U. L. T. R. A.
Page 2
The soldier next to him vaporized, his body incinerated in a wave of heat that literally fried his skin and muscles from his skeleton. His chard bones; instantly turned brittle, collapsing into a pile of dust to be swept away by the wind in the midst of a battle for possession of an alien planet.
Laura tackled him to the ground, rolling over him. Mark Raymond scrambled out of the bunker and into an interplanetary war zone. "What the fuck do you think you're doing you asshole,” she screamed at him under duress, “you trying to give away our position! Fucking green horn Lieutenants are going to get us all cremated."
The soldier rolled away from her, over the edge of the rubble opposite the battlefield. "Where the hell did you come from?”
Mark Raymond baulked. As Richard he had no idea of the shift in time, only the confusion of being older than dirt one moment and n the midst of a battlefield the next. The only constant was the continuation of Laura as his companion. All he had to do now was adjust to the program and simply become Mark Raymond, a greenhorn officer fresh out of the academy on his first day in the battlefield.
“We're in the middle of a war here,” persisted Laura, assuming the position of the front line soldier. “The whole division is moving up, and I for one would like to be alive at the end of it. So, why don't you just stay right here and live out the rest of your days."
Mark shrieked, but the words never came out. His blood boiled just from the proximity of the impact. Laura was gone. The sheer force of the insurrection, an intense beam of energy, punched through the woman's combat armor from above, slicing her in half from head to crotch.
The Lieutenant’s eyes widened, his screams muffled the sound of death in his ears, frightened, overwhelmed with what could only be construed as a devastating attack. Mark stopped dead in his tracks, unable to move. His body caught in a yellow-white beam of intense light that snapped him from the surface.
His body materialized inside a four-walled glass enclosure in some restricted underground receiving facility. “Where am I,” he screamed. “Let me out of here!”
But no one answered. Life ended where he stood. Alone. Encased in plastic. Hidden in the depths of an unimaginable hi-tech prison, incarcerated for the crimes of another—Hartford Clayton.
HARTFORD CLAYTON
FOUR
Now the personality of Hartford Clayton, a southern parishioner researching the early days of colonialism after the end of the civil war found himself facing two humanoid cyborgs, the larger of which, a male of African-American descent, processed the information sentencing the carpetbagger to life imprisonment for the crime of rape.
Unlike his former life as the Colonial Marine Lieutenant or the embodiment of Richard Henry or James Armstrong, this personality emerged from his previous lifetime much like a turn of century confederate statesmen, only to be tried and convicted without so much as a trial.
“Auto Sequence Engaged,” said the cyborg.
The cybernetic trans human operator nodded to his flat-headed mechanical counterpart and shoved one of his four digits into a keypad receptacle. “Branding,” he said in a cold-hearted voice, mimicking the lifeless animated tasks of the laser scanner burning a barcode into the underside of Hartford Clayton right arm.
Hartford let out a scream like no other, his arm on fire, skin embossed from the mindless rapacious acts of the android. “Careful not to damage the skin too badly,” announced the cyborg. But it was already too late; the branding technician had already scripted the tattoo and immediately strapped the criminal into the outfitter, preparing to incarcerate him with restraints, while the curve of the virtual reality apparatus adhered to his forehead. The experience was frightening. Hartford’s heartbeat rapidly built to the point of a heart attack, but before he let out another scream, his voice vanished, subdued by a monitoring device that found its way down his windpipe.
"AUTO SEQUENCE ENGAGED," announced the cyborg. This time harsh words flashed across the instrument panels above his head. The apparatus lowered into a horizontal position then slid forward into the depths of a foreboding canister until nothing of the prisoner was visible.
“Prisoner incarcerated,” announced the machine. The sequence left nothing to chance. Everything was automated. Whatever experience the prisoner was sentenced to undergo, in this case the violent act he had committed as Hartford Clayton was destined to be relive over and over again, but as the victim, not the criminal.
Hartford suddenly found himself in the midst of a rape attack reliving the event from the woman’s point of view, fighting off the attacker. Violence forced upon him in a repetitious endeavor meant for him to relive endless, the prey helpless. His bloodpressure spiked, his body quivering with convulsions until he fell silent, inactive, nearly dead to the world. But repition started the event again, and again, his body slipped away into the hidden tomb beyond the cellblock of caverns that formed the virtual reality prison. The canister sealed, the hiss of escaping air vanished as the curved device transported into one of hundreds if not thousands of similar cell block clusters found homes in the virtual reality units displayed.
