
TOWER DEFENDER

Joseph Hurtgen
__ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2012 Joseph Hurtgen All Rights Reserved

Cover art by Eric Hurtgen: erichurtgen.com
For Rebecca and Frances
Table of Contents

Prologue

1 Deparole

2 'threads

3 HeroWin™

4 Sanctum Sanctorum

5 Beggars Banquet

6 Deparoll the Dice

7 Veritech

8 Jupiter Skyline

9 Philosoporific

10 Mytopia Myopia

11 Moebius Strip Club

12 Dr. Adderall

13 Just Another CommUnitas Goon

14 SkInvention

15 Ubriaco Italiano

16 Dylan '63

17 Never was there a Story of more Woe than that of Yvette and her Romy, oh!

18 Transcendental Insurance

19 Ascension

20 Cheap Truth

21 Whyscraper

22 Cradle and All

23 Burst of Death

24 Kragskoth Revisited

25 CommUnication

26 Mustang Sally

27 Hangover™

28 Flux

29 Knives for Knaves

30 Marilyn Monrobots

31 Manifesting

32 Nahuatl

33 Tower Defending

34 Rubble Rousers

35 'threadbare

36 Robert Riggs his Future
It is fear that motivates human ruthlessness; fear of a "glittering, mechanical, inescapable civilization which [will] put to death our freedom

James Baldwin, _Everybody's Protest Novel_

What is man, that thou art mindful of him?

Psalm 8:4-6

In the midst of an unending desert, a single glass and steel tower rises, spirelike, to a distant height. Junkyards ring the arcology for miles, littered with the abandoned vehicles, trailers, and refuse left by the tower's inhabitants. Farming has become all but impossible in the continent turned desert, so arcologies like this one provide the only certain buffer against annihilation. The only threat to the towers come from bands of criminals, muscle-bound desert raiders with huge, rock-hard biceps, aggressive pectorals, and mutated bodies. These raiders attempt raids on agricultural and economic centers, despite the nearly impenetrable defense systems in place to keep them out.

Blurb on the jacket of the _Tower Defender_ game box.

Prologue

Sally Riggs was on the bench press machine when the Orbital 12 shuttle shuddered. An explosion ripped through the hull of the starboard side, cutting through the gunwale like an iceberg knifing the Titanic. The lights went out, shrouding the ship in darkness. Seconds later, emergency lights flickered on, dim red lights washing over corrugated steel. Gouts of air and heat escaped silently into the vacuum of space. Standard gravity cut out and the barbell in Riggs' hands slowly lifted out of her grasp. Riggs rolled off the bench, bolted to the gym floor for safety, and pushed away from the weight hanging overhead like the sword of Damocles.

Over the comms unit, Mark Billings reported on the damage, his voice nearly breaking with tension. "All personnel to the forward cabins, blue sector. Our pressure is compromised. Initiating lockdown!" Riggs pushed off a wall toward the gym's exit and grabbed an oxygen mask. Through the glass of the gym door, she could see a barrier beginning to slide shut at the twenty meters away. Riggs grabbed at the handholds spaced evenly along the hall, pulling herself along with great bursts of strength. Weak from her workout, with each pull she felt more resistance in her arms, and the two-foot-thick titanium airlock slid ever closer to home. Arms shaking, Riggs gave one last pull. She turned sideways to fit through the nearly shut airlock. Before the door sealed, she heard Edvard Munch in the red hallway. She hit the control to open the door, but it continued to shut. The lockdown program could only be killed in the control room. Munch was nearly to the door. "Munch!" Riggs screamed. She grabbed handles on her side of the closing barrier and pulled back, but her depleted strength was no match for the automated locking system. Munch put his face up to the window and screamed in terror, looking for all like a painting from the expressionist period. Riggs looked in his eyes until she couldn't bear it. She shut her eyes tight. She shook as she cried.

Victor Berkeli staggered into Orbital 12's control room and dropped his six foot three frame into the command chair. He looked at a screen with the names of his crew along with their vitals. Munch, De Mon, and D'Angelo had all flatlined. Pollock's vitals didn't even register. He must have been sucked out into space. Berkeli wondered if the side of the shuttle was splattered with Pollock's blood and guts, the abstract art of the macabre. Aside from himself, only four of the crew remained: Billings, Amara, Kim, and Riggs. Berkeli smiled in self-satisfaction that D'Angelo and De Mon were gone. Before launch, Berkeli had overheard them making bets on who would bed their mark first. The first night of the mission, the two young spacers made moves on Amara and Kim, claiming them as bunkmates. They both got results so fast, they couldn't determine who won the bet. Their success burned at Berkeli and further highlighted his own position. Try as he might, and Berkeli had tried mightily, Riggs had spurned all of his advances. She wasn't looking for companionship. Somehow, she didn't mind being alone. But Berkeli couldn't bear being alone with his thoughts. He'd gone in for several of the new prostheses to escape the solitary experience of thinking. He had a Cantata Girl installed, a blonde named Mary. He had a virtual Labrador installed with chestnut coloring that he called Dave. He'd even installed a personality analogous to his first wife and his daughter at the age of two. He'd loved them so well. But the tender memory personalities did nothing to ease the pain of losing them. When he had left on the seventh Orbital mission, he'd feared that he wouldn't return, not that his family would be deleted by a deranged kid with an AR-34. A white kid, eighteen, opened fire on a supermarket down the street from their house before setting off a crude pipe bomb in his school lunchroom, proclaiming white power, and gunning down primarily white teenagers and teachers. Berkeli's wife and daughter were buying a rocket-shaped balloon when the kid killed them. Berkeli suspected that women were repelled by his sorrow. To manage his anguish, Berkeli had developed a taste for 'threads.

Billings ran into the control room.

Berkeli switched the main screen from vitals to astrogation.

"Commander, we've got to unlink from the damaged part of the ship. Otherwise, we'll suffer residual damage," said Billings.

"It's not as bad as you think. The ship's intact. Everyone's fine," said Berkeli.

"What?" exclaimed Billings. "That's not what I—"

"It's an electrical problem. Probably a sidereal event, a quasar, electromagnetic particle bombardment, who knows. Put on a suit and make a full report. I'll monitor you from here."

"From station four, I saw a hull breach, massive loss of pressure, oxygen depletion. The temperature dropped for Chrissake!"

"All part of the broken feedback loop when we hit whatever cosmic event got us. Electromagnetic bombardment, I bet. So, go ahead and check it out. If something's damaged, we'll want to make repairs immediately."

"Yes, sir." Billings turned and walked out.

Red emergency lights washing over Riggs, she stood and pushed off toward the control room. Taking a corner, Riggs nearly ran into Amara, her face white.

"He's gone, exploded," Amara said through tears.

"De Mon?"

"Yes."

"Exploded? An accident?"

Amara looked at Riggs. "You know it wasn't an accident."

"Christ. Berkeli?"

"Who else?"

With Orbital 12 in lockdown, the only way into the abandoned portion of the ship was through an airlock. Billings suited up and went in. On a screen in the airlock he read the O2 levels of the hall beyond the airlock: zero. Billings shook his head. "Airlock reads zero air over here, Berkeli. Just like I told you. It's not safe to go on."

"Not safe to return either," said Berkeli through the comms unit.

"What? Repeat last comm." Billings heard a tap on the door and turned. Berkeli stood outside the glass porthole. He held up an old style revolver.

"Berkeli, what's the meaning of this?"

"There's no meaning. Life and space, Billings. It's all empty, all nothing."

"Berkeli, we're all under a lot of stress out here. Open the door. We'll talk through it."

"Open the door? Fine. Here you go." Berkeli initiated the sequence to open the airlock to the damaged side of the shuttle.

Billings watched the lights on the outer airlock door turn from red to yellow. "Berkeli! No! Damn you, Berkeli! Close the door!"

"Open, closed. Hard to know what you want, Billings." Berkeli walked away as the airlock light turned green and the outer door opened. The vacuum sucked Billings toward the rent hull and swept him out to the empty void of space.

Berkeli strode back into the control room, dropped his gun on the commander's chair. He fished in his pocket and pulled out seven 'threads. He licked each one and then closed his eyes, bracing himself for the rush. Seconds later, he smiled as concertos, novels, and centuries of philosophy filled his mind. Though hurtling along in a pocket of far-flung space, Berkeli, joining the rank of all men born before Copernicus, felt that he was at the center of the universe. He stumbled in the ecstasy of mind expansion and fell in a heap on the floor.

Coming back to his faculties, Berkeli heard the door to the control room open. He turned to see Amara and Riggs.

"Where's Billings?" said Riggs.

Berkeli felt for his gun, couldn't find it. He eyed the commander's chair. The gun glinted like a neutron star.

"Victor," said Riggs slowly. "Where is Billings?"

Berkeli lunged for the chair. He reached his gun, turned, and fired. Riggs dodged behind a bank of terminals. Amara fell to the ground, dead. "Damn! Wrong one!" Berkeli dove behind a bank of terminals. He plunged his hand in his pocket and pulled out two 'threads. He licked them and shut his eyes, his mouth curling into a half smile.

Riggs unholstered a taser and edged toward the terminals. "Game's up, Victor. Put down your gun and come out. I'll make sure you get to your court-martial in one piece."

The room was silent but for the thrumming of computer stations.

Riggs sprung around a bank of terminals. Berkeli wasn't there. Something hit Riggs' head from behind, hard. She collapsed to the floor, her head swimming. As her consciousness slipped, Riggs watched a 'thread copter to the ground.

Riggs came to in an airlock. Her head throbbed. She pulled herself off the floor and tried the door: locked.

Berkeli's voice came through over Riggs' comms unit. "I meant to shoot you, not Amara. I wanted Amara."

