned to Amy with a brief look of hatred. “Why do we need more output? Things are fine, we’re in the green almost all of the time!”
“The purple status!” Amy answered, ignoring his hateful glare.
Rico rose to his feet. “Ahem—we haven’t discussed this due to some very old orders but I think now is the time. The orders simply stated that we will know when the time is ready and until then—not to mention it. It also said once disclosure was made our orders were to reach the goal at all costs. Yes, Amy. We believe, although it was very vague, almost cryptic, that this is what it meant. This status was added to the system shortly after you arrived, almost ten years ago. The system had some updates and the hardware for it arrived with you. And that was the final time we heard from the outside.”
“What is it?” Amy interrupted impatiently. She rebounded from the idea that she’d damaged Jim—and George’s malicious look, which she continued to fight off. She was again passionately curious about having anything to do with the opportunity.
Rico began explaining, “Let me put it this way, although we cannot be certain. If everyone in the town was to log in we would still be far from that status. And the lenders’ capabilities as a whole have been decreasing over time—yes, you heard me right, we are still losing our creativity. Amy and Jim pulled off an extraordinary week, yet—combined with the rest of the team—it’s nothing near what it would take to reach this, I’ll say, mysterious status. And, we don’t know what will happen when we reach it. We do expect something special, as the message said, but it didn’t explain further. Our cypher was crude but that’s typical, the messages we’ve received have always provided very limited information. We do know, and not via any provable data—just good old intuition and common sense—that we are, have always been, kept in the dark about many things. Now, Ted and I, with expert advice from Ron and Devon, stayed up late last night discussing our new goals. We think Amy is the key. After each lender is restored to their natural state, this achievement might just be possible.”
“Well, I don’t like it. We’re happy as we are now,” George said with his arms crossed. Nodding, Jessie followed in agreement. They knew each other well, typical for lenders who spent years together, and knew details about each other's parents and possible predisposed conditions. Jessie was absolutely stunning: long, silky blond hair, with soft baby skin and eyes as green as bright spring grass. Everyone in the town had beneficial modifications but George and Jessie loved themselves as a couple and enjoyed every moment of their very sexual lives together, both in the physical world and while logged in. There was no way in hell George was going to go bald, and Jessie wasn’t about to gain weight or give up her flawless skin. They both firmly knew their answer.
“They expect us to log in and work with her for a week,” Jessie retorted, glancing toward Amy with brand-new animosity. “Then we simply revert to having any number of unknown conditions we might be predisposed to. I mean—look at Jim, he’s, ugly now. Not me, I am out!” She’d been with George for over ten years and nothing about the situation felt like a battle for humanity, or a war. The primary reason for lending had lost its meaning for them, undoubtedly for others as well.
“I thought some of you wouldn’t agree,” Rico said, “but this is not a vote. The orders stand and we will follow them. Those who choose not to, will be out of the program. Feel free to take up a job in the community down there. Now, as Jim stated he does feel more alive, more human as he put it. Perhaps he is getting a chance to experience just what we as humans have lost. This is more important than superficiality. I believe this is important to the survival of the human race. And we must remember, although we have been safe inside these walls for many years, there is still a war out there and anything can happen. I only hope that one day these walls will come down and we can exist in peace. Now, a show of hands, who agrees? Who wants to continue with the program?”
Jim raised his hand first, followed by Amy. Everyone except Jessie and George—but after a long, tense moment, even they raised an arm. They agreed slowly and defiantly. Jessie, and her never-ending happiness that illuminated all such a short time ago, possessed a look of sheer disenchantment. She was visibly upset, her bubble had burst. But George nudged her. He couldn’t bear a regular job in the town, not even obliviously. Even after the chair, he’d still know; that he didn’t want to sweep or tend the gardens, or make pizzas, or help the town chemist. He loved lending, he loved Jessie, but mostly he loved himself and his life. His countenance displayed anger with squinted, mischievous eyes. Amy was elated, as usual, and hugged Jim. George lowered his chin and brow, and exhaled slowly but forcefully while holding Jessie who began to sob. While everyone else agreed and moved forward, his eyes execrated Amy, he directed to her and Jim alike a look of steel condemnation.
“Okay then, that’s more like it,” Rico said. “Remember, we are all in this together. We’re a team. Ted, if you would please hand out the papers we put together.”
Ted passed a paper to each pair then explained, “This paper lists some of the things you can expect in your transitions. Also, we put together a rough schedule regarding who is to work with Amy and when. Depending on each individual’s response to her—gift—this schedule might be pushed forward. We hope so. We’re in new territory with this everyone.”
“That will be all,” Rico said, “now follow me. Let’s head back down and lend!”
