The Sensory Deception

by Ransom Stephens

  One of the pirates snapped a command in Arabic. Two of the men stepped back. With their rifles hanging from their shoulders, they walked to a large canvas bag at the tent’s perimeter. They removed a wad of cable ties and a chain with manacles spaced three feet apart.

  In front of him, Farley watched Manny crouch just a bit lower. The muscles in his back and arms tightened. Others in the ring seemed to recognize Manny’s movement. The men on each side of him made eye contact. They exchanged the slightest of nods. One of the men was the giant, Spencer, and the other was named Deshawn. If they had a chance to overpower the guards, this was it. Manny dove at the feet of the guard. Spencer went for his torso, knocking him to the ground, and Deshawn went for the gun. It took the better part of a second for Deshawn to wrestle the gun into his hands. The shoulder strap was still around the arm of the pirate. As a unit, the other pirates fired their weapons into the ground, redefining the perimeter. The leader fired a burst that tore into Deshawn’s head, destroying his nose and eyes and ripping his jaw open. His body slumped to the ground.

  The tent went silent again. The leader spoke in accented English. “Don’t be stupid.” Then he spoke in Arabic. The pirate on the ground, underneath Deshawn, replied. The pirate was unscathed. Spencer and Manny rose slowly, holding out their hands.

  The leader shifted his hands on his rifle. There was a faint click. He then fired a single shot.

  A well of blood formed on Manny’s left shoulder.

  The leader motioned with the rifle and said, again in broken English, “Join your people. Please to try another trick. Give me reason to kill you.”

  The tackled pirate rose, retrieved his weapon, and kicked Manny to the ground. The stout former SEAL didn’t make a sound.

  Directed by hand commands reinforced with short bursts of gunfire, Farley’s team formed a line. One by one, their hands were tied behind their backs with thick plastic cable ties that bit into the skin. Their right feet were manacled to the chain. All but Julia Nowak, who was still curled in the fetal position. They ignored he until everyone else was locked up. Then the leader nudged her with a foot.

  Another wave of fear broke over Farley. They had treated the three other women on the team as they had the men. Why would they treat Julia different? Because she was the only obvious civilian, other than himself?

  “You are the waste scientist?” the leader asked.

  “No!” Farley yelled. “I am the waste scientist.”

  But Julia had already nodded. The leader answered with two shots to her head.

  The supreme ordinariness of it shocked Farley. He’d never seen someone die. The simple observation that her body lay prostrate and motionless less than ten meters from Deshawn’s clashed with the understanding that these vibrant people were gone, their bodies converted to lifeless meat and their minds turned off forever.

  He couldn’t peel his eyes away, even as the chain pulled on his ankle and his captors shepherded them out of the tent. More pirates stood outside. No villagers were in sight.

  The guards guided them, shackled and cuffed, to the face of the ridge and into the cave prison. Just as Farley stepped into the darkness, a huge explosion erupted behind them. They fell like dominoes. Some of the guards fell with them. Dirt and gravel rained down from the rocky ceiling. Farley feared they’d be buried alive, but the cave settled in a few seconds. The guards ordered them up and then guided them down a tunnel.

  There were no rooms, just branches of caves. They were lined up along a wall and told to sit down. None of them spoke. Leaning against a dirt wall, Farley was locked between Manny and Spencer. Manny’s shoulder oozed blood and the brave man fell asleep.

  Farley looked down the line. It was dark. Soon, he fell asleep, too.

  He awoke some hours later in total darkness. He assumed it was night. Alone with his thoughts, pieces of the puzzle settled into place. The response of the assailants to Manny’s attack proved that these were not Somali pirates. The misplaced turbans argued that they were not even Somali. Then Farley realized that the leader hadn’t spoken with a Somali accent. After five months here, he’d have recognized it. No, this accent sounded European, French or Belgian, perhaps Swiss.

  How could he have been so naive?