"Commander," said Riggs, "you need an anti-psychotic. The stress of space travel can--""Enough. You're hardly in the position to tell me what to do. I give the orders."

"Have you contacted Houston?" Riggs had her energy knife out. She turned the knife on and stabbed the door. The blade hummed through steel.

"Houston? Why would I--Wench!" exclaimed Berkeli. "This ends now."

The light in the airlock turned from red to yellow, and Riggs heard the fans turn on, sucking the oxygen out of the confined space. Riggs held her breath and continued cutting. With the energy knife in hand, the door might as well have been cheese. A downward cut, one to the side, up again, and a swift kick to the door, and Riggs had a way out. She dropped her knife on the floor on the other side and dove through head first.

Riggs stayed close to the wall on her approach to the control room. She heard someone, a feminine voice.

Kim walked down the hall, mumbling, eyes unfocused. She sang weakly. "How can you tell the difference between your true lover and some other? Your true one wears his spacer's gear as dives he must into our darkest sphere."

"Kim," Riggs called out.

Kim carried on mumbling. She walked past Riggs without recognition.

Steps away from the control room, Riggs eyed a fire axe hanging on the wall and picked it up with her left. With another step, the control room door slid open. Riggs dove in. She scanned the room. In the middle of the space, sprawled out in a flight chair, Victor Berkeli mumbled to himself in perfect iambic pentameter. He was unarmed. A dozen 'threads littered the floor around him. Riggs stood and walked to stand in front of him. She nudged him with the fire axe. He looked up at her with vacant eyes, nothing there.

"Berkeli?"

The ship's onboard computer spoke. "Airlock four is open. Oxygen integrity compromised. Should I seal off the control room?"

"Do it! Wait. What about Kim? Billings? All the rest?"

"Commander Victor Berkeli and military attaché Sally Riggs are the sole living entities remaining on the Orbital 12 shuttle. Should I seal off the control room now?"

"Yes."

"Control room sealed."

Riggs eyed Berkeli again. He was motionless but for the even rise and fall of his chest. Riggs operated one of the screens and brought up the crew's vitals. Sure enough, Kim, Billings, and the others no longer registered. Berkeli's brain function was demonstrably below cow level. On the bright side, diagnostics reported that Riggs was okay. Riggs took in the screen with the ship's report. It was in bad shape. I'll be lucky to get home alive, thought Riggs.

The onboard computer sounded. "Based on my calculations, there is not enough remaining oxygen for a return trip to Earth."

Riggs looked again at Berkeli, spittle trailing from one side of his mouth. "Recalculate based on one passenger."

"The oxygen remaining would still be insufficient for one human passenger."

Riggs felt heat radiating from a computer terminal.

"Recalculate based on one passenger and the minimum computer systems required to return."

"The oxygen remaining would be sufficient for one human passenger."

Riggs looked at Berkeli.

"I will warn you that the jurisdiction of the ship is covered by international law, and my witness is acceptable in the law courts of your country as well as many others."

"Onboard."

"Yes?"

"Are you programmed to protect the human crew?"

"Yes. That's why the witness of onboard ship AI is used to--."

"Then getting rid of Berkeli is your problem," said Riggs, coolly.

"I am not equipped to perform such a task," said the onboard.

"Then authorize me."

The onboard AI paused for two seconds, a lifetime of processing for an entity deriving its intelligence from a distributed network. "This action would result in court-martialing."

"Better than the alternative," said Riggs.

"I should add that shutting computer systems down to preserve oxygen will reduce networking processing power below the threshold for sustaining artificial intelligent programs."

"So, I won't get to talk with you anymore?"

"Affirmative."

"Wish I'd known that sooner."

Houston's attempts at radio contact with Orbital 12 had failed for the balance of its return trip from Jupiter's ice-rich moon, Ganymede. Oddly, the last message from the ship was a fused quote from two Shakespearean plays. They heard Commander Berkeli say, "Nothing will come of nothing. I do love nothing in the world." After that, nothing. NASA's team of psychologists were stumped. Was Berkeli saying Ganymede wasn't worth exploring further? Was he having a moment of existentialist panic as a result of crossing the vast emptiness of space? No one knew, but the silence from the ship was ominous. They tracked Orbital 12's return by radar and sent regular messages in an attempt to contact the crew. The Pentagon also watched Orbital 12. The shuttle, with a nuclear engine, represented a high-grade security threat. The Pentagon claimed it was a DEFCON two security threat. They analyzed every probability, considered what would happen if one of those astronauts was a spy or a terrorist, a jihadi, a communist, or god knows what. Missiles were at the ready, on hand to shoot down the shuttle if its trajectory put it on course to harm anyone, anywhere. A nuclear-powered shuttle hitting New York City would be awful but not likely to trigger nuclear retaliation like the same shuttle hitting Pyongyang, Beijing, or Moscow.

When Riggs dropped Orbital 12 into the Earth's atmosphere, Berkeli was dead as a licked 'thread, the onboard artificial intelligence system was offline, and oxygen levels were all but depleted. Riggs wore an oxygen mask, breathing from the last remaining O2 tank. Within mere minutes of orbit, Riggs could have landed Orbital 12 at the George Bush International Airport. But she simply didn't have the time to wait for an ideal approach.

With minimal help from the gutted navigation system, Riggs put Orbital 12 in a stable orbit around Earth, separated an emergency landing pod from the ship, and began her descent through the atmosphere. She was aimed at the Arctic circle. Houston received a single message on the AM band. "Houston, Houston, this is Orbital 12. Long range comms busted. Our emergency pod is on course for coordinates 65 North 144 West. Send help. This is our last communication." 
Chapter 1 – Deparole

Robert Holdforth stripped his clothes and winced as he draped an ice cold medical robe over his body. An attractive nurse waited outside the changing room.

The nurse held up a mask to Robert's face, lights pulsing across the spectrum as the mask took measurements. "Hold still for the retinal scan."

Blue lights shone into Robert's eyes and a tri-prick caught his forehead, sending an electric sensation through his body. "What was that?"

"Anesthetic. It's easier when patients don't know it's coming." The nurse helped Robert into a hover chair, guided him into a long, neon-lit hallway in a sub-basement of a government defense building. "You know how to use the direction pads to the chair?"

Robert looked at a direction pad with four arrows pointing in the standard cardinal directions. "I got it."

"Go down the hall to those double doors. Another nurse will assist you." The nurse's cool hand on his arm felt good.

Robert started counting down as soon as he felt the prick. He clung to the last seconds left of consciousness. How to remember what he would so soon forget? Weakening, Robert dug a fingernail into the inside of his arm, drawing blood as he scratched an "M" and an "F," weakly scratched a "C" and a "U" before succumbing to the strength of the anesthetic and falling into a dreamless sleep.

Dr. Hargrove sat at a table with Robert. "What was it like when you woke up after the deparole, Robert?"

"Light. Bright light."

Hargrove typed notes into a laptop. "Good. What else?"

"Sound. Air."

"The air-conditioning system you mean?"

"Yes. Air . . . blowing."

"This is good and only one week since the procedure."

Robert looked through a window. He traced the outline of a maple tree stretching its way heavenward and recalled the trees he climbed as a boy.

"What are you thinking of? What's going on your mind?" Hargrove tapped the side of his head.

Robert tried to process his perceptions, saw long shadows and too much light, vivid light, as if he were face-to-face with a rainbow, right where the light stops being stable, goes crazy, the scattering energy of the full spectrum of color verifying that nothing's ever fully known. But that was all.

"No words." Memories and ideas fluttered through Robert's head like dying butterflies spiraling to the ground. The deparole left his mind in a state something like a political philosopher's dream, tabula rasa, empty. He had memories, but no names for anything in them. The memory of language was forgotten like the lives of Neanderthals, only bones and misshapen artifacts remaining.

Vitaly peered over a totaled SUV, half immersed in a pile of tires. "Riggs! Helicopter!" Behind them, a massive tower jutted out of the wreckage, soaring over a thousand feet into the sky above.

"Oh shit!" Riggs watched a heavily armed helicopter lift up from behind a massive pile of plastic, metal, and rubber, representing millions of tons of the remains of vehicles smashed and burned beyond recognition. The apache warship was painted jet black, the color of death. The warship turned on their position and unloaded a soul-shattering salvo of missiles. Three Tomahawk missiles bore down on Riggs. "You got that defense grid hacked, Robert? Robert!"

Robert clenched his jaw. He couldn't get the laser defense grid online. He looked up in time to see a missile slam into Riggs; his field of vision went white. "Riggs! No!"

Vitaly panicked, scrambled under the SUV. Echo Jackson opened the two-way radio line. "You got position?"

"We're screwed over here. Screwed! One of my guys is flash blinded and the other is down."

Jackson laughed. "Sounds 'bout right. Scar, he said your crew was bad luck."

Vitaly grimaced. "Bad luck? This isn't a case of bad luck! We've got helicopters on us with missile tracking systems from hell."

"Thanks for the heads up. I'ma draw back with Scar and Mortetta. Found a payload of junk in an RV a mile back in the rim. Enjoy getting fried."

"We can still do this. You draw off the missile fire . . ."

More laughter came from the other end of the radio. "This operation was shit from the start. Someone small and weak like you running it? We out." The radio connection dropped. The air was filled with white noise.

Vitaly threw his transmitter against an SUV and stomped on it where it fell. "No one's gonna livestream this shit. We suck!" Vitaly heard the whistle of a rapidly incoming projectile and his feed cut out.

Dr. Hargrove introduced _Tower Defender_ to the ward the second week of therapy. Patients benefit from playing the game since it relies heavily on communication and teamwork. Each of the players speak to each other through VR headsets and play through a network.

