Unfiction

by Gene Doucette

  There were wrinkles around the edges of her eyes. It felt like he was seeing her without makeup for the first time, only without knowing she’d had on makeup all those other times.

  But it was still her.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Can I sit?”

  “Please.”

  She took a seat at the nearest Adirondack. They were face-to-face, if he turned his head a little to the left.

  “Do you know who I am?” she asked. She sounded scared, and tired.

  “You’re Minerva.”

  She smiled, but faintly.

  “Athena,” she said. “My name’s Athena. I’m your… I’m Wilson’s friend.”

  Every word from her sounded wary. It reminded him of the way people spoke to dangerous animals.

  “Of course,” he said. “That makes a lot of sense.”

  “Does it?”

  “Minerva is what I called you, in that other place. I also called you Epic, and Cydonia, and Atha. Were you and Wilson… I mean, were we…?”

  “More than friends? Yes. You can say that.”

  “I tried to write a romance with the name Athena, but I’m not good at those. I wrote the outline, though.”

  “Is that why you said my name makes sense?”

  “All those names are variants of the goddess Athena. I should have seen that. And Pallas Athena, of course.”

  She smiled one of those smiles you give to someone who’s either a child, or a demented adult.

  “Sure,” she said.

  “There was a version of Wilson, in that other place. He was my writing tutor.”

  She nodded.

  “That sounds like him.”

  “We used to argue constantly. I’d write these genre stories and he hated them. He kept wanting me to ‘write something important!’”

  They both laughed then, and after that fell into an awkward silence.

  “This must be terrible for you, after all this time,” he said. “You were waiting for him, weren’t you? To wake up.”

  “It’s been a difficult six months, yes.”

  There were loose hairs, not long enough to stay in the ponytail and dangling over her eyes. She brushed them aside with an automatic gesture, and he nearly fell apart. Minerva was alive in Athena’s personal tics, and it made him want to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “For so many reasons. I’m sorry I’m not him. We didn’t know. When were in there, I mean, we didn’t know only one of us was getting out. We didn’t even know there was an out to get to. We were just following the story.”

  She curled up in the chair and hugged her knees. He wondered if she was cold, and if he should offer up something to keep her warm. He could call the not-Cant guy over and have him get her a blanket. That’d be almost chivalrous.

  “I’m not so sure you aren’t him,” she said. “I think what happened when Wilson went in there… you know, he was always pushing himself. He wanted to be a better writer, and that’s what… that can drive people. Study, read, practice, get feedback, push that envelope, all that. He’s a person of singular drive and intent. It made him really difficult sometimes. But I think he saw that he needed to become a different person to improve. For most of us, that’s not literal.”

  “You’re saying I’m a better version of your boyfriend?”

  “I’m saying that’s what Wilson Knight thought of Oliver Naughton. Don’t get carried away.”

  “Got it.”

  “But yes, I think so. At some point in that place, Wilson created you, and somehow handed you the keys to the psyche. I think there’s probably going to be a lifetime of doctoral theses written on the subject of exactly how that happened. And I mean except for the problem with your memories… maybe you are still him. You look like him. You know that, right?”

  The one thing Oliver did to improve his appearance—after a shower that felt simply fantastic—was to shave. When he did, he saw only his own face looking back at him, as it always had.

  He didn’t remember the Wilson of Tenth Avenue looking identical. They had the same height and the same basic build, and if there was someone out there who didn’t know them well, that person could confuse them with one another. But the face was definitely different.

  “So I’m told,” he said. “I don’t see it.”

  “Maybe it’s like hearing your own voice in a recording. So what was she like?”

  He smiled.

  “Minerva.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She looked like you. Not exactly like you, or not always exactly like you. She was smart, and funny, and interesting. And a quick thinker. She was on top of the story changes faster than I was, at first. She seemed to know what was happening before anybody. And she wanted to come with me. But I couldn’t take her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  She thought of something. It was amazing how easy it was to read her face and recognize little telltale signs of what was going on inside her head. Oliver didn’t know if he was seeing her with this kind of familiarity because of Wilson’s ghostly presence, or because everything that was Athena was reflected in Minerva. Maybe it didn’t matter.

  “Did Wilson get any better at women?” she asked.

  “At women?”

  “At writing women. It was one of his biggest things; he could not invent a credible woman. It was terrible. I used to have to mark up all his drafts.”

  “Are you a writer too?”

  “No, but I’m a woman and, I mean, it’s sad, but that was enough.”

  He laughed.

  “I think he got better. Maybe not at first, but as the plot got going. Should I be saying ‘we’?”

  “Not if you have to ask. I do think there are a lot of folks here who would be overjoyed if you just started calling yourself Wilson and they could forget about this whole mess, but it’s your identity. If you came back feeling more litigious, you’d probably have a good case on your hands.”

