Pressure Suite - Digital Science Fiction Anthology 3

by Various Writers

  Tony came up in the same park. He instinctively felt for the reassuring presence of the BlanketBox® strapped to his back, then turned through 360 degrees. The hedge around the perimeter seemed higher. There it goes again! That delta-winged kite—red this time, same color as… His eyes swooped down the kite-string. He thought he saw small feet running, but the foliage hid whatever he had glimpsed. He did not want to think about the real world.

  As usual, Susie manifested alongside him.

  “A different exit this time?” he said.

  “Only two left.” She beamed. “There or there. Choose carefully.”

  Again, an upward incline, though not Cemetery Hill. He tried to peer back across the park and thought he saw the cricket stadium roof, but it was difficult for him to get his bearings. Greenery turned to concrete. The street began to fill with buildings and with passers-by.

  “Any sign of a street name?”

  “Not yet,” said Susie. “Could be anywhere.”

  Her words were lost on Tony. Why are people so downcast? Everyone who walked by did so with heads low. No one smiled. They all looked glum. Tony lost interest in the buildings. He became engrossed in the mood of pedestrians passing by. Even the children looked dejected. The lovers seemed heartbroken and most of the women were tearful.

  “It’s not like you not to be looking up and around. You’re always on the look-out for a street sign or name-plate.”

  “What’s the point?” Tony’s shoulders began to slump. He looked woebegone.

  Susie touched his sleeve. He pulled away sourly.

  “Look!” she yelled, pointing at a street name.

  Tony took one glance and realized what was happening. Quickly, he pulled himself together. “Misery Hill! I’ll be damned.” He swiveled around and let out a long, low whistle. “Let’s get ourselves out of here.”

  They walked briskly down a side street and emerged onto a boulevard full of cafés, bistros, restaurants and fast-food joints—and people who looked happy.

  Tony looked around curiously. “Notice anything?”

  Susie shrugged. “You tell me.”

  “They’re all so fat. I mean XXX. Supersize. Look at ’em.”

  Susie pointed at a street name at second-floor level on the corner they were standing on. She read it aloud: “Obese Street.”

  Tony stared all around in a gaze made of three parts wonder, two parts disgust. How can people let themselves go like that? Whole families of them: balloons of varying sizes, so bloated and broad they could barely walk. More like waddling. But, boy, they’re friendly. Nodding and smiling at Susie and him as if this was good old Chumsville. He noticed another street sign hanging like a banner on the other side of the boulevard. Welcome to Obese Street. “Wow, those smells,” he pointed at a nearby coffee-house. “I’m starving.”

  She smiled at him. “You could do with a pick-me-up after Misery Hill.”

  “Damn right I could.” Tony knew that eating and drinking was not part of his job specs. What the hell—wasn’t sampling ambience part of what his Transient City brief was all about? “Let’s go have a snack.”

  Susie nodded enthusiastically and followed him into the coffee-house.

  They sat at one of many empty tables. Tony found he had no need to remove the BlanketBox® to lean into his seat. The pack was virtual, after all. “That’s the way it should be,” he said to Susie. “No need to ever take it off. While I’m here it’s as though it’s not there, if you know what I mean.” He winked.

  A friendly oversized waitress took their order for coffee and cakes. A family of four came in. Huge—whatever necks they once had are lost in realms of fat. All smiles and nods, they squeezed their vast bulks into the seats at a table near the window.

  “Something’s wrong,” Tony whispered to Susie.

  She looked at him quizzically.

  “The street names are too obvious.”

  “Why? On Misery Hill, the people are depressed. On Obese Street, they’re overweight. So?”

  “That would be fine at Levels I or II. But think about Level III—Cricket Stadium and Cemetery Hill weren’t quite what they seemed. Now, at Level IV, the names revert to say exactly what they mean? It doesn’t make sense.” Tony cupped his chin in his hand. “On Misery Hill, I got depressed. On Obese Street…?” He glanced at his waistline.

  Susie laughed as though she had read his mind. “You’re not getting any fatter!”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about.” He noticed four rotund but muscular workmen—truckers, by the looks of them—take up position at a table near the door. They smiled and waved over at Susie and him.

