by Judyth Baker
Thus a compromise was made: Terrence would be trained to become a Worker, like Melvin, if Mother and Father adopted him. The fruits of his labors would assign credits of two-thirds to his new parents and one-third to his Uncle and his Uncle’s wife, even though the Uncle was a prisoner. The labor arrangement would give the Uncle a few privileges, such as being able to avoid one of the punishment V-R programs.
Papers were signed, and the problem was solved, except for Terrence’s nightmares, where he kept seeing his parents blown to smithereens. Since the nightmares always happened when he was in a V-R cycle, there was no way it could be fixed. Only if Terrence wished to permanently terminate his life, by going to CHUK-E, could there be a final ‘fix.’ Maw sincerely hoped that would never happen.
Once she’d been bitten by the rattlesnake, for example, and had died. That had sent her on ahead to Rome, where she also died before Paw could get there to stop her from selecting “Gladiator” – a word she hadn’t recognized due to her residual illiteracy problem in the “Little House” V-R. It had left her temporarily a bit dense. As a Gladiator she hadn’t lasted long, and it took another V-R cycle for her to catch up with the rest of the family again.
By dint of hard concentration, Maw was able to recall a general picture of their overall lives in V-R by putting together a set of mnemonics. Rattlesnake – killed me – Gladiator killed me – Storm Troopers – killed me – Dinosaur – tried to kill me; back to Real Time.
Of course, nor every re-run ended in death. It was just that death became a more interesting situation as time went by. It got old trying to elude death, trying to avoid an explosion, or just watching others die. There were some very pleasant commercial breaks, lasting a few hours each, in most of the re-runs, where the whole family (those not already dead) could play on a beach together, enjoy a medieval feast, or go horseback riding in Peru. Of course, these commercials cost Work Time (Thanks to Melvin, they had credit to spare, and someday, Terrence would be helping out, too). Then they’d return to the re-run: the commercials would seem like a dream they’d had while sleeping, since they always occurred during a period of sleep in the main V-R.
Lately, some of these commercial breaks advertised new V-Rs at the end, which created a lust to purchase that was almost irresistible. Some of them offered enhancements to V-Rs they already had. In this manner, the family had obtained the right to select positions much higher and safer than that of Gladiator, Slave Girl, or Christian Martyr when in Rome. After Rome, they always had a big family gathering in “Star Wars,” which unfortunately always ended with Storm Troopers blowing up their planet. Their next V-R took them into a Sherlock Holmes murder mystery series, sometimes set in London, or in Liverpool, but often bringing them into a dreary house in the Moors where various family members were killed before Sherlock saved the day. That brought them to the last V-R, designed to make a return to Real Time more bearable. This was accomplished by their entering a cheap V-R with fewer sensations, props and interesting variations. Most of them were animated cartoons. The latest cheapie imposed on them was called “The Fred Flintstone Family Tames a Dinosaur. ” It was the worst V-R Maw had ever had to plod her way through before waking up at home base.
In Real Time, they escaped the passive exercise machines that moved their limbs and kept their bodies from deteriorating, to walk under their own power. They ate food the old-fashioned way. Families and singles got filled in on the gossip and played checkers and had affairs before they were strapped down again to resume their V-R cycles once more.
But a problem had emerged … there was now a glitch in the family’s V-R cycle. “The Fred Flintstone Family Tames a Dinosaur” V-R had repeated itself twice, without even a commercial to break it up. The repeat also made them lose a month of Real Time. Maw had complained about this to the Cyborg-in-Charge on their floor. It apologized profusely for the double dose, but it happened again on the next V-R cycle. This time, Maw had asked Melvin to make sure the glitch got fixed before his annual work cycle was over and he joined them in Down Time.
* * *
Melvin knew he was the pride and joy of his family, for he was a Worker. Since many families or groups had no Worker, they were considered lower class and their chances to obtain new V-Rs remained limited. They often found themselves forced to be members of audiences, victims of mob violence, or fodder for armies in new V-R productions to earn their credit points. In the Rome V-R, for example, the crowds screaming for gladiator blood were composed of these less fortunate people. Eventually, they’d earn some perks to enjoy in a commercial break. A year ago, their Real Time away from V-R had been reduced to only six weeks. It was whispered that many of these underprivileged were now committing suicide in Real Time.