54. Linear Plans
In the following weeks Amy spent time with many of the lower-level lenders and worked her way up. It was discovered that each lender needed an average of four days with her in order to jumpstart the DNA revert process. Was it the mind, as in mind over matter, the mind’s ability to alter DNA as needed? Ted didn’t know and couldn’t figure it out, but it was working. He assumed it was a quantum-level process yet didn’t have the advanced instruments to test any theory one way or another. So, they stuck to the plan and revised the schedule for the shorter times: each was to have only four days working with her.
&n
bsp; Those who had been exposed to Amy, inside any map, were performing optimally above and beyond expectations. Finally. Because as Ted had known for years, the ability to lend and produce viable output had been decreasing steadily—now, the opposite. The broadcast feed held top output levels like never before. So far ten had been genetically reverted to one-hundred percent: natural, untouched, clean. In return, many received superficial flaws (weight gain or loss, baldness, acne or porous skin, sometimes even laser breath or increased body odor) but health remained surprisingly well. Possibly it could be attributed to the pre-established and thoroughly ingrained community fitness plan, healthy garden-fresh diets, and overall salubrious and peaceful lifestyles within the town. And with the town’s present medical capabilities most issues could be managed or fixed altogether, without reverting to DNA or genetic modification—beyond the bounds of possibility anyway. Methods of the pre-2020s were emphasized: diet alterations, natural remedies, and therapy or more specialized exercise plans. And all were dreaming again—and excited about it, excited about life!
All of the subjects were instructed to record a detailed log regarding any physical and mental changes, furthermore to track their natural dreams in a journal, with details and descriptions of the dreams themselves. Dreaming itself, naturally, was a long-lost ability and this was an opportunity to catch up, or as Ted saw it, mesh some data.
Ted consulted with Rico who made a short visit to the BROCC. He mentioned they’d soon have enough data to estimate what would be needed to achieve the mysterious purple status. He advised relaxing a bit on the work schedule since it was becoming very easy to maintain status in the green.
“I think that’s a fine idea, Ted,” Rico said. “Let’s get every one of the lenders taken care of, and then when we’re ready, we’ll have everyone log in at once and go for it.”
Ted nodded, although he wasn’t convinced the achievement could be had in such a linear fashion. The data pointed to it, so far, but—well hopefully. He deduced the idea while rubbing his chin, eyes floating up in thought. And Rico headed back to the control room.
55. Myron
Tuesday morning. Amy had logged in with her friend Myron. He was short at only 5 foot 2, with puffy freckled cheeks and electric-blue eyes. An intense carrot-colored globe, his glossy straight hair convexed around his noggin. And he looked like he’d been sneaking extra food rations, but the program was desperate for new lenders. He’d barely made it and was only one of the two from Amy’s graduating class who even came close—coincidentally both were her best friends.
Amy had liked Myron for a long time. He was the only person with whom she shared her drawings; for all others simply said, that’s nice, and quickly lost attention. So, since forever and then, her artwork was a secret between her and Myron, with the sure exception of Bertha, aka Momma-Bee. Myron was sometimes clumsy, but mischievous and fun to be around—funny was more like it. Amy knew from the start he had more creativity than the others, and now knowing that’s what it took, knew exactly why he’d made it in—and she was happy about that. Today was his fourth and final day with her.
Amy took in a deep breath of the warm dry air. “Ah…” They were enjoying the magnificent canyon view—a popular tourist destination—and leaning over the rail, looking down into the deep chasm. Spotty clouds speckled the red and orange desert with shadows for hundreds of miles. And behind them, tourists were sauntering to this side and that by the hundreds. A little girl on her dad’s shoulders pointed in elation; a mom handed a stranger her camera for a family picture; and little ones dripped ice cream everywhere—down the crispy cone, gooing their grubby hands, sliming the grand glass-bottom overlook platform. The ice-cream man, frantic in his ratty, sticker-plastered truck beyond the rock-wall barrier, sold cone after cone in exchange for green papers. While a maintenance man made little progress to keep up—cleaning scuff marks and spit, spoiled ice cream and vomit.
A boisterous family arrived in wedding attire. There were at least forty: tuxedo-garbed men, and women in light-yellow dresses. They yelled and laughed like blowhards and bumptiously shoved Amy aside, stealing the best overlook in the park. An older gentleman set up a tripod and took picture after picture. He ran back and forth to reset his timer, aiming for perfection. Myron snuck into the side of the picture and stretched his cheeks. For the next one he ducked behind, exposing a low moon through the leg forest. Amy giggled, and as he continued, she could contain herself no longer. She burst out laughing so hard it hurt—until he got busted.
“Hey, get out of there, you little shit,” yelled a robust older woman. “He jumped into our picture, redo it. Again, Henry!”
