“I’m sure you are. Especially as your CCTV system wasn’t working at the time…” Abrams said with a somewhat harsh glare, given the circumstances.
The man in the hospital bed felt even worse now, if that was possible. “Yeah, I know…” It had been broken when he had started renting the store, and he hadn’t made enough money yet to get it fixed. The tattooist next door had said that he’d never had any ‘serious problems’ with the local low-lives, and neither had the luxury sporting goods couple on the other side. I can leave the cameras down for six months, until I get the money to put in a new system, Dean remembered thinking. He winced as he also remembered saying to Paul, “After all … what are the chances of everything going wrong?”
Pretty damn high, apparently.
There was a cough from the side of the bed, and both Dean and Detective Abrams looked up to see that Marcy the ward nurse was looking a little more seriously at the overhead clock on the wall.
“Detective?” she murmured. “It really is rather late, and Mr. Winters here needs as much rest as he can get…”
You can say that again, Dean thought, thumping his head back down to the scratchy pillow behind him.
Of course, ma’am.” Abrams cleared his throat, rising from the bed and flipping his notebook closed. “Well Mr. Winters, I’m sure that we’ll need to go through these details again, when you’re feeling….” He searched for words and settled on “better,” rather lamely. “And in the meantime, if you remember anything about your attackers, anything at all, then I need you to contact me through the local station, okay?”
Dean nodded. “Okay. What are the chances, officer? Of getting my work back?”
Abrams stopped and looked surprised at the notion. “Your work? You mean the gems and jewelry?” Abrams started to shake his head, and then changed quickly to a considered frown. “It’s possible, Mr. Winters, but to be honest it is highly unlikely. Unless we manage to get a good solid lead on some suspects in the next seventy-two hours or so, then it is probable that your stock will be distributed and laundered to the wider criminal networks.”
Distributed and laundered. Dean grimaced. “You mean sold on the black market?”
A nod from Abrams.
“But what about the criminals themselves. Isn’t there forensics? Doesn’t anyone else on the front have CCTV of them? Do you have a hunch?” Dean’s voice rose on the last question. I mean, how many hardened and violent jewel thieves could there be in a small city like San Maria?
Another monolithic frown from the detective. “This isn’t C.S.I., Mr. Winters. A lot of criminals wear Doc Martens and there are an awful lot of black polyester fabrics on the West Coast,” Abrams said heavily. “But we’re doing what we can. Unless we have a solid clue, a real link to any suspects, be it an accent or an eye color or an item of jewelry, then we don’t really have many leads to follow, I’m afraid…”
“Well they’ve got a lot of jewelry right now,” Dean couldn’t stop himself from muttering. There was a stony silence that followed his words, before the detective tipped his head to the nurse and her patient both.
“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Winters, and remember what I said: remember!” Abrams apparently couldn’t help but leave with the last word as he swept out of the room.
“Ugh.” Dean sank a little lower in his bed, wondering just what he had done wrong in life to end up here, in this much pain, with his future ruined. “How am I going to work again?” he moaned out loud, not really needing or wanting anyone to answer, so it was a surprise when the nurse did.
“Mr. Winters. Dean. Healing takes time, that’s all. And after you’re done, you’ll be wiser and better than before…” There was a breezy quality to her voice that made Dean’s heart want to plummet. It was the sort of ‘look on the bright side and try not to think about the crippling injuries’ tone of voice that he thought all the staff here had been trained in.
The truth is, I might never get full movement back in this hand, he considered gloomily, as there was the sudden pressure of weight from the end of the bed. Nurse Marcy had sat down on the edge of the bed and distractedly pulled out a clip from her hair, before retying the long curls and tumbles back again.
“Dean – now you’re not going to like this, but I have to tell you,” the nurse said. “I’ve seen worse cases than you sitting in here, and I’ve seen them get up and go on to some amazing things.”
Oh. She’s going to lecture me, Dean thought.