Knowing how valuable he was to his family, Melvin worked out and kept his body strong during his family’s two-month Real Time stint. He also studied, honing various skills to make sure he would be selected for a high-paying position. He was an expert horseman, could cook almost anything, and lately had been hired as First Mate on “The Coconut Dream,” which was a yacht that the very wealthy could rent during their three months of Real Time. Melvin himself had three months of RT: during part of the third month, he worked. Sometimes he wondered how his family got along on just two. His dream was to get his family into two-and-a-half months or more of RT, along with three or four more V-Rs of high quality. Deep within him, he wondered if he’d ever have a chance to marry. Inga-Brit, a blonde he’d tried to date in RT, had developed myasthenia gravis and was now undergoing therapy. He wondered where they had taken her for treatment. Myasthenia gravis was a hazard that endangered everyone who had only six weeks of down time.
As Melvin pondered these things, the shrill of a whistle made him sit upright in his narrow bunk bed. It was time to get back on deck. “Oh, man!” he thought to himself, “I still feel awful!” He was still a little seasick, but the medicine had started working. As Melvin started up the metal steps, his friend Truman, a big, blonde, always-grinning Brit, helped him out at the top.
“Better now?” Truman asked him.
“Yeah. Hope they don’t fire me.”
“Not unless it happens again,” Truman said, trying to be reassuring. “They should have had the simulated hurricane in the job description, and they didn’t, so they were at fault.”
The two men hurried toward the Captain’s lavishly furnished banquet cabin, where important guests would soon be seated at the big, linen-covered table. Melvin knew that both he and Truman had been chosen as First and Second Mates purely due to their good looks and sociability. They both had well-developed muscles that made them look like supermen, but they also had worked hard to achieve a high-class English accent and impeccable manners. As they began greeting the well-dressed men and women who came drifting into the candle-lit room, suddenly Melvin saw her: it was Inga-Brit, his former girlfriend! She was not alone: the Captain himself was at her side.
She looked just fine, as she approached, holding hands with that too-old, be-whiskered gentleman, her long, green gown trailing lightly behind her, her neck adorned with diamonds and her ears be-hung with orbs of gold peeking from under a plaited promenade of platinum blonde hair. As Melvin helped Inga-Brit to be seated, she whispered just two words, and he understood: “Four Months.”
He knew she’d been virtually purchased by the man who now gently grunted as he lowered his generous bulk into the finely carved Captain’s chair to sit beside her. But how in hell did anybody get a four-month status? Until now, he’d only been exposed to three-monthers. A whole new world of possibilities suddenly yawned before him.
Throughout the evening, Melvin used his wit and chatter to charm these high-class guests. By the time of the last hand-shake from the Captain, and the last dreamy smile from an inebriated Inga-Brit brought the evening to a close, Melvin and Truman had learned many secrets. The guests had been so pleased with their Real Time cruise that it had been extended an extra day. Inwardly, both young men could scarcely co
nceal their delight: the extra hours assured enough credits for their respective families to receive the new, coveted “Viva! Las Vegas!” V-R.
When the night crew took over, the two men, anxious to talk, returned to their room. After the lights dimmed, Truman whispered, “Was that your Inga-Brit?”
“Yes, about thirty pounds heavier. Looks like she got well pretty fast.”
“I heard her say her doctor introduced her to the Captain. I’ll bet he ended up paying for her treatment.”
“She told me, ‘four months.’” Melvin whispered, as the room went totally dark.
“You think those people get four months?”
“I do.”
“My God! What I could do with four months!”
“That guy, the banker… know what he told me?”
“What?”
“Said he bought two weeks from a Two-Monther lower class.”
Melvin’s mind flashed back to his own hard struggle to earn three months. It had taken him years.