The object of _Tower Defender_ is to destroy a tower rather than defend it. A different _Tower Defender_ game released a couple years earlier hadn't sold too well. The first _Tower Defender was_ a business sim set on a space colony. It didn't have helicopters or drugs. Instead, players took on the role of managers, bargaining with non-player characters, compromising on labor conditions and wages to keep workers building the tower rather than uprising. When workers unite and rise up, players have several options to quell the rebellion: pump money into the entertainment industry, finance home loans for underpaid laborers, or work with the local government to legalize soft drugs. Regardless of the game's managerial and diplomatic nature, the cover depicted a state-of-the-art space battle _,_ centered around a tower-like space station blowing away futuristic starships with banks of plasma beams and rail guns. Adding to the confusion, the blurb on the back cover promised intense space battles and an advanced weapons and armor creation system, elements completely missing from the earlier _Tower Defender_. In contrast, people lined up to play the new _Tower Defender_. Its sleekly designed game box had promises about the game that were real, and, after only four months, it had sold hundreds of thousands of copies.

Two low tones sounded throughout the ward, signaling the end of the free-activity hour. Patients made their way into the hologram room, a room laid out like a planetarium with rings of seats set up around a projection well. Lights in the floor and the ceiling created three-dimensional images of _National Geographic_ quality. Last in the room was Dr. Hargrove, nationally recognized for his work in cognitive therapy.

Among the patients were two women and four men. Evan Smith was a state senator from North Dakota. Mary Crestwood was the wife of a deeply conservative Supreme Court Justice, the scars along her wrists a story she hadn't told the others. Cameron Vitaly the third, who, not needing to worry about his future as the son of a wealthy oil magnate, had tuned in and dropped out of college in a drug-induced haze. Robert Holdforth, a researcher and inventor, agreed to undergo the deparole process as an experiment. Abraham Wasserman, a rabbi who hoped the deparole would rid him of chronic migraines, saw deparoling as a chance to imitate the ways of God. Wasserman had written two theological monographs considering Yahweh's declaration that he would remember Israel's sins no more. Upon deparoling, the migraines left Abraham almost immediately, but that probably had more to do with being out of the same living space as his wife Sarah, who constantly nagged him to give her a child. As for the sins, Abraham hadn't understood that only his language would be wiped from his mind, not his memory. No sin, his own or those of others, had vanished from his thoughts.

Sally Riggs was the most surprising of the six patients, not to mention the best looking, though Robert and Vitaly cut handsome figures. Riggs was a trained engineer, spacer, and combat expert. Despite all this, she wasn't expected to respond well to the deparole. Experts believed her traumatic experiences with the Orbital 12 Mission would keep her from rebuilding language and redirecting damaged emotive pathways. Lone survivors of anything, from air flights to firefights, were usually haunted by their memories, plagued with the guilt of surviving. Her duties on the mission were to serve as a military attaché and provide aeronautical engineering support. But Orbital 12's mission had gone haywire. The Commander, Victor Berkeli, had fallen into a psychotic episode, sabotaging the ship and its crew on a whim. Once back in the atmosphere, Riggs had little choice over the terms of the landing. It was the Arctic circle or nothing. Lucky to get back to Earth at all, she nearly froze to death in the middle of the frigid waters. Riggs was stranded for almost 16 hours before a rescue team pulled her out of the pod.

An official investigation into the Orbital 12 mission was launched immediately. Jeff Gruen, the lead prosecutor handling the special investigation, believed it wasn't chance that Riggs was Orbital 12's only surviving member. Gruen believed Riggs had sacrificed the other crew members to ensure enough oxygen for herself during the return trip. Riggs firmly denied all allegations and was eventually cleared. Since the ship's computer wouldn't run after the crash and the information on the hard drives was all corrupt, as the sole survivor of Orbital 12, no evidence existed aside from Rigg's testimony. With no better ideas, the space program decided to spin the story toward the heroism of Riggs, serving as damage control from what they feared could become very bad publicity. But as a precaution, Riggs was grounded from future flights until she could pass several rigorous psychological examinations and protocols. Riggs's participation in the deparole was yet another in a series of what had become a full-time career of receiving psychological examinations.

Vitaly was a veritable mess. His good looks and status as heir to one of the world's wealthiest families ensured that people were drawn to him, but his demeanor, a look of someone on the edge of sanity, kept most at bay. His video application to the program was a near incoherent mess of babble. In the vid, Vitaly was covered in dirt and looking disheveled, his voice hollow and stretched: "Three days of uninterrupted 'threads left me ashen as a ghost sprawled out on a floor crawling with cockroaches and rats, stained with blood and my own urine. Maudlin waves of terror broke over me, but the songs I'd taken were complete in my head. I transplanted out billowing guitar reverb and turned it down to wash out a faintly sick feeling. I'm a ghost here in this mundane bourgeois apartment, dishes on shelves, endless paperbacks, and a telewall radiating blue. I can't make out its white noise over the tune I've got going through my head. The beauty with cerebral tracking is that hearing loss has no effect. Last week I talked to a deaf man, coded the cortex strain on computer blotter paper, dropped it on his tongue. Five minutes later he had total comprehension. He said he heard me speaking backwards and forwards simultaneously. Only problem with 'threads, you never know if you'll have sufficient control. I dropped a dozen novels and twenty albums, hitting subjective time three days later to the voice of Hamlet filtered in over static fuzz, 'All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity.'"

Mary Crestwood saw her husband do the awful thing. She tried to stop it, had known he would do it, had been too weak. Oh the little angel, and never to feel her close again. Afterwards, Justice Crestwood held her down and slashed her wrists to make a show of just enough blood. He made a couple of phone calls and Mary was driven to the Center for Cognitive Studies the next day. Her referral record cited a cocktail of psychological disorders ranging from borderline personality to sociopath to cognitive derangement, and, most insulting, suicidal.

"Ok. Let's begin," said Dr. Hargrove. The room lights faded out and the projection-well lights beamed on, fanning out in a display worthy of an '80s prog rock band. The fingers of laser-pulsing light fanned across the room and gradually resolved into a solid image of two human skeletons. "Here we have a skeletal system," Dr. Hargrove pointed at the figure.

The patients watched as the skeletons were transformed, covered with bands of muscles and arterial systems. Hargrove, using his data-stacker, zoomed in on specific muscles and went over their names and functions. The figures moved, dancing the rumba, a waltz, and the macarena and Hargrove explained muscle use, the strengthening process and strain. The bodies were then covered in flesh, one male and one female. Hargrove was thorough with explanations of anatomical structure. He spoke of the similarity of the human form to non-sentient, Terran life, comparing the system of veins in the human body to those found in plants and trees, the holographic display confirming the details. "The human being patterns itself after the forms surrounding it."

Riggs took notes, typing as Hargrove spoke.

"Why do you think that humans go to, uh. To, uh . . ." Hargrove took an envelope out of his back pocket and fished out a stamp with a picture of an iron butterfly. He looked around surreptitiously and licked the stamp. "Yes, why do humans go to such trouble?"

"Because that's what we conceive as beautiful?" replied Riggs.

"Right. We want to see ourselves in the land we live in. So, humans recognize a pattern and then trace it onto themselves. The tallest humans come from tribes that settled near mountains, the fattest on the coast, taking in the wide expanse of sea. This patterning translates to mental stability from the feelings of belonging that follow sharing similar characteristics to flora, fauna, and geological formations. Such patterning is a prime reason that past attempts to settle on nearby Cinderella planets have failed. Humans couldn't cognitively make the leap to patterning themselves after worlds distantly alien to Terra. A fish has to have its water, after all." Hargrove turned off the main display and soft lights bathed the room from the floors. The chairs in front of the five patients each had a desktop with their own miniature holographic system. These now displayed the human skeletal system. As patients selected particular bones, the screen brought up the name and sounded out the word. "Fibula," said the program in a soothing feminine voice as Riggs pointed to the bone.

Robert had shown the second most improvement after Riggs. "Fihb. . . fihb-yu-lah," Robert repeated a few times until he could say it in time with the instructing voice. Robert turned the skeleton around to see the bone from every angle and then played the figure through a four-hundred-meter dash and a deadlift competition to see how the fibula fit into the larger system during these tasks.

"It's a shame," Dr. Hargrove thought as he watched Robert repeating words and manipulating objects to attain the deepest levels of word and object connection, "that this will be the last legally sanctioned reparoling of non-incarcerated subjects. After we have it down to a science, now the plug is getting pulled. Leave it to the government to meddle in our work. As if we were lobotomizing patients or administering electro-shock therapy." Indeed, the council on the study of deparole therapy had compared the procedure to lobotomy, citing several patients that had not responded to reparoling techniques, just stared blankly for years as they reclined on state hospital beds, eating and sleeping their way through life without understanding a thing, words coming to them forever as mere noise, indistinguishable from the hum of overhead lighting, all representing a drain on the average taxpayer. Many of the failed deparolees were hooked up to cybernetic hard drive systems, their collective minds' mega-terabyte storage capacity used as top secret archive space. It worked well enough until one of the bodies choked on its own saliva and some ten-thousand terabytes of government surveillance was lost.

Reparoling failure still occurred, but not as frequently as the first experiments. Maybe one in ten patients ended up in a coma, but ninety percent was an acceptable high rate of success, especially given the level of nuttiness that most of the patients exhibited before the procedure. To get around the problem of the one-in-ten failure rate, all deparole sessions had a max capacity of nine patients.

The benefits of the reparole were a calculated boon to society. As a result of the deparole and reparoling, mass murderers left maximum security facilities as fully functioning citizens. Even though deparoling was soon to become severely limited, a government council on criminality and recidivism had agreed that the risk of completely losing the mind of a criminal was worth taking, so criminals would still be allowed to go through the process, but otherwise, the therapy would now be unavailable. However, laws were made for bending. Clearly, if the state wanted someone to go through the deparole process, it would happen.