  PART 5

  From her two offices, one in Silicon Valley and the other in Santa Monica, Gloria now lived the life of a high-powered executive. She had to consult with Bupin on major equipment acquisitions, but leases for VirtExReality Arcade sites, strategic brand management decisions, and product road maps were all hers. VirtExArts’ income stream doubled every week, and six of the twelve new VirtExReality Arcades were set to open simultaneously two months from the opening of the original, giving the company coast-to-coast exposure. Her venture was on the fast track to success, and Sand Hill Ventures was happy. Thoughts of other start-ups had begun to percolate in her mind. As soon as Farley returned, she’d be ready to switch gears.

  The previous night, before she turned out the light in her suite at the Ritz-Carlton Marina del Rey, she’d seen video of Farley leading his team. Seeing his excitement, the way people fell in line behind him, and the radiance of his dedication had lulled Gloria into dreams of how she would greet him. Just a month or so now and he’d finally be home. Once they no longer had a conflict of interest, who knew what might happen?

  Everything was on track.

  Her phone woke her. “Gloria, have you seen the news?” It was the Sand Hill Ventures receptionist, a woman with whom Gloria used to eat lunch when she was a junior analyst. The woman sounded frantic. “Something horrible has happened in Somalia.”

  Light leaked through the curtains. The alarm clock said it was a few minutes after six. She grabbed the remote and clicked on the TV. Now the receptionist was barely coherent. The only words Gloria caught were “pirates” and “terrorists.”

  She switched to the news channel and saw a jerky, low-resolution video transmitted by satellite telephone that had obviously been taken aboard a ship. It showed white speedboats racing through the water in the foreground and a shoreline in the background. She recognized it from Farley’s documentary. The crawler at the bottom of the picture said “Terrorist attack in pirate country—27 Americans believed dead.”

  The phone fell from her hand. She lurched to the end of the bed, closer to the TV, and managed to raise the volume before dropping the remote. The camera zoomed in on one of the boats. Rocking through the surf in dim sunlight, it held three men, two grasping the helm and the third hanging on to a small rocket launcher.

  The TV reporter’s voice was piqued with excitement. “The highly publicized toxic-cleanup team inspired by the documentary Survival in Somalia has been attacked by terrorists.” The video switched from the live, late-evening ocean scene to one taken with the sun still well above the horizon. In the foreground, a white tent was engulfed in flames. “This is the scene of the terrorist attack on the Somali coast, which occurred just one hour ago. A suicide bomber detonated himself as the environmentalists sat down to dinner.”

  The camera returned to a live feed showing a tall, thin man standing on the gunwale of a ship with the ocean behind him. “My cameraman and I were aboard ship when the tent exploded.” He wiped his brow, took a clearly agitated breath, and continued. “After spending the day preparing to remove toxic waste from the coastline, the team adjourned for dinner. Sayyid Hassan, leader of the refugee camp featured in Survival in Somalia, was hosting a welcome dinner. We have reports that Mr. Hassan was badly injured in the blast. He may be the only survivor. The producer of the documentary, Farley Rutherford, and its hero, Tahir Baradaran, are believed dead at the scene with the entire crew of volunteers.” The words were repeated in a trailer scrolling along the bottom of the screen.

  It couldn’t be true.

  Her father had survived far worse. He had promised—promised—to watch out for Farley. She pushed back the panic and pulled on a pair of jeans.

  Chopper’s room was on a lower floor. He woul
d know what to do.

  She ran down the stairs and through the hall to Chopper’s room. She knocked. No answer, so she knocked again. Then she realized that the sun had just risen. She ran back to the stairs and zipped down another flight.

  She burst into the lobby, scanned the area, and ran out the door. She sprinted around the harbor and onto Venice Beach. She stopped, looked back at the sun, then ahead to the sea. She ran up the beach. She passed the Venice Pier and kept going. Sweat and tears ran down her face. Then she saw Chopper sitting in the sand, smoking a cigarette.

  “My father and Farley are dead. There was an explosion, and…” But the words could no longer work themselves around her sobs.

  Chopper stood and gripped her by the shoulders. His hands anchored her, confining the sob-driven spasms to her rib cage. In a matter-of-fact voice, he said, “No, no, no. Farley isn’t dead. I would know.”