  Tony waved back nervously. Come on, this is work—not a coffee break. Figure it out! He glanced through the window at the Welcome to Obese Street banner above the far pavement. There has to be something hidden, some cryptic meaning to the street names. The waitress smiled as she brought Tony and Susie their order. He glanced around nervously. “Notice anything else?” he hissed.

  She stared at him, her ever-present letterbox smile powerful now by its absence.

  “The place has filled up since we came in, but nobody else is ordering anything or eating anything—know why?”

  Susie looked perplexed.

  “Because we’re on their menu, that’s why! They’re going to eat us.”

  She leaned forward for fear of being overheard. “What can we do?”

  He had never seen her look so scared. He knew now this was a survival game, the object being to stay in the nightmare as long as possible. He felt his chances of lasting longer might be better without Susie. He looked to the left of the deli counter. “There’s a door to a restroom area over there. Don’t look! I’m going to stand up nonchalantly as if I need to use the toilet. One minute after I close that door behind me, I want you to fade instantly from the game. I’ll slip out the back entrance and make a run for it. See you next time. Fade immediately if anyone gets up to follow me, or if anyone makes a lunge at you.”

  “What if there’s no back entrance?”

  “I’ll return within the minute and we’ll think of something else, ok?”

  “Ok.”

  Tony smiled at the friendly customers, many of whom tinkered abstractedly with empty plates, forks—and knives. He said hello to those who greeted him as he made his way to the door marked “Restrooms”. Please, he thought. Please let there be…He felt a waft of warm air on his neck. Holy cow, this is just like a real nightmare effect. Sweat trickled down the back of his shirt as he opened the door. He pulled it closed behind him. Before him, there were three doors marked Ladies, Gents and Staff Only. The staff door led to a stairwell and beyond it, off what he guessed to be the kitchen, a door to the outside. He could see sunlight. He could see freedom. He stepped gingerly past the kitchen, and walked to within a step of the back door. He heard the sound of footfalls behind him and glanced back. To his horror, one of the truckers leered at him—napkin tied around his neck, fork in one hand, knife in the other.

  Tony pushed the door—unlocked!—and rushed out. He found no street. More of an alley, complete with name-plate hammered to the wall right before his eyes. Dead End Street. Behind him, the napkined trucker emerged, followed by his three muscular friends. From either side of the alley, monstrously overweight people trudged toward Tony. Mouths salivating like dogs. Licking lips. Teeth grating. Forks flashing. Knives glinting. What if the Blanket Box® doesn’t work? His bowels seemed to loosen in that moment. Tony had never felt so frightened, so trapped. They were almost on him when he pulled the cord.

  Dead End Street faded to dim. When the world had gone entirely black, Tony hoped he was safe, that he was on his way out. To his relief, Angie’s face filled his eyes with her oh-so-welcome maternalism. She gave him her familiar, concerned look. “You’re covered in a cold sweat.”

  “So would you be, if you’d been through what I’ve been through.” He sat up, shaking, and whipped the info-feeds and inter-connectors from his head and body. Je
sus Christ, that was worse than the worst drugs trial ever—and he had experienced some dodgy ones in his early career before moving into the world of gaming. Big mistake, that.

  He was polite to Angie and barely contained himself during down-time with the team shrink—he knew better than to muddy the waters there. His hands shook as he tapped in the required prelim outline in the company log. He had to force himself to restrain his knock on Dawson’s door. Even then it sounded like cannon fire.

  “I want out,” he said, barging in.

  “Wha…?”

  “I want out now. You can shove Levels IV and V.”

  “Wow, Tony. I’ve never seen you so angry. Relax. Take a seat.”

  “No thanks. Like I said, Mr. Dawson: I want out. Now.”

  “Have you reported to the R&D team?”

  “What? Sit in front of that twat, Leary, and let him know what I think of his insane games?”

  Dawson flicked a button on his desk-screen. “I see you’ve been cleared by the psychiatrist and you’ve filed a brief initial log, which you are contractually obliged to do. May I remind you that you are also under contract to report to the R&D board, to write up a full report on Level IV and to explore Level V. I believe you’re scheduled for V on Tuesday.”