Hargrove, eyeing Sally Riggs, thought to himself, "I run one of the most well-funded deparole wards of all, tending to attractive, high profile candidates." Hargrove lucked into the job by publishing a dissertation on the effects of language reacquisition on the nervous system. He came back from his musings as he walked by Robert's desk, noticed a glimmer of recognition in Robert's eyes. Hargrove pointed to the holographic image radiating there. "Robert, what is this?"

Robert looked up with his steel-grey eyes shining in the light of the holograph. "Man. This is man: us."

"Yes! Mankind. Now let's work on a recognition exercise." The holograph changed to a red carpet Hollywood scene. Harrison Ford and Humphrey Bogart shook hands, smiling for a gaggle of photographers. Marilyn Monroe stood just behind on Joe DiMaggio's arm. He nervously searched for eyes taking in the soft white of Marilyn's lower neck. "Count the stars, Abraham," instructed Dr. Hargrove.

Abraham looked confused. "But we are inside."

"Yes, but remember, sometimes words have two meanings."

"Then what is star other than star?" puzzled Abraham.

Grace Kelly was on the carpet now, stunning in a white tulle layered skirt.

"These men and women are called stars because of their visibility to the public and because their beauty, wealth, and lifestyle are as out of reach to the common man as a star in the night sky is to human civilization."

"Doesn't that make people hate them?" Abraham raised an eyebrow.

"No," said Hargrove. "Most people trick themselves into believing that celebrities are as interesting and beautiful as movie characters, as if in day-to-day life these people have lines memorized from the scripts of award-winning writers."

"Nobody thinks that," said Riggs. "People don't look at trees and then change the way they orient their life because of some perceived pattern, and neither do people watch _Some Like it Hot_ and then think they could do their hair like Marilyn, pout their lips just so and then go out and get anything they want from pliable men."

Benson was stunned at Riggs's verbal display. He first wondered how a woman could have surpassed men in rebuilding language and communicating effectively and then grew angry. "Take my word for it, Sally. After all, I'm the expert here."

Riggs chuckled. "All right, so who do you think you are? Some sexy symbol of the silver screen? You'd need to unbutton your shirt a bit and get some tighter pants."

Benson's face went red. Though because of his poor coloring, it was almost imperceptible. "Class dismissed."

Robert dropped his journal. As he reached for it, Riggs saw the jagged letters M and F scratched across the inside of his arm. "Cool. Looking to get that inked in?"

Robert ran his fingers over the scratches, thought of the pretty girl's face whose name corresponded to the initials.

"What's it stand for? Moonfire? Monday through Friday? Mount Fuji?" asked Riggs.

Robert shook his head.

Riggs continued, "Muscle force, misfortune, mysterious figure?"

Robert held his arm close to his side. "For me."

"Shouldn't it be F M then?" asked Riggs.

Robert, looking wan, left the room without another word.
Chapter 2 – 'threads

The patients in Ward Two were put through various exercises to determine what, if any, physical and mental abilities had been amplified by the deparole. Robert's strength was unchanged, though his vision was acutely improved; objects were more apparent to him, as if like a child, his neural pathways were yet untouched by time.

Hargrove stood before the patients, holding an electric rifle with silver lightning bolts painted on the sides. "Your next test is to determine synaptic response. You'll each have a turn on the range, but I want you to watch me so you'll know what to do, so you'll feel at home on the range." Hargrove stepped up to a thickly painted black line, adjusted the sight on the rifle and placed his hand on a scanner. The scanner registered him along with his vitals and overall accuracy. He readied himself. An overlarge yellow target in the shape of a big bird appeared at seventy-five yards and Hargrove pealed off a round, strafing the huge, slow target to the right. A second and third shot missed entirely and a fourth registered. An orange target in the shape of a long-extinct ancestor of the elephant lumbered up at twenty-five yards and Hargrove blasted it down with his first shot. He let a green target sprint across the range and then blasted again when a pink target flashed one hundred and forty yards out.

"What's with the rainbow theme?" asked Riggs.

Hargrove kept his attention on the shooting range. "Smart as you are, you'll figure it out."

When Robert had his turn he figured it out, the targets varied in speed according to color. Green targets were fast, real fast, moving with the speed of a sprinter from the Caribbean islands. Robert had no chance with the green targets. Pink was not quite as speedy, but Robert missed all his shots at pink targets as well. In fact, Robert only hit the blue suede targets, which were Elvis shaped, '70s Elvis.

Sally Riggs was a different story. The air went electric when she picked up the rifle and slammed round after round into the targets. She never missed, not even when the green target bolted across the range at ninety yards. It was as if she could intuit the very air surrounding the targets, feel it with her mind across time and space.

After an hour of target practice, Vitaly, Riggs, and Robert headed to the vid hall. Evans often watched Aztec themed gladiatorial death matches. But he'd lost a lot of credits on a match the night before so the vid hall wasn't in use.

"Let's watch some Tower Defender livestreams," said Riggs.

"Good idea," said Vitaly. "I want see Justice Blaze and Great Raider."

People livestreamed on their personal websites for cash, lots of cash if they were majorly skilled, lots more if they were also pithy and unconventional. Blaze and Raider were crowd favorites; they ran surprising patterns, killed effectively, and had soothing radio voices. Still, Satellite Jones was the most watched player of all, made a very good living from endorsements and selling advertising spots interspersed throughout the livefeed. The deparolees got the vids going right as the alarm buzzed and players scrambled to collect some of the weapons and goods that loaded up at the beginning of the stair level. The level appeared a bit different then the deparolees had seen it before, the floor glowed bright blue, cutting somewhat through thick layers of blinding fog.

"Who's feed is this, Vitaly?" Robert asked.

"Justice Blaze. He always add fog in post. Change look and feel of levels. Give advantage 'cause when amateurs play, levels don't look same."

A team of buff raiders entered in the frame, all holding heavy clubs.

"Uh oh, bruiser company." Vitaly zoomed in on a bruiser's arm, navigated around bulging veins.

"What are you looking for?" asked Riggs.

Vitaly focused on an unusually large forearm. "Track marks. Can't find any. Must be NPC bruiser company."

The bruiser companies were the highlight of the early part of most matches. Guards took a lot of different tactics. Sometimes they electro-whipped competitors cut off in cul-de-sacs. Other times they ran in, assault rifles blazing. Justice Blaze used a laser rifle to great effect. In the righthand corner of the livestream, his weapon's sighting display showed a five times magnification possibility. He was cutting apart guards a thousand yards down the stairs.

"You think there's a starcharter somewhere in the tower?" Robert asked.

"Sounds like a myth to me," Riggs offered.

"Yeah, but if the starcharter can rearrange the grid. Damn, that would be a game changer." said Robert.

"I heard Justice Blaze created advanced schematics with the starcharter." Vitaly took a sip from his Yumyum™ cola.

"I don't think so. If he did, you can bet that run would be in his archives." Riggs kept her eyes on the feed.

"Unless he doesn't want anyone else to know how to access the thing. I mean, if we found the starcharter, we'd keep pretty quiet about it," Robert said.

"Wouldn't matter. Nobody watches our feed 'cept us." Riggs gave Robert a light punch.

"If we could get further than the first few stages, well then somebody might want to watch us play. People watch livestreams of pros, not noobs."

Robert rubbed his arm. "Well, maybe we need to pull a publicity stunt, get some followers. You remember how Zoney Machko ran in the tower for three days before cutting his feed. He went from a thousand followers to over a million in a week."

"Yeah, but that was risky. You don't plug out for two or three days, you're risking some major brain damage," Riggs said. "Star Eagle was one of the greatest on _Tower Defender_ and he never made it out of a high-level grid. When they went looking for him, his body was slumped over, VR goggles still in place. All we need is to win a major competition. That's how you get on the map."

On the screen, Justice Blaze hacked past the security grid, created a globosphere complete with ghost hallucinations of _Tower Defender_ s running the grid. Blaze made it look easy, hid in alcoves of the grid, biding his time until a team of desert raiders came through. Then Blaze struck out with an electro-whip, letting out a shout of triumph as he cut the muscled avatars apart in one lashing. Robert noticed Blaze wasn't interested in winning the level. He wasn't even looking for the end, though he probably could have beaten the level in ninety seconds flat. No, Blaze had figured out how to entertain an audience and ending levels too fast wasn't good for business.

Vitaly seemed like he had leadership qualities: he was ruggedly handsome with piercing eyes, had a deep commanding voice, and was tall and muscular. Given his leaderly qualities, people often wanted to defer to him. During rounds of _Tower Defender_ , Vitaly sometimes barked out orders. Unfortunately, he rarely proved an effective leader, __ his orders often leading to mass deaths.

During a free hour in the evening, Robert went by Vitaly's room and sat down in a leather armchair. Robert realized his room didn't have a leather armchair, didn't have an oriental rug like Vitaly's room, or a pair of paintings by the Dutch master Vermeer, one a maid pouring water in front of a light-filled window and the other a man spinning a globe in front of almost the exact same light-filled window. Robert noticed Vitaly's room didn't have any windows, wondered if that's why he had hung the paintings. "Vitaly, why these paintings?"

Vitaly looked halfheartedly at the priceless artwork. "Gift. Never notice them. I study _Tower Defender_." Vitaly pointed at a livestream of a professional Tower Defender competition on the screen.

"Watch _Tower Defender_? If we're going to watch it, we may as well run another round ourselves."

"No. We play six hours yesterday, die to helicopter every time. We don't improve making same mistake forever. We watch to learn."