  He said it with such certainty that, for an instant, Gloria expected Farley to appear next to them as though she’d been the victim of a bad joke. Then the image from the news broadcast came back, the flaming tent and the text along the bottom of the screen: “Terrorist attack in pirate country—27 Americans believed dead.”

  Chopper’s arms tightened around her. They felt real and alive. Maybe he was right. She tried to settle into his comfort, but a numb feeling of loss and loneliness came over her, calming the sobs, if not stemming the tears. He guided her into a sitting position next to him, facing the ocean the way they had so many mornings in Santa Cruz. He lit two cigarettes and handed her one. She drew in the smoke, and the nicotine brought that strangely comforting mix of dizziness and nausea.

  Exhaling the smoke, she told him what she had seen on television. When she finished, Chopper said the most comforting words she’d ever heard: “You believed it?”

  He looked away from her. The embers of his barch glowed as he inhaled.

  No way.

  If Farley were dead, Chopper would know. He shook his head as though he could jostle the thought free.

  No way.

  Besides, just before Gloria appeared, he’d been thinking about Farley. Their synchronicity had never faded, not even a blink. They needed to have the rain forest data ready to go by the time Farley returned. It was his next task. Farley had said so.

  Of course, if Farley had said it in Africa, Chopper wouldn’t have been able to hear him. This thought confused him. Everyone has models of people living in their heads. The relationship between those models and the reality of the person measures how well people know each other. The synchronicity that Chopper shared with Farley demonstrated how close his model of Farley was to the reality of Farley; it measured their friendship. It was the model of Farley in Chopper’s brain that had told him to have the rain forest app ready.

  The rain forest app would change everything. Farley couldn’t be dead because, even now, the details of what Chopper needed to do, in order to record the most important battle between humans on Earth—between those who burn Her and those who love Her—resonated through his mind in the unmistakable timbre and tempo of Farley’s voice.

  “Farley, dead?” he said. “No, Farley can’t be dead.” He shut his eyes. It was bright in here, and loud. He worked through the details again. Gloria had to come with him to record the rain forest data. She needed to teach Mariano Tuxauas and the other villagers how to survive capitalism. See? he thought. If Farley’s dead, he couldn’t have told me.

  “What?” Gloria said. “Chopper, what are you talking about?”

  “Did I say that out loud?”

  “Chopper, they said it on the news. There was video, an explosion. My father, Farley…” Chopper couldn’t understand her through the sobs.

  Chopper took a deep hit off his barch. He exhaled and watched the wind carry the smoke away. He let the cigarette fall from his mouth and pulled Gloria close to him. He needed her to believe that Farley was okay. He pressed his forehead against hers and focused on her eyes, less than an inch from his. He focused his thoughts, tried to write them into her mind; he needed her to believe him.

  She got hold of herself long enough to describe the television news report. It had come from the scene. Right there. She insisted they were dead. She claimed to know.

  Chopper decided that her model of Farley lacked the synchronicity, the accuracy, for her to know. That had to be it.

  She collapsed against him, tears leaking from her eyes. He welcomed her warmth. He closed his eyes and the image of her face faded like smoke in the breeze. The toy hammer from a child’s tool chest tapped away behind his left eye. He looked at Gloria again and crushed her against him. As her body converged with his, he inhaled the smell of her unwashed hair. It was thick and flowery like the earth. He tasted the tears drying on her perfect cheek, salty like the ocean. He drank the sour taste of her sleep-laden breath. The toy hammer became a sledge and he didn’t care.

  He pulled her onto his lap and she curled into his stomach as though he’d swallowed her.

  The pain accumulated until it was difficult to think. He lit another barch. She pressed against him, crying, sneezing, leaking on his T-shirt. He stared at the ocean, felt the sun warm the back of his neck, and let the day start. He inhaled the rest of his barch, flicked the glowing cherry into the sand, stuck the butt in his pocket, and lit another. He concentrated on Farley. The day they met had felt like salvation. All those years of loneliness ended on that day. All those years without purpose, gone the day he moved into that dorm room. Farley had been that guy, the one that men wanted to be and women wanted to be with. And Farley had liked Chopper the best.