  “The game is crazy. It’s unmarketable.”

  “Level IV is an adult horror project. There will be nothing misleading in the packaging. Nobody gets forced into it. At Level IV, Transient City becomes a city of transient nightmares so convincing they’re just like real visions—you become convinced you’re going to die, or—in your case just now—get cannibalized. And, for your information, there is a market for Level IV—just as, for you, there is a contract.”

  Tony put his hands on his temples and swept his hair back over his head. He stood with hands on hips, heart racing, and stomach empty and churning. Beyond the anger, he felt the cool hand of logic. Dawson was right. He was under contract.

  “Think of the Level V bonus. You’ll be able to retire from Transient City, start your own company. You’re the only one who goes in blind to the game. Our other researchers study your reports before they go in.”

  “You hope I’m the only one.”

  “When the game goes public, everyone will know what’s in store and what to avoid from the packaging and the instructions.” Dawson paused, seeing the weakening of Tony’s resolve. “Level V isn’t overt horror like IV. It’s more of an emotional experience. No zombies. No cannibalism. Nothing to physically threaten you or scare the daylights out of you. That I promise. Now, go on. R&D are waiting for you.”

  That night, Tony stood at his apartment window, looking at the lights of a real city. He felt dirty, as though he had abased himself in front of Dawson and the R&D team by agreeing to fulfill the final part of his contract. A compromised, hypocritical, double-dealing deceiver—that’s what you are. Just like that faker Leary, who had warned him at the R&D meeting not to go public with his views on the Transient City game or the Transient City company. Tony chided himself inwardly for losing his rag at Leary. He should have kept his cool, particularly in front of the R&D team. He felt angry again; this time, at his own stupidity in getting emotional and threatening to go to the media and expose the company.

  One more level, one more tour. On Wednesday, he would leave Transient City forever and start a new life somewhere. There was nothing for him now in this real city. He looked out at twinkling lights intensifying, incarnate in glass. A million reflections—all of them cracked and fleeting. The sodium glow of city lights embraced each other, but not him. Tony had no ties in this cityscape, not since Matthew died—not since Debbie divorced him. The lights reminded him of yellow-white comet trails on glass, of Japanese lanterns on a moving screen. Those city lights were flesh and blood of the night; each sparkling light a window to an apartment housing a family, each glistening light a car ferrying someone to a family apartment. Beneath each light stood a nine-year-old boy, playing and laughing, living and growing—except in the apartment in which Tony stood. Beneath that forlorn light, nothing shone any more.

  Tony came up in the park, feeling the reassuring presence of the BlanketBox® on his back. He turned through three-sixty. There was no sign of a kite. The hedge around the perimeter fence had grown taller, and the fence itself seemed higher. He waited for Susie to materialize. She threw him her broad smile and said, “There’s only one gate left.”

  They walked in the most beautiful city in the world. Each street a Champs-Élysées, every water feature a canal or fountain straight out of Venice or Rome. Hanging gardens drifted down from neat, orderly buildings that stood out in their own right. Architectural masterpieces, one and all. The skyline was perfect; the pavements spacious and uncrowded. People behaved normally. No jostling, no rushing. No fear.

  She told him she had blinked herself out of the Obese Street café just in time. “The big guy was opening the restroom door to follow you, and the family of four was just reaching out to grab me,” she giggled.

  They continued their stroll. Tony could not get over how buildings no longer seemed to lean over, to threaten. This tour was a cakewalk—how had Dawson described Level V? Emotional? Yes, he felt happy to be here. He had not experienced that emotion in the game since Level II, and not in the real world since before Matthew had died. He saw no street names, no signs, and felt so relaxed he no longer looked for any.

  The avenue they walked on appeared to lead to a church. When they reached the holy gates, he saw that the pavement did not curve around the church as seemed to be the case from farther back. That had been an optical illusion. They were at a dead end and the church was locked. He turned around. The street had narrowed. Buildings crowded overhead, hemming him in. Then he saw the street name. A cold shiver sailed around the small of his back. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, hurrying forward.