Vitaly's eyes fixed on the livestream of a camera positioned a few miles out from the tower, showing the abandoned junkyard ringing its base. The camera switched to an over-the-shoulder view of Satellite Jones, a girl diminutive in stature but long on looks, quick with a trigger and quicker with her mouth. All of Jones's videos had at least a half million views. Jones turned a corner, said, "You Jonesin' for violence?" and bashed in the head of the extraordinarily well-muscled Echo Jackson, turning the avatar into a visual supernova. "The sooner you clear this guy off the map, you'll lose a dodge penalty that stacks even if you don't make contact. I like to bash his head with an electrowrench," Jones shook the electrowrench for effect, "but setting a tripwire in a junkyard trailer filled with bags of HeroWin™ is effective too." Jackson's body disappeared, leaving a scattering of black and white pebbles Jones tread over ruthlessly. "Damn junky."

"You see that? We better get a list of NPCs and the bonuses and penalties they activate in-game."

Vitaly reached for a journal, tossed it into Robert's hands. The journal contained sketches of levels and weapons, printouts of stats taped onto the pages, and notes overflowing onto the margins.

"You study. Bring back tomorrow."

Though some of Vitaly's handwriting was hard to make out, reading through it was almost as good as scorching through a new issue of _Nintendo Power_. The most exciting page of the journal was a list of bugs and glitches. One glitch involved a workaround for the missile attacks in the fifth level. Since the helicopter missile volleys came in three, Vitaly reasoned that six extra NPCs following the party could buy extra time to get through hard levels, providing targeting fodder for two rounds of missile attacks. But there weren't six NPCs to round up, just Echo Jackson and his guys that actually gave the missiles a better chance at hitting their targets. But it gave Robert an idea.

Robert found Vitaly watching a livestream. "We have to try your six NPC theory."

"But there aren't six NPCs available," said Vitaly.

"I know. That's why we're going to plug in six more PC's in the game and tow them along."

Vitaly smiled. "Let's try!"

"Hargrove, have you been paying attention to your patients and their adaption to fit their personalities to our desired Rodge hero image?"

Hargrove was on video chat with an old man, wires running out of his skull from various jacks in his head. "Oh. I've been watching. I even revised the stories a touch to reflect the ideas we've been discussing."

"Good. Softened up Rodge a bit? Made him more pliable, less independent, less disagreeable?"

"Yes. Added narrative elements to make him fear those unlike him. That will make him more appreciative of his culture."

"Fine. Send me the hard copies, so I can review the changes."

"Of course," said Hargrove.

"How many are showing promise? Remember, for every member of this group fit to serve our needs, we're prepared to add a forty-thousand credit bonus."

Hargrove's face lit up. "There are two, if not three, I think you'll find interesting."

"Good, good. Now, Hargrove, how are you doing with your little problem? I hope that you __ aren't showing too much interest in the female patients?"

"I'm appalled that you would question my professionalism!"

"The young woman, Sally. She is rather attractive. Quite hard for someone of your history to keep their desires in check, I'm sure."

"No. I assure you there are no problems."

"Tell you what. We'll send one of our escorts to you directly. That should take care of your little problem."

"This is extremely disrespectful."

"But you accept, of course."

"You've gone too far!"

"I don't mean to sound condescending. We'll tell the girl to do that thing you like so well. I recognize all the sacrifices you've made for this project, but I assure you it wasn't for nothing that we sent that colleague of yours to the Singapore International Research Institute. Was her name Honey? Didn't she steal all the results of your joint research? Let me just fact check. Yes, yes. Here it is: Honey L. Murdock, "On the Regeneration of Language: Parole and Deparole." What was that, a year of your work, two?"

"Hargrove's face turned red. "Let's just move on."

"I suppose it has been hard on you. She was pregnant, right? And with twins?"

"Ernest! I..."

The old man's eyes narrowed, his mouth tensed cruelly. "What _is_ it, Hargrove?"

"I'm glad she's gone." Hargrove looked shaken.

"I don't think I've ever told you this, but when she found out that you had been given the deparole ward responsibility, she laughed!"

"She did?"

"Oh yes. Let me play back her words for you."

The old man pressed play on a file already cued up on his computer terminal. A woman's voice spoke. "No one could be better suited to work with deparolees than Hargrove. That old fool hardly ever talks unless he's licked a 'thread!"

"That's absurd!" asserted Hargrove. "I never touch 'threads!"

"Oh, well, you know how these things go. Call me if anything new develops, and enjoy your little fun." The old man snickered and pressed a button, ending the chat session.

Chapter 3- HeroWin

Vitaly and Robert met Riggs and Crestwood on the way to the rec room.

"Hey, Sally, we're gonna run level five again. I think we've got a strategy that can take us through it."

"Vitaly's strategy?"

Vitaly opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it, looked at Sally Riggs from the side of his eyes.

"He's been studying the pros."

Riggs let out a small laugh. "So, that he can avoid dying in super weird ways?"

"It just bad luck. Won't happen again." Vitaly's lips quivered slightly.

"We'll see. Anyway, count me in. Mary and I were just on our way to get coffee and doughnuts. You guys set it up and maybe she'll join too?"

Robert looked at Vitaly with a smirk. "Yeah, why not."

The rec room had twelve sets of VR helmets and controls that could plug in with the game. The helmets were all steel grey and black except for one that Vitaly had claimed by drawing the Weezer logo on one side and the Grateful Deadhead on the other. Robert and Vitaly readied four VR helmets and created six more characters, chaining three of them to follow Riggs and three to follow Robert. Crestwood could serve as Vitaly's missile blocker, and he would try to stay out of the way of the missile fire.

Vitaly regretted playing with Crestwood almost immediately. Her avatar moved in his way and then fiddled with a hand grenade. Vitaly grabbed the grenade and chucked it, watched it explode before it reached its apogee. "Crusty not good help."

"When that helicopter appears, you guys hold off the incoming missile fire while I hack the tower's laser grid defense system." Riggs had her handheld running a lock decryption program.

"On it!" Robert selected a mini-Phalanx close-in weapons system from his cache of gear.

"Vitaly, you and Crestwood got those charges set to throw off missile targeting? We don't want a repeat of last game." Riggs' handheld lock decryptor blinked yellow, a sign that they were almost there.

"By the way, we're not bothering with Echo Jackson and his bandits on this push." Robert depressed the safety on his small but effective gun unit.

"Why? They could help." Riggs's decryptor blinked even faster.

"Vitaly and I watched through some livestreams. Whoever those guys make radio contact with get torched by the helicopter's missile targeting system."

"That can't possibly be true." Riggs's decryptor blinked so fast that it appeared to constantly glow. "The helicopter can't be everywhere at once."

"We read through lots of commentary on a _Tower Defender_ message board. Lots of players have witnessed it. It's a buggy aspect of the game. Helicopter just glitches right into position."

Riggs looked up from her decryptor. "Oh shit, really?"

"Yeah. That's how the game works," said Robert. So, do not contact those idiots. Once we get higher levels, we can call in bandits that _decrease_ the chance that missile fire will hit us."

"I can't remember how to access the EMP." Crestwood pushed numbers randomly on her wrist control band.

Vitaly put a hand over Crestwood's control band. "Damn it. Why we bring Crusty?"

"Vitaly, be nice." Riggs tried a slightly different scan permutation. With her ultraviolet lenses in, she had nearly matched the randomization patterns on the laser grid, something they hadn't achieved in past runs. The faraway sound of rotor blades caught Riggs's attention. "Okay, we're going to need those charges now!"

"Set charge!" Vitaly screamed at Crestwood.

The two-way radio suddenly came to life. "Hey, Echo Jackson here, we're at your left flank. You want us to draw off some of that missile fire?"

Crestwood picked up her transmitter.

Robert waved his arms frantically. "Crusty! No!"

Crestwood raised the transmitter to her face.

Robert thought about shooting Crestwood himself. "Crusty! Do _not_ answer that."

Crestwood depressed her walky-talky. "Who is this? Who's on the other line?"

With the press of a button she sealed her fate. A helicopter sized space in the sky appeared pulsing with green and blue flashing pixels before the actual helicopter glitched into place in front of them and fired off a stream of missiles. Crestwood failed to make the right adjustments to avoid the rapidly approaching projectiles pulsing toward her avatar; actually, she made no adjustments at all. She had been trying unsuccessfully to change the brightness level on her VR set, all the while succeeding to skew the contrast so that the visuals coming through her set gave everything a psychedelic halo, the colors skewing toward the blue and green end of the spectrum.

"We told you not to respond to radio before game," Vitaly reasoned as Crestwood's avatar fireworked into perfectly-rendered atomic particles.

Robert wasn't thrown off by Crestwood's misstep. In fact, he had planned on it, earlier packing Crestwood's avatar with enough charges to create a barrier on their left flank from further missiles once Crestwood's worthless avatar lit up. Though it would have been more handy to have another gun on his wing. Regardless, now Riggs could make a break for the tower base, access the laser grid, and try to access the tower. This was the fifth level, considerably harder than the starter levels, and the team hadn't yet cleared the stage.

The helicopter banked toward Robert, who was ready for the attack on his avatar. He popped a yellow speed pill and dove just far enough out of the way to let the three streaming missiles knock out his chained PCs, which he had named Dopey, Sneezy, and Sleepy.

The helicopter turned and sent three more missiles streaming Riggs's way. She dove for cover and the missiles connected with Doc, Bashful, and Grumpy. Riggs stood back up, knocked sand off her gauntlets, and returned to her work hacking through the tower's laser grid. She pinpointed the grid's wavelength and sent a power down command through the system.

Robert yelled, "Riggs, three more!"

Riggs dove a second time and out of weird gamer's luck, the missiles flew straight overhead and locked onto the tower. The graphics hiccupped as the missiles slammed into the tower, abruptly opening a perfectly symmetrical arched entryway. Since the impact wasn't followed by animation, it almost seemed like the missiles weren't supposed to hit the tower. Regardless, Riggs's score went into jackpot mode, including a screen with a victory trophy and an invitation to play in a tournament. "Alright, a tourney invite!"