  Chopper had recognized Farley right off, too. Nailed him. Chopper’s model of Farley had never failed. No disappointment. Ever. Even when Farley didn’t keep his word, Chopper had known in advance that he wouldn’t, so it didn’t matter. No disappointment, just belonging and purpose.

  Chopper didn’t mind the migraine pain, the auras, the nausea, the sensitivity to light, sound, and scent. Headaches came on slowly, punished him, and then took a few days to fade away.

  This one stopped.

  Everything went blank, white, like a revelation. The pain disappeared. He stroked Gloria’s hair and the guilt that had accumulated without his even being aware of it washed away.

  Something worse replaced it.

  Romeo “Chopper” Vittori, PhD, understood the mechanics of how people know each other. He understood that the synchronicity he shared with Farley had started with serendipity, understood that the model of Farley in his mind was finely tuned from experience, dedication, and affection. Thoughts of models ran through his head. Chopper’s model of his father had never been close to the reality; he’d never known what to expect. His father gave him nothing but surprise and disappointment. Chopper’s model of his mother was a mere template, empty of details because she had none. But Chopper’s model of Farley was thick and rich and real. It gave great speeches that started with a loud voice that tapered off until you had to listen. It tugged on its beard when concentrating. It let loose full-body sighs when it was satisfied or frustrated. And it was Chopper’s friend.

  Chopper knew pain. Pain didn’t bother Chopper. When Moby-Dick threw him against the Cetacean Avenger, Chopper had reveled in the pain. Pain meant you were alive. Dead people didn’t feel pain. That was the release. Chopper liked the pain.

  Chopper thought he’d endured so much pain for so long that he was immune. But this pain didn’t start in his head, didn’t burn him with the internal fireworks of an aura, and it didn’t come from outside, either—didn’t emanate from a broken bone, bruise, cut, or injury. This pain was everywhere. It felt like a void that could only be filled with denial and anger.

  Chopper also knew the biochemistry of friendship and death. He couldn’t hide from it.

  It felt like his guts were contracting, collapsing into themselves.

  Farley was dead.

  The thought crashed into Chopper and he accepted it. He looked down and realized that Glor
ia was staring at him. She touched his cheek as though trying to dab up his tears. Tears? Chopper didn’t cry. His cheeks were dry. Chopper never cried.

  He said, “The reason that people have so much trouble accepting the death of friends is that we never truly know anyone. We just build models of people in our brains. We know our models, but not actual people. Misunderstandings occur when our models aren’t true to the reality of another person.” He wrapped his hands in her thick mane of black hair. “The thing about death is that when someone dies, our models are stranded in time. They don’t go away or change. We know the dead person just as well as we knew the live person. It’s a rational inconsistency. Death contradicts our feelings and beliefs.”

  Chopper’s mode of Farley was so accurate that Chopper knew Farley’s thoughts just as Farley acquired them. To keep the model of Farley alive in his mind, Chopper would have to do everything. Everything. He had to finish Farley’s mission, had to rescue Earth and Sea.

  Chopper knew that Farley loved Gloria. He’d have to do that, too.

  Ringo heard the news when he arrived at the new offices of VirtExArts. The whole engineering team, now in double digits, was in the break room watching the newscast on TV. Ringo watched it from his office, alone. He stayed there all day, paralyzed.

  More details filled out the story as the day progressed. The evening broadcast described it as an act of terrorism in an unstable region of the world.

  A representative of Terre Mer Gestion SA spoke in a gentle French accent; he was forlorn but had all the answers. “This is a great tragedy, a huge mistake. If only Farley Rutherford had brought his suspicion of a toxic dump directly to us, this horrible, horrible waste of life could have been prevented.” The man wore a black suit as though in mourning. “If he’d just talked to us,” he said, shaking his head as though he wanted to go back in time to prevent the misfortune. “We could have shown him our files. He’d have seen that the barrels released on that stretch of coast are perfectly legal. They were set there with the permission of the central Somali government in Mogadishu. It is inert waste. Totally harmless. It’s even configured in a reef-like structure, part of our project to bring the fisheries back to Africa’s eastern coast.”