The canisters read:
AUTO SEQUENCE ENGAGED - CONTINUOUS CYCLE
DURATION: PRISON TERM 24 MONTHS
The screams of a young woman filled the canister then silenced, only to start up again as the device slipped silently into storage. The image fell silent and dark, hidden away in the catacombs amidst the most advanced technology in human history. Yet, the place seemed complacent, as if the most exotic places on Earth never existed. If not for Laura Thompson, the pretty blonde in her mid-twenties, who helped James Armstrong drift into the avatar of Richard Henry, the handsome twenty-five year old reality rider who eventually became the incarnation of Mark Raymond, the term unbelievable. "I was there, Laura,” he told her, quite uncertain of who he really was. “My senses were completely overwhelmed by the realism of the experiences. It was absolutely, real. Every movement, every touch, every smell of the surroundings. It was absolutely real.”
I stumbled, my mind clouded of thoughts of who I really was. I recalled James Armstrong, remembering Richard just as Laura dispatched me on another round of shifting realities. But instead of riding the curve of adventure to new highth of excitement, instead of falling he love with the trip, I fell … my body shattered. “Where am I,” I screamed "Who am I?"
CAVEMAN
FIVE
Hollowed Rock Penitentiary subdued amidst the ethers, vanishing into the depths of my memory. There is no way out! My shattered body reassembled in a seated position in the center of a dismal cavern, where a dim flame barely filled the interior. “Where am I?” I asked again, my voice echoing in the darkness. “Who am I?”
I looked up. Paintings covered the ceiling and walls: Animal tracings … hunters with spears … family. Typical cave drawings! The place reeked of freshly skinned bear-hide, conveniently, of course. Caveman, I thought. I’m a caveman.
My eyes settled on several rocks, the corner of what appeared to be a natural cave: The air was musty. Stale. But there was something soothing about the place. Warmth filled my heart. A feeling I had not felt in a long time, but there was a reason for it. A face hidden in the light, just beyond the entrance to the cave. A scruffy-looking, scantly dressed, young woman poked her head into the cavernous hollow and grunted. Her clothing smelled of animal fur. But she was beautiful.
I took hold of the cavewoman. "Where am I...?” I asked bluntly, but she couldn’t understand my language. Only grunts came out. My words were nothing more than slurred impressions. I took the young woman by the arm, and she screamed, frightened of me. I wondered if I had won her heart or stolen her from her clan, either way, I was faced with the high tone pitch of her voice.
“Who am I?" I asked.
The young woman, genuinely afraid, became frantic, grunting for me to get back, as if I should understand her mannerisms and body language, which I somberly did. She was hiding in a corner, angry and frightened. It was a warning. She
feared for her life. But was it from me that this otherworldly attachment found root. Was I the culprit from which her fear derived, or was there something more sinister at play.
We were not alone.
My mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. I wasn’t sure of my last life, let alone this one. I had experienced how many more lives? I wondered how many were actually on the library card. Reality was nothing to fancy yourself about. I had literally no idea of how long I had been a traveler. Was it minutes, hours or even days. My own life no longer had any meaning for me. I was lost in my own incarnation—a caveman—in a cave. I was nothing more than a memory in some dark and cloudless, moisture-ridden wasteland of terrors and horrible, unmentionable beasts. I wondered what life laid beyond the entrance? What beast awaited me?
Fear flooded my mind. Thoughts of whatever beast turned to face me in the darkness from my own innermost cave. I turned to find the source of the bellowing snarls. My eyes wide, as the shadow of an unusual animal moved through the shadows into the light. I knew now we had entered his domain, found a home of another. Were we the intruders? Had we journeyed from deeper within the cavern?
The cavewoman pulled two small children from the shadows and held them tightly to her breast. I felt the love, the warmth of her heart. I stood my ground. Waved my hands and arms, forcing my family behind me as a large cat snarled at them, circling me, ready to strike. Its head cocked, eyes glowing in the darkness while shifting with the background as Death occurred.
I floated above the floor of the cavern, seeing myself dead on the floor, an arm caught in the mouth of the beast. Shadows of my assailant still prominently displayed on the walls, the scene wavering; a mere reflection of the experience projected by the flickering light of the fire. A sudden wind blew strongly through the cavern, putting out the fire as if the experience was coming to an end. I could hear the sound of a heart monitor, my heart racing against the steady whine announcing the death of a parent.
My eyes opened, drawing down on a hi-tech hospital laboratory—the memories collected in a clinic—the U.L.T.R.A. virtual reality library project facility.
A signal … a flatling patient—no heartbeat. My body strapped to a table, attached to a specialized recording apparatus. Several technicians, attendants really, nurses and doctors raced over to the table, attending to my body like a group of vultures.
"He's dead doctor," said a nurse.
"Did we get it?" Asked a technician.
"Is it a clean recording?" Questioned another.