“All right, Florence,” Henry said. And the old man scampered to reset the timer while anger forced Florence’s bottom teeth out and crinkled her face. She gave Myron the evil one-and-a-half-eyed stare, brooming him with it. Myron retreated quickly, unable to fasten his pants. A couple of young teens on the far end couldn’t help but look over to Myron and Amy as they horsed around. The laughter was infectious and they even tossed Amy a wave, obviously bored out of their gourd by the wedding traditions. But patience was dwindling for the elders of the group. For the retake Amy leapt in front doing a cartwheel and Myron ran to the camera with his jeans still drooping, exposing his butt crack to the haughty horde.
“Perfect shot!” He said, snatching the camera. He flipped through the pictures and found one with Amy in it. “Can’t beat that. You win, Amy. Check it out.”
Florence yelled, “Leave our camera alone!” Annoyed with the two pranksters, she furiously sped toward them as fast as her paunchy self could. And the now un-posed family burst into rage, except for the girl and boy teens on the end, who secretly rallied them on.
Amy and Myron bolted to the far side of the glass platform overlooking the canyon. They ran and ran with elation on their faces, their hair blowing in the breeze. Toward the end Amy began skipping. Myron watched her and copied. She laughed some more—he had no skipping ability, or any rhythm for that matter.
And there it was.
They saw the black bag under a bench. And they looked at each other, turning their heads slowly, mouths making an O shape. After a short giggle—Amy because of Myron’s fat face, he because of her skinny one—they re-looked at the bag. “Well, fun’s over, you ready, Myron?” Amy asked, trying to get serious—but really to no avail. It was the funniest darn day she’d ever had.
“Yeah, let’s do this,” Myron replied. “Then we’ll go back to the other side and get some more ice cream.”
“Deal!”
Amy reached in, hesitated for a split second to choose, then pulled out a flamethrower that was far bigger than the bag itself. By a double steel-braided line the bag birthed a strap-on tank next. Her eyes rounded. She strapped it to her back as Myron gawked, then she kicked the bag over to him. Its pilot was lit and she put her finger on the trigger. The wand was light but the green pill-bottle tank a little heavy. She brandished it like the sword she’d used so many times, waving and whirling, anxious to pull the trigger. A few onlookers gasped superciliously.
Myron’s turn. He peered into the bag, deciding, then pulled out an old-western single-shot muzzle loader. “Ah ha!” He exclaimed proudly. It was long, very long.
“You have got to be kidding,” Amy said. He shed a prideful smile and tossed it over the guardrail then looked again. Digging around inside, his eyes bulged before extracting an orange chainsaw. “Now that’s more like it,” Amy said slowly. She held in a laugh. Gotta see this, she thought. She really liked him; unlike others the crazy little squirt was unpredictable. Together they’d gotten into a bit of trouble in the schoolhouse too, but this was different—they’d been given unleashed and unlimited carte blanche.
Myron pulled the string to start the chainsaw, but it didn’t start. He tried again, but because of the high compression the string locked and the bar flung upward. The blade nicked his forehead. “Ouch!” Gobs of blood made their way down the center of his brow. He
smeared it with his arm then sucked it up and tried again—with a better grip on the saw. He pulled it five more times and still, nothing.
“You dummy—look,” Amy said. “You have to pull the choke first, and pump this little gas ball a few times. Look, says it right here.” Myron did what she suggested and it fired off, then died. “One more time, now without the choke.”
Myron pulled as hard as his scrawny muscles could and it fired up, explosively. Reeeen! The tourists noticed and became wondrously and terribly unnerved. He looked funny holding the chainsaw and revved it. Reeeen, Reeeen, Reeeen! He put it above his head and started screaming and held the throttle down constantly. Its muffler glowed molten-red and smoke billowed above the mini smokestack that was Myron, deadly chainsaw master of massacre. Amy burst out laughing at him. She fell to her knees, red-faced, holding her stomach. Accidentally the hair trigger on her flame thrower spit a fifty-foot blaze along the glass floor. Oops!
She could barely stop laughing, but before everyone disappeared, she managed to get up and say, “All right, let’s get this over with!” Her eyes were flooded with tears of laughter. Myron had already gunned his short legs—running with the saw.
“Hee, hee, hee.” Myron laughed his funny little laugh. He and Amy burst into the crowd.
Amy lit the flamethrower and torched everyone she could see. The flamethrower had tremendous reach so it made it easy to blaze numerous people in a single swoop, and once they were slimed with the fiery goo, nothing they could do would put it out. Some rolled, in vain, and some fell to their knees then plopped. She torched many camera-necklaced touring seniors who were always the easiest due to lack of speed, and entire families that refused to leave a member behind. She was even able to reach the wedding family. Only two kids made it out, those who had waved to her; she paused her rampage momentarily and let them go. The tripod that held the camera burned like a candlestick, letting out a small pop when the battery exploded.