“But wasn’t there a general decree to reduce the Two-Monther lower class to a month-and-a-half?”
“It looks like they sold their time to get more V-Rs,” Truman told him. “Seems the decree was instituted to hide the fact that this was purchased time.”
“Poor slobs.”
“Who are you going to vote for in the next election?”
“I forget. It’s kind of a blur, you know.” Melvin said.
“Yeah. But I won’t vote for anybody who’s more than75% Cyborg.”
“And how are you going to know what percentage they are, the way they hide all this stuff?”
“Better stop thinking like that, or you’ll get on the ‘A’ list. Like Terrence’s dad.”
“You’re right,” Melvin replied. “Look how good we humans have it now!”
Myasthenia gravis and suicides were currently the only real problems facing humanity anymore, outside of life in a penal colony.
“That’s right,” Truman said. “No more wars. No more starvation. No more homeless. No disease, with free education and free medical care! Equal opportunities for all, and thanks to V-Rs, we can live many lives, not just one. The human race has never had it so good!”
Melvin sighed. Truman’s words did not match the sting of desperation he sensed in his friend’s voice.
* * *
As always, the weather was perfect, where, among the clouds (and ominously) vultures circled on wings that stretched into long, black Vs that stitched the clouds together against a strikingly deep blue sky. The massive bulk of the Coliseum loomed over the huge crowd that was filled with sour, unhappy faces. The Romans were demanding bread.
“Bread! Bread! Bread!” they screamed, as the bakers threw loaf after loaf into the mob.
“We want the circus! We want the circus!” came the next cries, as the gates were opened and the mob poured in. Slaves and free, old and young, male and female, in their rags and riches streamed into the grandstands, a living river of humanity, sweating, shoving, pommeling each other.
Lady Cecilia, El Terrencio, Sariah and Melvinio sat in a private box, their well-groomed bodies garbed in purple, as they ate from a platter of dates, grapes, cheese and sausages, with a slave at their side to pour their wine.
Only two boxes to the left, Emperor Claudius and his Empress sat amidst powerful, well-armed soldiers and tall, black slaves. Their enormous gilded chairs were festooned with garlands. Melvinio noted, with some resentment, that Claudius had much of the face of the Captain, and the Empress resembled, to an alarming degree, his Inga-Brit, but his resentment faded when she turned her head slightly in his direction and winked.
Melvinio, realizing that he may have found his ticket to Four Months, winked back…
Then the Gladiators marched forth, in their glittering armor and decorated helmets. The trumpets sounded, the crowd began to roar, and the Gladiators cried out, “We, who are about to die, salute you!”
As the first two warriors faced each other in the great Arena of the Coliseum, armed with nets and axes and weighted maces, Lady Cecilia called out to the Gladiator who seemed rather shorter and less muscular than his opponent.
“Darn it, Paw!” she yelled, the vestiges of her former V-R experience still upon her, though fading fast, “Why are you killing yourself again? We just got here, and already, you’re leaving!”
Melvinio leaned forward as his father turned his grizzled face toward his wife, who, luxuriating in the family’s special box, decided to wave at him. For a moment, Melvinio thought he had never seen a more miserable visage. At least, he thought to himself, Dad wasn’t really committing suicide. Surely, if he could just earn another R-V or two, his father would have a smile on his face again.
His equanimity restored, Melvin impassively watched his father get hacked to pieces by a gigantic Oriental Gladiator who first trapped Dad in a net, then began slicing off his limbs. As the crowd roared with pleasure, and the dark blood spurted out against the bright steel of the Oriental Gladiator’s sword, Dad went on to meet Sherlock Holmes in London.
Endnotes
1. http://www.usatoday.com/story/tech/2015/03/27/virtual-reality-oculus-rift-facebook-vr-will-be-everywhere/70547882/ Retrieved July 31, 2015.
Teenagers
She was absolutely frozen, her teeth chattering, crystals of ice in her nostrils, but as they worked on her, gradually color returned to her face, and LauraLee’s eyes opened.
“You’re going to be all right!” excited voices assured her.
“Wh-what about Roger?” she managed to ask.