  He assumed Wilson signed some sort of agreement that would have made a lawsuit difficult, and Oliver surely would not help his own cause by declaring that not only did he not recall signing the disclosure, he wasn’t him when it was signed. Any attorney willing to follow that trail of breadcrumbs to its logical conclusion would find that were it not for this little accident, Oliver wouldn’t even exist. Therefore, shouldn’t he be thanking them and not suing them?

  Taken a little further still, if that were established in court, the L’Oiseaux Institute could be charged with the wrongful death of Wilson Knight.

  It made for an entertaining story, anyway.

  “You loved her, didn’t you?” Athena asked.

  “Very much.”

  His voice caught on the words a little. That was unexpected. He hadn’t really mourned Minerva’s loss. It was going to catch up to him.

  “Even though she wasn’t real.”

  “I don’t know how much that matters.”

  She nodded. “I guess that’s true, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t even know who gets to decide these things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who decides who is and isn’t real?”

  “She was inside of a computer simulated reality. Wilson invented her. Or you did. Based on me, it sounds like.”

  “Minerva was real when I was in there with her. Isn’t that enough?”

  “I don’t think so, Oliver. I wish it could be. But no.”

  Something like pity showed up in her eyes. It probably should have been of a comfort, seeing that, but it made him feel worse.

  “We all knew,” he said. “That was the interesting thing. In the middle of it, we all knew we were fulfilling roles in a story. In stories, plural. A bunch of them. And we knew I’d written those stories. And the part that’s really getting to me is I didn’t feel any different then, than I do now. Not really. I guess that could be an endorsement of the effectiveness of Koestler’s artificial reality, but…”

  �
��But you don’t think so.”

  “I have an interpretation I like better. Nobody else will, but I do. I don’t think this reality is any more or less real than the other one.”

  She took a deep breath. He got the sense that she was told to look out for this kind of declaration. Maybe they gave her a signal, and if she used it, men would run from one of the buildings with a strait jacket and carry him away.

  “Do you think you’re writing this?” she asked. “Like you were in the memory palace? Is this one of your plots?”

  “No. But someone is.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t think that matters. Not in the way you’re thinking. Like, I’m pretty positive we can’t wander around here until we find the writer, because they aren’t a character in this story, like we are. Like I was, on the inside. It doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

  “You find that comforting?”

  “I do.”

  “Why is that, Oliver? What difference does it make?”

  “It’s probably going to sound crazy. I guess everything I have to say sounds crazy anyway. I want a happy ending, Athena. When I look at all I went through to get here, it’s obvious I’m at the end of this story. If that’s true, I’m holding out for my happy ending, and I could have had it if I stayed in there. But to get one here, this has to be a story first. Otherwise, who knows?”

  She smiled a gentle smile that was quite affecting.

  “Well,” she said. She was uncurling her legs and finding her feet. “Don’t say that to anyone else. I think the reaction you get won’t be much to your liking.”

  She extended her hand. He shook it.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Oliver,” she said.

  “And you. Will you come back?”

  “Yes, I probably will.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  She grinned, and started walking away.

  “You know,” he said, “I told myself not to go.”

  Athena stopped and turned.

  “How’s that?”

  “The letter prompts Wilson gave me spelled the word ‘wake up’.”

  “And?”

  “It was an anagram. There was another anagram, but I never saw it. My name.”

  “Oliver Naughton?”

  “Oliver Tennyson Davis Naughton. O T D N. Every name I gave myself in the stories was a combination of those letters. Move it around: D O N T.”

  “Don’t?”

  “Don’t Wake Up. That was the full message.”

  “Well,” she said. “Too late now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Goodbye, Oliver.”

  He left the yard soon after, returned to his room and tried to get some sleep. Ironically, since he’d woken up from the memory palace, his sleep cycle had been completely messed up. He knew lying down while the sun was still up wasn’t going to make that any better, but he was tired, and he had nothing better to do.

  Of course, then he woke up in the middle of the night.

  They’d given him a room with a window on the top floor of one of the L-shaped buildings. The window faced away from the inner compound and looked down the hill at the city he couldn’t positively identify. This was his third night in the room, and his third night awake at some point past midnight.

  The view was nicer than the room, which was quite small. It had a prison-like feel, except for a lack of bars. The campus was a converted monastery, which naturally lent itself to the austerity that was also common in prisons, and college dormitories.

  Oliver was staring out the window and wondering what the downtown was like, when the door opened behind him.

  “You’re awake,” his visitor said. “Good. We thought you might be.”

  It was the big guy who’d been following Oliver around.

  “We? You mean Koestler?”

  “No, not him. Athena sent me.”

  “In the middle of the night? What time is it? What’s going on?”

  The man checked his watch.

  “About four A.M. And I don’t really know. She said she wanted to get you out of here. She picked the time.”