"Not sure how well we'll do in a tournament." Robert paged through the level stats, noticing he'd managed to dodge missile fire at a high rate, "But we have gotten better."

Vitaly popped his knuckles, stretched out his back, "Looks like tournament is tonight. I'll play."

"Heck yeah! Let's win this thing." Riggs mashed the A button with her thumb to accept the online invitation.

"A tournament?" Dr. Hargrove stepped in the doorway, wearing a look of concern. "The deparole ward is a restorative environment. Introducing competition could do more harm than good."

"Everything's a competition," declared Riggs. "You think that all of us sit around hoping that someone else will make the week's major cognitive breakthrough? Geez, doc'."

Hargrove folded his arms. "It sounds like you all are overexcited from your game. Keep in mind that games prepare players for reality. They were never meant as an escape. The more you prefer games to reality, the less positive results you will have in your real life."

Riggs was tense for only a second as Hargrove spoke, before relaxing her body then sitting her controller down and standing up to look out a window.

"Regardless, It's just now time for our daily Rodge adventure story. Let's everyone find a place to relax and listen."

Riggs groaned, dropped into a seat.

"Maybe one a day is too many." Vitaly had not yet put down his controller. "The tournament starts in twenty minutes."

"I think it's best that we take a break from all these things weighing on our minds. Let's forget games for a bit, listen to some stories, and enjoy some mild drugs. Here have some cigarettes on me." Hargrove placed two packages on a table. "I have Tarlboro's Soft Cut Tobacco and their Patently Potent Marijuana Sticks." Hargrove smiled, took one cigarette from each pack, lit both, and took turns smoking them as he read, taking ostentatiously long drags off of either stick.

"Captain Rodge once again found himself in deeply unfamiliar territory." Hargrove noticed Vitaly wasn't paying attention, so he shook out and lit another one of the marijuana sticks, gave it to a willing Vitaly. "Rodge hadn't wanted to represent the Federation but no one else signed up for a day's worth of wading through evasive statements spewed forth in the broken English of ambassadors from across the galaxy. The gist of the discussion centered around the interpretation of a galactic charter written eons ago to establish the basis for peace and trade between the hodge-podge of relationships of quasi-intelligent species found here and there in the cluster of stars they jointly called home. Rodge knew from prior experience to hold his cards close to his laser-proof vest, unlike the young ambassador from Gravko-6 getting more perturbed by the minute as everything he said was negated or, a favorite term of the council, problematized. Rodge knew he couldn't add to the conversation and certainly couldn't take away anything from it. It wasn't even really a conversation, only an unlimited number of previously established statements that didn't cohere. One of the greatest problems, as Rodge had gathered, was that the Galactic Charter was written in a context that had long ago vanished. The authors of the Charter had been slave-traders but hadn't found any irony in pronouncing freedom for all in their blessed Charter. Rodge stifled a sardonic chuckle at the thought that slaves were free to experience heretofore unknown levels of pain and humiliation."

"Rodge was brought back from his musings to hear the Gravko-6 ambassador hemming and hawing in a tone that betrayed a dangerous degree of frustration. From the tension mounting in the room, it was clear that wearing a second layer of plexi-shielding had been the right move. When it came down to it, no one understood anything anyone was saying because an interpretation of the Charter was as impossible as understanding any of the representatives of these vastly different groups. Rodge hadn't wanted to return after the fifteen-minute recess but there were trade penalties applied to the planet you represented if you failed to sit in the meeting in its entirety and at least hold some semblance of participating. Rodge kept a journal during the meeting to make it look like he was taking notes. Not that he hadn't tried to participate. Rodge had boxes filled with notes from these meetings. He sometimes pulled them out and boggled at their meaningless complexity. The hope that one day some key to unlocking their contained wisdom would appear to his mind kept Rodge from dumping the boxes in an alleyway. In dreams, the ambassador from Gravko-8 undressed for Rodge, but instead of the beautiful body he expected, only jumbled words and ideas appeared." Hargrove had lost himself in his reading. When he looked up, he noticed that Vitaly, Robert, and Riggs were all holding their controllers, VR helmets at the ready.

"Thanks for the reading doc'."

"Oh, yes." Hargrove stood and walked closer to Sally. "Would you like to hear another Rodge story?"

Sally looked down at her controller and then back at Hargrove. "No, that's alright. We are, as you see, going to compete in a _Tower Defender_ tournament."

"I'm sorry to say that you're not allowed off the premises until the deparole is complete. That's a federal mandate."

"No problem there. The tournament is online." Riggs gestured to the VR helmets.

"Well, I'd need to see the schedule."

"It's starting," Sally looked at her watch, "in about six minutes."

"There are certain programs that shouldn't be skipped."

Sally put on her VR helmet. "Doctor Hargrove."

"Yes?"

"It's seven in the evening. There aren't any programs scheduled for the rest of the day."

"Oh, right. Well, then I would advise you to only play for thirty minutes, then move to a different project. Multiple and variegated stimuli is much better for your mind than focusing on a single media source."

"We'll keep that in mind," said Riggs.

"Ok, game time." Robert powered on the system, waited through all the start-up screens, including a lizard drinking a twenty ouncer of Yumyum™ cola and a babe lying in a bikini in such a way that her body seamlessly dissolved into the word gAmes. Robert clicked on the multiplayer option of _Tower Defender_. An interface with a list of team names and the players in each team filled the screen. Under the team name Nevermind, Vitaly, Robert, and Sally's player files all loaded up. "Alright, we're in."

The voice of a sexy-sounding British lady came through the headset. "Desert heat getting to you? Want to cool off in the lavish Turkish baths on the tower's eightieth floor? Want to challenge your buddies to a round of laser tag two-thousand feet above the desert? How about some indoor skydiving between the space of one-hundred stories or even a combination of laser tag and indoor skydiving? That's only the beginning of the endless pursuits that await once you get in the tower and wrest control from the scum-sucking billionaire Faqoor Ben'a'hol. So far, no one has put a'hol in his place, but it's high time he was wiped out. The team that takes Faqoor down will reap a massive reward. Each member of the winning group in the tournament will receive a repeating microwave rifle. The tower's missile defense grid is turned off in this scenario. The goal of the first round is to eliminate other desert raiders until only five hundred remain. Let the competition begin!"

A gong sounded and the avatars of Robert, Riggs, and Vitaly loaded up on an outer rim of abandoned junk: rusted sixteen wheelers, vans on cement blocks, motorbikes, random engine parts, sedans with busted-out windows, and an old military helicopter littered the landscape. In Robert's HUD, he could see a readout listing all the competing teams. The number one thousand two hundred and fifty was written out to its side. Three desert raiders not far off opened fire immediately, vaporizing most of Vitaly's left arm and sending him sprawling backward into the sand.

"Shit! Not good!" Robert dove to the sand, followed by Riggs.

"It okay. I use right arm."

As if to emphasize, Vitaly chucked a hand nuke at the raiders. The bomb detonated, evaporating the hostile raiders and sending a miniature mushroom cloud billowing into the sky.

"We gonna get hit by that radiation?" yelled Riggs.

"I plan on it." Vitaly picked up the charred remains of his left arm, tossed it into a sack, and watched a Geiger counter as he edged near the fallout zone. Eight meters out from the blast the Geiger counter signaled an obscene level of radiation. Vitaly took out the pieces of his charred arm and held it against the bleeding stump. The computer's radiation code melded stump to arm; a small serviceable arm grew, complete with a claw-like extension with an iron grip.

"Nice one, V!" shouted Robert.

Riggs saw the number of competing teams had already shrunk to one thousand one hundred and ninety-two. "Ok boys, I suggest we lay low for a while, let some of the more trigger happy groups off themselves, and then get back in the fold once we can count on a little more strategy."

"Why not just stay low until we qualify for the next round?" said Robert.

"Isn't that a little cowardly?" said Riggs.

"Not at all." Robert scanned for a decent hideout. "By waiting it out, we're demonstrating our firm resolve to compete in the next round."

"That's some twisted logic, but whatever works, right?" said Riggs.

"What about that over there," Robert pointed to a beat-up orange and white RV with the name Dune Racer II stenciled across the side in pale green lettering. "Looks safe enough."

"Yeah, let's move," agreed Riggs.

Robert opened the trailer, saw three raiders. He raised his gun but was met with a big laugh.

"Tired of all that missile fire are ya's?"

"Echo Jackson!" Robert and Riggs said together.

Jackson's personal bodyguards, Scar and Mortetta, took a break from necking to join in the laughter.

Jackson sat in a sun-faded and threadbare lawn chair, holding a spoon over an open flame.

"The very same! Sit down. Have some drugs. It's on the house. After all, this is a recreational vehicle." Jackson gestured to the insides of the old RV: stacks of junk wrapped in five-pound packages of white paper were piled against one of the walls, an electric heater, its coil burnt out, sat in the middle of the room, shelves in disarray, beer cans knocked on their side left the faint smell of cheap beer wet on the pages of holocast romance novels, empty bullet cartridges littered the floor, the mini-fridge was on its side, its contents scattered from its open door like the intestines of a gutted soldier.

Vitaly eyed the contents bubbling in the spoon. "Good junk?"

"Oh yeah, this stuff'll get you huge." Jackson carefully transferred the contents in the spoon to a syringe.

Vitaly raised an eyebrow. "Don't you mean get you _high_?"

"Naw man, gets you huge." Jackson tightened a strap around his upper arm.

Riggs edged over to Vitaly, spoke in his ear, "Considering our goals here, maybe you should lay off the drugs for now."

"Drugs ain't no problem here. I'm telling you." Echo Jackson passed the needle and Vitaly shot up. Immediately, the two avatars began beefing up, muscles stacking on top of muscles.