"Life terminated at..." continued the nurse, interrupting the conversation to request time of death.
"We've recorded four minutes of impressions," said another technician.
"And…?" questioned another.
"It's clean," answered the first.
“Time of Death, 23:33,” announced the doctor. The technician jotted down the time and excitedly removed a small recording device from the top of the equipment above the patient's head—my head.
The doctor smiled impatiently, as he nodded his approval. "Okay," concluded the doctor, "let's get the recording transferred to crystal disc as quickly as possible."
The attendant wheeled out the deceased.
"How many lives?" Questioned the technician.
"How many lives…” repeated the doctor, in an observation. "Don't know for sure … four … five … maybe six."
The technician turned to face the doctor, revealing her face. I looked down up at her form above. “Laura?” I said under my breath, as if anyone could hear me. “Is that you?”
I couldn’t believe my eyes, but there she was staring at me, as if she somehow saw me out of the corner of her eye. "You didn’t lose anything, did you?" I asked her.
She kept moving. The question mere thought. I didn’t expect an answer, of course, but she took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly in a moment of nonverbal communication, even if it was just an agreement.
She raced for the door, my corpse on a gurney headed for the service elevator.
The door closed....
Laura entered a six number code combination on a scanner keypad and the elevator sped away, descending to the lower levels and what I imaged was the image data processing room.
A ding.
The elevator door swished open to reveal a subterranean chamber below the laboratory. Laura moved quickly to dispose of my body and place the recording device into one of several receptacles situated atop a bank of apparatuses in the center of the dispensation room. A coil of radiological arms, which looked rather like a ten-armed octopus, protruded to where they found themselves attached to as many canvas. The images captured at the time of death diminished quickly, especially when acquired out of desperation. A person’s Life Tale as they called it was a far cry from the truth of human frailty and life’s possibility and disposition. The lifetime recorders focused on the essence of the spirit energy just before leaving the body. Recounting the passing moments, remembering an individual’s self surrender to death was one of the finest gifts a man or woman could leave as legacy.
And Laura was good at it. She started the process, set the control levels quickly, and tapped the keys of a control pad like it was old hat. The device whirled into position, allowing several pieces of the equipment to maneuver into position above the device. The whole operation took only a few moments, although the process of accessing the memories would take slightly longer. The transparent, three-dimensional image of my former self as a man appeared in the center of the apparatus, suspended in a holographic image just above the center of the device.
So this is what virtual reality is made of? I thought to myself as I watched the image morph into the shape of my deceased body, and expand into literally seven different astro-projections of each of the beings of light I had been, both male and female. My eyes opened to the fact of my lives passing before my eyes, rerecorded for posterity.
Elsewhere, an attendant wheeled my deceased body into another room. My consciousness traveled with him. I witnessed the last moments of my own existence, contemplating what would become of me. Was I simply … he removed the remainder of the attachments and placed my gurney before a vast wall of individual freezers, each labeled with the patient's name, and the recorded lifecycle.
The attendant pulled down on the nearest lever, opening one of the freezers and pushed the gurney into position, lifting the apparatus into my body’s domicile. I watched the attendant place a placard on the door labeling the occupant's identity, which read:
The Lives of
N E X U S L A N C A S T E R
U.L.T.R.A. PROJECT 2287
James Armstrong
Richard Henry
Mark Raymond
Hartford Clayton
Caveman
I heard a great hissing sound as Laura opened the chamber door separating the recording device. She removed a small cylinder from the apparatus, and examined the device with a hand-held pen scanner logging the documentation as she labeed the cylinder with the library catalog number:
NEXUS LANCASTER
CATALOG NUMBER 2875.22.8.7
SIX
Alarms sounded and Laura raced out of the room. I stood there alone in the chamber, hidden from sight for what felt like an eternity. But the sensation quickly passed and I found myself silently watching another patient rushed into the laboratory hospital.
STAT! I thought. The patient was dying, attendants franticly attempting to secure the equipment to the body, before connecting the recording apparatus. The technicians worked feverishly trying to save some portion of the dying girl's memories. The instruments whirled to life, the special equipment recording the last moments of her young life as the system retrieved her previously experienced lives, saving her individual memories of life’s incarnation with other the perplexity of a heart monitor. There was beeping, then the infamous flat line—another individual had passed on.
I traversed the floors emerging from the hidden underground facility to those levels
visible to the patrons of the Unified Lifetime Tracking & Retrieval Agency Library.
The facility resembled any college campus. Researchers and inventors, scholars and students, children and family friends alike, scanned the contents with great joy, innocently encouraged to explore life to the fullest, while each and everyone felt free to pursue their own interest as if the day offered nothing unusual.
But I knew better. Experiencing life was the ultimate high.