You’ve got frostbite,” one replied, “but it seems there’s no permanent damage.”
“But – what about Roger?” she insisted, sitting up suddenly, anxious and concerned.
“He’s alive,” came the reply. “He’s going to be OK.”
Hearing that her son was safe, LauraLee sank back among the pillows, with a contented smile, and fainted…
* * *
“It’s normal that you don’t remember much, Roger,” LauraLee told him. “What you went through was so terrible that they did a Mind Sweep.”
Roger sat on his low bed in his room, his head in his hands. It had been a month since his rescue: he and LauraLee had been the center of attention, with interviews and appearances on the most popular talk shows across the planet.
It had been mostly a blur to him: every memory of his teenage years was missing. His psychiatrist explained that those memories had been so traumatic that they had to be erased. In their place, Roger was given an understanding of almost all the events and technological advances that had occurred during that time period. If faces and days and years themselves were missing, at least he had not lost the ability to function as an adult. Still, it wasn’t an easy adjustment, and everyone understood that.
But now he was “home.” He was expected to take his place in the adult world. Have a job. Adapt to work and play schedules. Though he was a celebrity and had been given the best of everything available at his social grade, he still had trouble on a basic level: recognizing himself. When he viewed his own hologram, he vaguely recognized his thick, reddish-blonde hair. That looked familiar, but the baby-face, freckled and dimpled, that he had last seen as his own, had morphed into a grown-up visage, complete with hairs on his face that (should he desire) could be eradicated as quickly as had been his memory of his teenage years.
Roger looked warily around his new room, trying to connect what he saw with any shred of memory left of those years when he was a child. By now, he was aware that it was wrong to ask questions about his past: people would look away and tell him it was a matter of privacy. He wondered what terrible things had happened to him, but not a single word in that direction had been uttered, other than it had been lucky that his mother had been brave enough to rescue him.
As he scanned the room, LauraLee stood anxiously watching.
“That’s your Teddy Bear,” she told him, as he stared at the big, plush toy slumped against a
corner. “It was your favorite.”
Roger frowned. “I can’t even remember the Teddy,” he told her. “But – I think I remember those toy cars…and….” he pointed to a poster on the wall. “That poster of Elvis Presley,” he said. “Somehow, that looks familiar.”
“If it bothers you, I’ll remove it,” she told him, bending down and kissing him. “I’m surprised you remembered Elvis. I took a chance. The doctors were afraid it might trigger some bad recollection. It doesn’t make you remember anything bad, does it?”
“No, Mom,” he answered. “It’s fine. But – how old is Elvis, in that picture?”
“Twenty-one, I think,” she said quickly. “How would I know? Maybe I should take it down. By the way, tomorrow, you’re finally going to meet your biological father. I think you would have liked him. He had a lot of muscles. Just like you.”
She handed him the print-out for tomorrow’s schedule. So far, Roger was responding well to everything but the schedules. The psychiatrist saw a few small problems, which would be straightened out with a few more doses of tranquilizers. As Roger looked over the newest schedule, suddenly his psychiatrist stood before him in a hologram so perfect and entire that if you touched him, you’d feel his skin, his clothing, everything.
“You’re resisting the scheduling,” the psychiatrist explained, “so I’m here to reassure you. We understand that you still want to do some unplanned activities,” the psychiatrist said. When Roger didn’t reply, he flicked at a row of small icons dancing before his eyes. “Ah… yes… there it is…” With a tap of a holofinger, the psychiatrist caused a full-sized hologram of Roger and himself to appear before them. It was a replay of their meeting only 24 hours earlier. “I want you to listen, Roger,” the doctor said. “Pay heed to our conversation from yesterday.”
Roger watched the replay of his meeting with the psychiatrist with fascination. It was he, all right. The psychiatrist had laid a gentle hand on Roger’s shoulder as he explained why the young man was resisting a fully planned schedule. “That’s because you’re so young. You can’t remember how happy you used to be in our system, and a part of you is questioning the fact that your days are now all planned out, since you’re an adult.”