“You can use this recovery time to help yourself out, you know. There was a woman I knew who was bedridden for three months, and she taught herself Spanish during that time, and now works as a translator, I think. There was a man on the Rehabilitation Program with a broken pelvis who learned how to play wheelchair basketball – and now he’s on the state team.” She gave Dean an encouraging smile. “If they can do that, there’s nothing stopping you either.”
“Apart from my broken hand and smashed knee?” Dean couldn’t stop himself from saying. He felt miserable, and the thought of all of his work gone forever, all of his stock, the pieces he had spent weeks and months designing and carefully working at was just too much to bear.
Marcy took a deep breath. “I think that, actually, you were very brave in fighting the burglars, Dean Winters. You just need to remember that.” She stood up. “There are lots of therapeutic programs available now, Mr. Winters, and not only ones to work on your physical injuries. We can work with you at this difficult stage in your life and encourage you to explore new scenarios, build confidence…”
“Therapy?” Dean looked appalled. “You mean, like, psychiatry? I’m not crazy, nurse, I was just almost killed! Imagine how you would feel!” he burst out, feeling suddenly hot and angry.
“I know how I would feel, Mr, Winters,” Marcy said quietly and then added, “Perhaps more than you think.” She turned on her heel and walked out of the room, letting the door swing shut behind her with a muffled hiss.
Oh great. Way to go, Dean. Annoy the only person who’s shown you any sympathy! He thumped his head against the scratchy hospital pillow.
“Ow.”
Chapter 2: VRM-Alpha!
“Just try again, Dean… You’ll get it this time…” Paul Vincetti said from his seat beside Dean’s bed.
The enthusiasm was typical of his much more athletically gifted friend, who had constantly been trying to encourage in Dean a wider appreciation of life. Paul Vincetti was everything that Dean was not: square-jawed and square-shouldered with a football scholarship that put him through college. It was only through an accident of fate that he ended up rooming with Dean there. Their friendship was as unlikely as it was strong: separated by half a city, they still met up regularly. Despite this, Dean had often wondered why Paul was his friend, when they were so different.
“Like … I love watching the movies and playing the games too – but it’s not the same as getting out there and climbing Big Sur, or Wolf’s Creek yourself, is it?” Paul had once remonstrated him, after finding his friend once again wrapped up in a thick book at his workshop.
But he was still a good friend, even if he was mostly disappointed with Dean most of the time. He came all this way to see me, after all.
Dean sat up in his bed in the harsh sunlight of the afternoon, a week or so after being brought into the General Hospital. In his hands was a ‘Manipulation Ball’—as Nurse Marcy had enthusiastically called it—but to him it was the current bane of his life. His pain had receded thanks to the excessive amounts of painkillers he was pumped full of every twelve hours, leaving him in a foggy, disconnected glow that meant he couldn’t feel the ache of his fingers.
“You don’t get miracles if you aren’t expecting them,” Paul said, a bit of freshman football psychology, Dean thought as he set his hands to the task.
The Manipulation Ball was really a child’s toy made of different hard and soft plastics. From its surface there extruded rounded and rectangular buttons, either
of a hard or a spongy material. The idea was to see which ones you could press or move, and, by using different hand holds you would release a trigger mechanism, allowing the entire shell to be twisted open.
“I thought the thing with miracles is that no one expects them?” Dean murmured, trying to depress the various buttons once more with his un-pinned but still bandaged fingers. “Ach!” A spike of pain jolted through his wrist from his index finger, and the Manipulation Ball wobbled out of his clumsy grip and fell into the blankets covering his lap. “It’s useless. I can’t do it.” Dean muttered morosely.
His friend threw him a heavy glance. “Not with an attitude like that you won’t… Come on, try again! It’s not about the succeeding – it’s about the trying.” Another bit of pop-psychology.