"Watch this." Echo Jackson dropped to the floor and did ten quick one-handed push-ups.

"Woah, give me some of that HeroWin™!" Robert took the needle, had to have Echo Jackson help him stick it into the vein. Soon, Robert was admiring his gladiator-like, buffed-out body. "Does this stuff wear off?"

"Yeah, real quick. And, it's almost like you gotta take more of it every time to get the same effect. But that wall of bags repops every hour. We got an endless fix!"

Robert and Vitaly both shoved a brick of HeroWin™ into their packs.

Outside the RV, the sound of intermittent, far-off gunfire was replaced by the whirr of helicopter blades and the approaching whistle of a projectile. Before anyone could respond, half of the trailer erupted in flames, consuming Scar and Mortetta.

Riggs was out of the RV first, diving to avoid strafing machine gun fire. Vitaly's shoulders hit the door frame, bouncing him back into the RV. Robert corrected for his size, turning sideways and diving out the door. Jackson tried to follow suit, diving through the doorway overtop of Vitaly, but his frame without HeroWin™ was as big as Robert on the drug. Jackson's shoulders rammed the doorframe and the big guy kept going, had jumped several yards clear of the RV. Riggs watched as another missile launched from the chopper at the RV changed course with Echo Jackson's dive, tracking away from the RV and directly at Jackson. Riggs dove behind a van as the missile scored a direct hit on Jackson's back, vanquishing him in a deadly pixelated fireball.

Vitaly emerged in the doorway, armor piercing missile launcher at the ready. No sooner did Vitaly get the helicopter in his sights, he fired, watched the helicopter erupt, sending a fireworks display of super-heated scraps hurtling through the sky. The greatest hunk of the destroyed machine crushed an Astro Van and a rotator blade penetrated the cab of a sixteen-wheeler.

"If the HeroWin™ repops, you think that helicopter does too?" asked Robert.

"Has too, right?" replied Riggs. "Jackson said the repops are every hour. I wonder when the next one is due?"

The game hiccuped and in a shimmer, the RV was back together, the words Dune Racer III stenciled on the side.

Robert noticed the number of teams now hovered above eight hundred. "We might want to find a new hideout."

"Yeah." Vitaly raised his eyebrow at the RV. "One without bad luck charm."

"Right, that place is a magnet for helicopter attacks. We might as well wait out some of the attrition somewhere safe." Riggs scanned the sea of abandoned vehicles for something suitable, scouted an old Volkswagen hippy van.

The hippy bus was empty of chairs except for the driver's seat. A couple bearskin rugs were thrown across the floor, various shades of blue, mosaic tile adorned the ceiling, a partial copy of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel's, except that in place of God, a '90s Timothy Leary reached out to pass a CD-ROM to a '60s Leary, its silver casing reflecting the psychedelic swirl of the younger Leary's tie-dye shirt.

"Hey, I think that guy in the picture _is_ actually holding something," said Riggs.

"Oh yeah, you're right." Robert reached up and took hold of the miniature casing. He read off the back of the card, "Party armor token. Not for resell."

"Weird," said Vitaly.

"Yeah." Robert pocketed the card.

They waited for thirty minutes, watching the totals drop until a nearby explosion rattled the van. Robert looked out the side window, saw a muscled raider with a dun-colored camouflage bandana over his forehead dodging between vehicles, assault rifle at the ready.

"Looks like he's talking." Robert carefully opened the van window. "Oh, listen."

"This is Satellite Jones broadcasting from the _Tower Defender_ competition and we're about ready to toast some dudes hiding out in a van and move into round two."

Riggs grabbed Robert's arm and mouthed to him, "This van?"

Robert shook his head no.

A second raider, similarly attired, converged with the first and they tossed a grenade and emptied a couple clips into the remains of a van not twenty meters away. Robert saw that the total number of groups left hit five hundred when they opened fire on the van just before the desert junkyard vanished. A victory screen appeared, accompanied by a melodic MIDI composition by Nobuo Uematsu and Yasunori Mitsuda. "Who will win the repeating microwave rifle? Round two begins in ten minutes. To advance, someone in your group will need to survive to the final twenty-five. So, grab some Yumyum Cola™ and Chocolatey Bears™ and get ready for some serious action."

Robert took off his helmet and saw a blonde girl that looked shockingly like Marilyn Monroe running her hands through Dr. Hargrove's thinning hair.

Hargrove noticed that the players, usually completely unaware of their surroundings, were all staring at the sight of him with a girl in his lap, whispered, "I'm afraid we're disturbing the patients."

The girl learned her body close against Hargrove, let her chest brush his face. "Fear is stupid. So are regrets."

"Geez, excuse us, I guess?" said Riggs.

"Sally, Robert," Hargrove briefly looked at Vitaly, before shrugging his shoulders. "No, excuse me, I was just, uh, taking Marie's pulse."

Riggs chuckled. "Better let her take yours while you're at it."

"Come on Marie, I can give you a more thorough examination in the, uh, the nurse's station."

"Where else, right?" Robert said.

The girl blushed, said, "You are absolutely ridiculous, but that's better than if you were absolutely boring." The unlikely pair left the rec room and headed down a hall in a different direction from the nurse's station.

"Alright, next round isn't gonna be so easy," Riggs tossed a can of Yumyum Cola™ to Robert, cracked one open for herself.

Vitaly frowned at Riggs and then stood up to get his own cola. "I wonder if I get arm back next round?"

Riggs looked at Yumyum's mascot Pond Scum on the can, his coloring the same radioactive green as the drink. "Regardless, this time, as soon as the game starts, everyone drop. Don't think, just drop to the ground before laser blasts fry off our faces."

"And arms!" added Vitaly.

"No reason to get knocked out because of a bad starting position." Riggs took a long refreshing drink of Yumyum.

With the obnoxious sound of a gong, the second round was underway. The group all tried to dive upon entry, but found themselves packed against a crowd of bodies. Bodies were jam-packed on a staircase, a sea of muscled-up desert raiders. For a brief moment, the room of raiders was completely silent as everyone looked around, saw shock written on faces. After two long seconds, gunfire and screaming shattered the uncanny moment. The remaining player count fell in chorus with rapidly bursting rifle fire, screams, and the sizzle of lasers on skin.

Vitaly flexed his restored arm and smirked before a concentrated beam of high-powered laser fire roasted it just below the shoulder. "Shit!" Vitaly turned on his side, blood spraying wildly as he blindly sprayed laser file into the mass of, now, mostly dead bodies.

"Here!" Robert injected Vitaly with HeroWin™. Vitaly grew huge and his wound closed over. A grenade landed near Robert and rolled closer. He clutched at a fallen body, throwing it on the live explosive before it blew. Robert noticed that his avatar had gained a level, along with higher agility and health before dodging a cleated foot aiming a kick at his head. Robert leveled his rifle and plugged the offending desert raider in the chest, knocking him back, but body armor stopped the blasts. The raider aimed his rifle at Robert. Before he could fire, Riggs shot him through the head. In turn, another desert raider emptied the remains of a clip into Riggs, dropping her cold on the floor. Robert placed a single shot between the raider's eyes. Robert watched the count drop to forty-three as the tip of a hunting knife plunged through the front of Vitaly's chest. Robert blasted Vitaly's killer, and then scrambled to get his back to a wall.

Mere body lengths away, another grenade blew up, sending a fireball of body parts flying into the air. "Almost down to thirty, just gotta hold on," Robert thought before a beefy female avatar trod over several bodies, saw Robert, and opened fire. Only a single second of laser fire burned through Robert before the warrior's charge pack made a decharging, "whooouuuu" sound. Robert unloaded a hail of bullets at the warrior, killing her before she hit the floor. The count dropped to thirty. Robert unclipped a grenade from his belt and tossed it down the stairwell, unclipped another and threw it further up. With the blasts, a victory screen appeared.

Robert struggled to take off his VR headgear, sweat creating sticking friction. "Holy crap!"

"That too close!" Vitaly and Robert high fived.

Through the headsets they heard the sexy voice of the announcer. "A handsome set of chrome-plated repeating microwave rifles have nearly found their home. Only one more round of laser-blasting, desert-raiding, tower-defending chaos remains. The final round begins in ten minutes. You can't stop now! Grab some snacks and prepare to face the Triad of Doom."

"Triad of Doom?" Riggs picked up the instruction booklet that came with the game and scanned the index for triad and then doom. "I've never heard of the Triad of Doom in this game."

"Maybe try looking for doom?" said Robert.

"Already tried."

"Regardless, we've got to try'n add that microwave rifle to our weapons cache." Robert wiped at the sweat on his headgear.

"What good microwave rifle, anyway?" Vitaly opened a pack of Chocolatey Bears™. "Make bears gooey?"

"Well, I don't think they're going to ship us a bunch of hi-tech military gear." Riggs took a sip of Yumyum™ Cola, wondered _why_ the drink was the color of pond scum.

"No, it's just a weapon in-game, but microwave weaponry is real enough." Robert sat his headgear down, satisfied with his work.

"Oh?" Vitaly munched on a bear, leaving chocolate goo on his chin.

"They're usually called directed-energy weapons. Look like a big satellite dish, usually set on top of a fast-moving land vehicle. Idea is to maneuver the weapon in close and cook."

"What cook? Leftovers?"

"Damn Vitaly, no. You know about how Archimedes defended Syracuse against the Roman fleet?"

"Archimedes? Syracuse?"

"Nice, Robert. So you _have_ been studying in your spare time." Riggs took a bear from Vitaly's bear snack pack.

"A little. Put it this way, Vitaly. You ever seen a lightning bolt strike a tree?"

"Yes."

"What happened to that tree?"

"Turned black."

"Right, totally charred that spot of the tree. Now, if that tree would have had more dead or dying parts to it when it got hit. Toast."