  “Don’t worry.” Susie attempted to hold him by the hand. “It’s only Memory Lane.”

  How else had Dawson described Level V? Emotional—an “emotional experience”? No freakin’ thanks! Tony scurried forward but could see no junction. The lane seemed endless. He kept his eyes down for fear of being assaulted by unwelcome memories, but that was no defense. Childhood remembrances hit his head like a barrage of hail. Birthday cakes and candles. First day at school. Granny taking him to a funfair. Summer camp. Adolescence: schoolyard fights. First real kiss. The concert by the river. People jostled him, pushing and shoving as he tried to get out of Memory Lane before… Adulthood: Gaming conventions. College graduation. Debbie. The wedding. And… He leaned against a wall as Susie mouthed platitudes to reassure him. That was no use.

  He was with Matthew in the emergency ward, the poor boy’s eyes pleading: Daddy, make me better. No, not that. It was happening all over again, real-time. He saw again the nurses, the doctors, the injections, the tubing. Most of all he saw Matthew’s face—the dreadful pallor, his pain, his tears—and his boyish struggle to comprehend what was happening. “Daddy, why are you crying?” Why is my son dying? He could no longer fight the tears. Slipping through Susie’s grasp, he slid to the pavement and reached back to activate the BlanketBox®.

  Memory Lane faded to dim. When it was entirely black, Tony hoped he was safe, that he was on his way out, that he might see good old Angie and her mothering grin.

  Tony came up in the park. He felt for the presence of the backpack. Why hadn’t it worked properly? Why wasn’t he out? He turned around. The hedge had grown even higher, fence keeping pace with it. Wait a minute… A delta-winged crimson kite danced and dived and ducked across the sky. His eyes followed the string downward. He recognized that small figure running on the grass. Tony stood transfixed as the boy ran over. Susie materialized alongside him as the child approached. To his upmost horror, he saw that the boy was a construct, just like her.

  “Hi, Daddy.” The voice was almost right, but the skin was too shiny.

  Tony felt as if his whole body had frozen over, then felt he was about to m
elt. He had to physically brace his legs to keep from falling, such was the seismic shock running through him. He looked around. No more gates.

  Susie put her arm on Matthew-cypher’s shoulder.

  Tony tried to heave up enough spittle to swallow, but could only do so dryly. He dragged his eyes away from the constructs. Why hadn’t the BlanketBox® worked? There was only one thing for it. He reached back and pulled on the cord again.

  Matthew and Susie and the park faded to dim. When it was entirely black, Tony hoped he was safe, that he was on his way out.

  Tony came up in the park. They were standing before him: Matthew-construct and Susie-mother-wife wearing wide plastic smiles. “You didn’t really believe Dawson and Leary were going to let you go,” Susie said, “did you?”

  This can’t be happening! His hand reached back for the BlanketBox®.

  “You would’ve cashed in your chips and gone off tomorrow to bad-mouth Dawson and Leary and the Transient City project. The last thing we need is bad press.”

  Tony pulled the cord. Everything faded to dim.

  Tony came up in the park. Matthew-son and Susie-Mum welcomed him with those great big shiny, letterbox grins. Susie-Debbie said, “We can stay here forever, just you and me in the park—and Matthew, our son.”

  Tony felt his heart shrivel into little pixels. He knew now that Transient City was transient no longer—it was permanent. He tried the BlanketBox® again. The virtual world faded to dim. There was no Angie-angel.

  Tony came up in the park.

  Pressure and the Argument Tree

  By Kyle Aisteach

  It takes about two hours for a person to fall the 55 kilometers through the soupy atmosphere from the dirigible city to the surface of Venus. They’re dead long before they hit the ground. They’re roasted and charred. And usually—usually—they do, in fact, hit the ground. Every once in a while, however, someone’s environment suit has enough air to go neutrally buoyant. And then the body simply stops falling and drifts away.

  Keats Lowdenville had just settled into the monotony of the chase when the radio woke up with the voice of his wife, Dorothy. “Thank you so much for leaving without saying anything.” Her voice sounded clipped, argumentative.