“Spoken like someone who has never had to manipulate a ten-micron scalpel,” Dean muttered, picking up the exercise device once more. This time he managed to depress two of the softest, spongiest buttons before his hands shook with the pain and the ball rolled out of his hands and down his legs. “Goddammit!” he cried out. “How am I ever going to go back to work Paul, really? Look at me! Look at this!” He held up the stiffening claws of his hands at his friend’s worried face.
My whole life depends on these hands. My work. My art…! Dean could have cried, and the fact that his friend put a reassuring strong hand on his shoulder only made it all the worse.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Paul…” Dean said after a long, shuddering breath.
“I do,” said a new voice by the door. It was Marcy, and in her hands she held a box.
*
“Hey.” Paul immediately shot to his feet in front of her (ever the most aware of a pretty girl, Dean thought and frowned, feeling slightly put out by his friend’s obvious interest).
“And you must be Paul.” Marcy gave him a polite smile. “Dean has talked a lot about you. I’m Nurse Marcy Danvers, and I’m in charge of Mr. Winters’ rehabilitation at San Maria.” She wore her usual blue scrubs, with her piles of red frizzy hair scraped back from her head and held in a severe ponytail.
“Then he is a very lucky man,” Paul said with an easy smile. “Honored to meet you, Miss Danvers.”
Good grief, save me Dean groaned silently. “I can’t do it,” he said out loud to the nurse. She was pretty, he had to admit – pale skin heavily dusted with freckles, and large eyes under her dark-rimmed glasses. But she was also a pain in the butt! The nurse wasn’t as bad as Paul for her unswerving motivational speeches, but she was pretty bad all the same, in his view.
“Not yet, you can’t. But that is where this little baby comes in.” She patted the cardboard box and set it at the end of his bed, before smoothing his blankets down on either side in an automatic gesture.
“What is it?” Dean saw the letters VRM as well as a host of other letters and numbers. There was a swish illustration of a very medical-style unit; sleek black plastic, rounded corners. “If it’s something new to stick and prod me with then really, I think I’m good…” Dean started to say, before Paul began laughing.
Aw man, really? Do you know what that is?” He pointed at the box, turning to the nurse. “I didn’t even know that you guys had access to those things. But really, ma’am, what my friend needs is lots of physical therapy…” He started to lecture (which is another talent of his, Dean remembered). “I’ve seen guys with shattered knees, never expected to play again, deliver a touchdown eighteen months after their injuries…”
“Oh. So that makes you a doctor, does it?” Marcy countered.
“Ah, well, not exactly…”
“Well, as the most medically trained person in this room, I think I know what will help our patient here…” Marcy said, pulling a crooked smile to show that she could take Paul’s assumptions all in her stride.
“Hello, I know this is just me, you know—but does anyone mind telling me what that thing is?” Dean ventured.
“That, my friend, is a VRMH-Alpha,” Paul said, glowing with pride to be the first to break the good news. “Or Virtual Reality Media Hub, by Odge.”
“Odge.” Dean nodded. Everyone knew the Odge platform. They had started out as just another little search app on the web but had quickly expanded to become a world-dominating mega-corporation. Now they built super computers and launched satellites. But virtual reality…?
A flutter of excitement as Dean licked his lips. He’d never got to play around with the new generation of VRMs, only seen the infomercials after getting home from many long hours at the shop. They were big business in Korea and Japan, but as yet only a small number of the richest kids or hackers could afford them over here.
But still, the graphics looked amazing… he thought, remembering the pictures of spiraling fantasy-esque towers, or the deep-space battles of cybernetic droids.
“I’m going to game myself back to health?” Dean said, almost as a joke.
“Precisely.” Marcy smiled, and tapped the top of the box.
*
Unpacked, the VRMH-Alpha looked almost like any other bit of high-tech entertainment equipment, if better made, and with a few notable exceptions.
“There’s no gloves?” Dean said, confused as he looked at the blocky, sleek black headset with its discrete fine rippling down one side.