  “And… you take orders from her?”

  He sort of smiled. It was alarming how familiar that sort-of smile was to Oliver.

  “Technically, no, but she and Wilson… sorry, this is real weird. You’re kind of Wilson and kind of not. Probably weird for you too.”

  “In so many ways, yes.”

  “Well they got me this job. I owe them a lot. I’d follow her—and him, um, you—anywhere.”

  “What, like a blood oath or something?”

  “Something like that. I can explain later, but maybe after we’re out of the building.”

  “I feel pretty safe right here. How do I know I can even trust you?”

  “Wilson did.”

  “But I’m still not him. What’s your name?”

  “Bobby Canton. My friends call me Cant.”

  “That’s good enough for me. Then let’s go.”

  “So are you some kind of magician or something?” Bobby Canton asked.

  “How do you mean?”

  They had exited the room, and gone to the end of the hall to a stairwell that was inaccessible without a key card, which Bobby had. From there, they went down two flights and entered an unused wing. Oliver was already completely turned around, so he was glad his guide knew where they were going.

  “The way they talk about you,” he said. “I don’t think they know how you ended up here and Wilson didn’t—I mean if that’s what happened, I dunno—but I heard more than one guy use the word ‘magic’ to explain it. And these are scientists.”

  “There was magic in the world I escaped from,” Oliver said, “so maybe they’re right.”

  “Huh. You’ll have to show me some. I always wanted to see real magic. It’s through here.”

  Cant opened a door that looked about the same as every other door on the floor. Oliver walked into a dark room.

  “Were you followed?”

  Athena was in the corner, near an open window. He didn’t see her at first, because between visits she’d changed into black clothing.

  Oliver started to answer, but the question was directed at Cant.

  “No,” he said. “They’re confident he doesn’t want to leave, and that he wouldn’t know how if he did.”

  “Good. This is probably our only chance.”

  “What’s going on?” Oliver asked.

  “There’s a lot you weren’t told,” she said. She had a knapsack on her back, which she dropped on the floor between them. “We don’t have a lot of time, though. Do you trust me?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. There’s clothes in the bag that’ll fit you. Change, and let’s get out of here.”

  He took the bag to the opposite corner of the room. This involved negotiating a number of tables and chairs that were apparently just being stored there.

  “What wasn’t I told?” he asked, as he felt his way through the bag. It was a complete change of clothes, convenient given he’d been walking around in scrubs and a heavy bathrobe. That and a thick pair of socks was fine for the courtyard, but maybe not for a foray into the real world. He began to strip down.

  “Koestler needs to keep you here,” she said. “Whether that’s what’s best for you or not.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because this place is largely funded by money from Wilson’s family estate.”

  “So for that I have to stay?”

  “If you’re here, he can control you, and if he controls you he controls your money. And I can’t challenge him legally because I’m just Wilson Knight’s girlfriend. We live together, but that’s all. The person with the best claim on the estate is you, up until Koestler figures out how to get a court to say otherwise. And the answer to your next question is, Wilson’s parents are both dead and he has no siblings, and it’s a lot of money.”

  Oliver finished changing. Dark clothing, like Athena.


  “So we run away? Is that your solution?”

  “One thing at a time,” she said. “We get you out of here, and then to the city. Wilson and I have a condo.”

  “Tenth Avenue.”

  She smiled.

  “Yes. Tenth Avenue. We’ll get you home and then figure out our best options. Is that okay?”

  It was four in the morning and Athena was worried, he thought.

  He took her hands.

  “Like I said, I trust you. Both of you.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  The way out the window required negotiating a ladder, since they weren’t on the ground floor. He was halfway down when he took a second to check out the night sky. The air above was awash in the reflected light from the city, so he didn’t see much in the way of stars, but there were clouds up there.

  One of them was shaped like a dragon, and Oliver’s heart skipped.

  But it wasn’t a real dragon. It was just a cloud.

  “You know,” he said, “I think maybe I was wrong.”

  “About what?” Athena asked. She was leading the way down, while Cant held the ladder steady from above.

  “Maybe this isn’t the end of the story at all. Maybe this is just the beginning.”

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my wife, Deb, for insisting I finish this crazy idea and putting up with me while I did it. And to fellow author Xio Axelrod for hearing about this back when it was only an idea called M Pallas, and not telling me I was crazy.

  * * *

  I’d also like to thank Julie Gray, my editor, whose first and most important responsibility was to convince me I needed an editor, and Kim Killion, the cover artist who has to put up with some ridiculously sketchy design proposals. (Six genres! Here’s ten objects to put on the cover! Go!)

  * * *

  Finally, I want to thank the many contributors to the KBoards, for the title of the book, (and the blurb) and for helping me see genre fiction in a way that informed a lot of the things in this novel. You guys are the best.