“No need for them. You see, the VRMH-Alpha doesn’t read your body movements. That’s all old hat now,” Marcy was saying somewhat excitedly, turning the visor upside down to show Dean the inside of it. It looked a little like a helmet, if the helmet covered the entire back of the head and only came halfway down the front. On its padded inside, Dean could make out the dimples of clearer plastic over depressed rondels.
“What are they?”
“Sensors and lasers. Roughly the same sort as we have down here in the medical imaging lab, only these also have wave-calibrators as well.” Marcy pointed to the various rondels scattered around the inside of the helmet.
“Wave whats?” Dean frowned.
Calibrators, although it makes more sense to think of them as just plain old lasers. They interfere with the frequency of certain radio, light, energy frequencies, producing a change in your brain, and making you see the virtual world.”
“Lasers shooting into his brain?” Paul sounded worried. “I didn’t know they did that…”
“It’s just the same as any procedure we have here,” Marcy reassured him. “You see, the sensors read the electrical impulses of your brain, the ones that would normally read if you want to walk, raise your hand, talk or any such thing, and the calibrators make tiny adjustments to the messages that your optical nerve sends into your cortex. It’s a totally non-invasive way of experiencing deep-immersion virtual reality.” She grinned. “And it rocks,” she added.
Dean held the visor awkwardly in his damaged hands. It was strangely light, as if it were made of nothing but polystyrene. “Does the medical profession often hand out virtual reality games?” he said dubiously.
“Only to the patients we like,” Marcy countered with a laugh, before tapping the box again, where the words ‘Medical Edition’ were displayed under the Odge logo. “We get them as a part of a syndication deal. I think the company farms the results and uses them to improve their next piece of kit…”
“Oh, so he’s a lab rat then?” Paul stepped in. His voice had turned from impressed to suspicious. “I don’t like it. Isn’t there a physical way that he could get fixed up…?”
“Mr. Vincetti, please.” Marcy shot the man an annoyed look. “The Virtual Reality augmentation acts as a part of a fully rounded package of rehabilitation and care. Of course, Mr. Winters will be getting physical therapy – and lots of it!”
Paul had the good graces to look at least a little bit cowed under Marcy’s fierce stare.
“Now, would you like a test run?” Marcy smiled sweetly at Dean.
“I can’t believe that you’re really going to get me to play games…” he said, already
lifting the visor over his head and pulling it down.
*
It fit with a sensation of soft pressure, and instantly Dean couldn’t see anything around him. Total pitch-black darkness and the smell of fresh plastic.
“Uh … hi?” he said, his voice sounding muffled to his covered-over ears.
“Here, I’m just turning you on Mr. Winters…” There was a muffled thunk as a lead was connected to the back, and then Dean felt cool and soft hands touching his gently, guiding them to the side of his right temple, where there was a soft button. “You see, there’s a reason we had you working the Manipulation Ball all week…” Marcy said softly, as Dean’s hand pressed down, and there was the faintest of hums. She kept her hand over his, guiding him to the underside where there was a noise control, and a small slot for imported cartridges and memory sticks. “Not that you need any of that, Mr. Winters. The game we have lined up for you is pre-loaded.”
“This is crazy,” Dean said. They really want me to play games?
Before he had a chance to say as much, something happened. His vision gradually brightened, glared white for a moment, before it cleared, leaving a spinning Odge logo and the words ‘VRMH-Alpha’ underneath, before that too grew indistinct as the light returned.
“Wow. Bright…” Dean managed to say as the light almost blinded him, and then started to die down. As it did so, it was as if the light had been a white mist, leaving in its wake indistinct shapes growing sharper with every moment.
Something soft and firm under his feet, the walls of a room…
“Woah…” Dean breathed. He could actually feel the rolls of the carpet between his toes, and he could actually hear his words echoing off the walls he had woken up to.
“What is it, Dean? What do you see…?” He could distantly hear Paul’s voice but he was too entranced by the physical sensations he was having. Somewhere, far removed from him, he was dimly aware of his other body, with all of its aches and pains, but here…
Tales of the Gemsmith Page 2