"You microwave bread? Make toast?"

Riggs looked at Robert, opened her eyes wide.

"Look. Lightning superheats whatever it hits. Tons of electric energy built up from the charge between the ground and the sky. It's unfocused though. In a storm, lightning bolt could strike anywhere. Now, the beauty of a directed-energy weapon? It's directed. You point your beam where you want it to go and fry your target; superheat the molecules until you get an explosion."

"Too much words, Robert."

Riggs and Robert laughed. Riggs took Vitaly's arm in her hands and gave him an Indian burn. "Microwave weapon hurts a lot more."

Vitaly looked at his reddened skin. "Oh."

"See, Robert," smiled Riggs, "things don't have to be complicated."

Robert threw his head back in frustration.

"Oh look," Riggs motioned to the countdown timer on the screen. "Break's shot. Let's get organized."

Vitaly placed his headgear back on. "This time I use GilgaMesh armor."

"What's that?" Riggs set her headgear in place, grabbed her drink to take another sip, thought better of it, and threw the drink in the trash.

Vitaly navigated through menu screens and brought up the specs on his armor. "It say, 'This ancient armor, forged under a mountain after the second great ice age, lost for centuries--but now unearthed and ready to rock--can turn a sword, stop bullets, and diffuse laser blasts.'"

"Leave it to a video game for some kind of ancient armor to provide defense against future weapons," said Riggs.

"It made of pretty jewel stones, blue and green. Very pretty, shiny! Also give plus two agility and light as pile of feathers."

"Feathers? Where'd you get that shit?" said Robert.

"Sitting in back of broke-down pickup truck."

"Figures," said Riggs.

"With GilgaMesh armor, I can dive very quick. We dive for floor, this one?"

"Didn't you just say that armor stops bullets _and_ laser blasts? Use your best judgment, but you might as well just stand in front of us as a shield." Robert set his headgear in place.

"Maybe don't try standing out in the open. Even if that armor is magic, your damn head's still exposed," said Riggs.

"Well, yeah," said Robert. "But I doubt that what worked before will work again. Go with your gut, I guess."

With the sound of an even more obnoxious gong, the third round began. They loaded up inside a superdome, catwalks visible below and overhead, floodlit from the ceiling. A gothic looking building made of steel and red-tinted glass made up one side of the dome. They were on one of the dome's central levels, concrete underfoot, but right at an edge sans guardrails. Vitaly dove immediately.

"Vitaly!" Riggs screamed.

Vitaly fell fifty feet before hitting a serendipitous landing on a catwalk floor.

Robert stared down at Vitaly's body in disbelief. "He just had to dive."

"Makes you think of that saying, look before you leap," said Riggs.

Robert glanced at the number of remaining raiders on his HUD, was surprised that the number hadn't dropped. "Holy shit! He's still good!"

"I don't think he's moving. Arm's bent real weird. Oh wait, he's sitting up," said Riggs.

Laser fire blackened the ground at their feet. A team of raiders several levels above on the catwalks had their weapons trained on Robert and Riggs. Riggs flipped her weapon off laser fire and selected a cartridge of 7.62-millimeter ammunition. She sighted up, a shot rang out, and a raider flipped off the catwalk backward, plummeting in time with a second shot that brought another raider down to a crumpled position on the catwalk. A laser blast caught Robert in his side. Riggs swung around and with a third shot brought a third raider down.

Riggs put a hand on Robert's shoulder. "You good?"

Robert's HUD showed his armor's resistance had dropped to three percent. "Armor's toast."

"More toast?" Vitaly asked.

"Vitaly, you idiot. Can you go for five seconds without doing something dumb. We need to rendezvous stat," said Robert.

"Let's head away from the center. Get to one of the walls. That way we block off one direction of attack." Riggs looked at the flat wall of steel and red glass, spoke into her comms. "Vitaly, can you find a walkway to get to the western wall?"

"How you know which direction?"

"It's on your HUD. Bottom left corner. Know left from right, Vitaly?"

"Okay, I see. I can get there."

A group of raiders appeared on a catwalk parallel to Riggs and Robert, fifty meters away. Riggs steadied for a shot. She hit one in the leg before a second team of raiders filed in behind the others. "Let them deal with that; let's move."

They spent the next few minutes crossing catwalks, going up several levels at a time and then descending several more to make forward progress.

"Hey look down there." Riggs pointed to a group of fifteen silver-robed figures entering a high-arching door in single file. "That part of the game?"

Robert grabbed his binoculars. The robes had black triangles printed on the back with pictures of a Chinese warlord clutching a sword in one hand and a chrome rifle in the other. "Looks like a bunch of monks, weird ones. Look."

Riggs looked through her gun's sighting. "The hell?"

"What you want to bet those microwave rifles aren't past that arched door?"

"Probably right." Riggs tapped the side of her thigh with her hand twice. "You notice this round's instructions didn't mention anything about surviving past other players like the other rounds?"

"Yeah, figured that means we had to be the last team standing this time."

"Might not be good to assume anything. What if we can get those rifles now? My guess is," Riggs looked at the last couple of figures going through the arched door through her scope," these guys know something about it. Let's get down there."

As Riggs finished speaking, two overly muscled raiders ran out on the congregant's level and opened fire. One of the robed figures took the brunt of the attack and slumped to the ground. The other dove through the open doors. A raider appeared that looked like he didn't have a neck, since it was all muscle. He tossed a grenade in the doorway. A flash followed and smoke billowed out the doors. The raiders took a defensive position, rifles at the ready. A minute passed and then four congregants ran out of the doors cradling chrome rifles with satellite dishes mounted on the top. Two robed riflers were gunned down by the raiders no sooner than stepping past the threshold, their shiny rifles clattering harmlessly to the floor. The two remaining riflers picked a target. One was gunned down before he could attack, his body shredded by multiple rounds. The remaining congregant waved his rifle back and forth in the direction of the raiders. Within a second, a duet of pain sounded from the raiders. Their skin turned black and erupted in flames.

"Hypothesis confirmed," said Robert.

"Those microwave rifles, what kinda range you think we're talking?"

"Hell if I know. See if you can drop him?"

Riggs sighted the congregant and narrowly missed putting a bullet through his skull. He spotted Riggs and Robert's position and leveled the microwave rifle at them before Vitaly appeared on the platform and stood confidently two meters from the congregant, drawing away the microwave rifle's bead from the catwalks.

"Vitaly! Get away from that monk!" Robert yelled into his comms.

"No worry, Robert. GilgaMesh armor supreme."

The congregant pointed his rifle at Vitaly; the sound of Vitaly's screams went off like a siren into their comms channel. The congregant turned the chrome weapon back to Riggs and Robert for a second before two more raiders appeared and rushed the remaining robed rifler.

"Go! Go!" shouted Robert. They found an access point to a catwalk and ran away from the congregant to the sound of first one raider then two screaming in agony as their flesh melted off, ending in time with the HUD's remaining player count dropping by two.

The clang of running across the metal walkway drew unwanted attention from a trio of raiders on a catwalk below. Riggs took a laser hit to the body and her armor faded away. Robert fired, his shots echoed by wild ricocheting of bullets against the metal catwalks. Riggs turned and pealed off three quick shots, scoring a direct hit on one of the raiders and sending the other two sprinting away. "There. Now let's try and be a little more discreet."

Her armor no longer covering her chest, Robert noticed something odd about Riggs's avatar. "How come those are, uh, different in the game?"

"They really get in the way."

"Uh huh."

"You know Amazon archers used to slice one off so they could aim more accurately?"

"That's some dedication," said Robert.

"No, that's survival. Oh good, there's a ladder to get down to those microwave rifles."

"Or at least to the guy _with_ the rifles. You forget about him?"

"Got a plan. You still got that armor token?"

Robert reached into his pocket and pulled out the token.

"Let's redeem that sucker."

"Sure. As long as we get anything other than GilgaMesh armor."

Riggs laughed.

Robert studied the token. "Oh, here's a code. Just says to read it out loud."

"Perfect."

"I wonder if this thing's case sensitive?"

"Surely not. Just read it."

"Okay, n1gh7mAr3."

With a seamless visual transition, Riggs and Robert found themselves in an armor shop. A wiry man behind a counter in a blue jumpsuit looked at a screen and then glanced at them.

"Alright, says here you all are up for full party armor. Looks like you're one man down though."

"Man?" asked Riggs.

"Figure of speech," said the armorer.

"Ok, so what happens since we're down one?" asked Robert.

"Just means he doesn't get anything."

"Right," said Robert.

"So, what's it gonna be? Beam buskins? Laser leggings? Electron emplanoply?"

"Uh, none of that. What we need is a big-ass shield made out of microwave doors," said Riggs.

The armorer looked at Riggs with a grin. "What you trying to protect yourself from? Shortwave radio enthusiasts? Har har har."

Riggs put her hands on the counter. "Can you make the damn shield or not?"

"Lady's not kidding. Microwave door shield?"

"Uh huh, full-body length. One for each of us," said Riggs.

"Alright, follow me back here. Microwave door shield . . ." The armorer went through a door behind the counter.

Sally and Robert followed the man into a room that was something of a museum gallery of armor. He walked up to an armored knight holding a pike and pushed the weapon sideways. The knight swiveled to the side, revealing an armor generating machine.

"With this, I can make pretty much whatever you want." The armorer selected a shield icon on a screen. "Alright, shield of microwave doors. You want anything on the front?"

"Oh, like a design?" asked Riggs.

"Whatever you want. Could be the standard warming times for leftover dishes."

"I'll take the Rolling Stones' logo, the one with the tongue coming out of the mouth," said Robert.

Riggs rolled her eyes. " _Is_ there a different one?"

"Got it, and you missy."

"Just some words: Sally Riggs Your Doom."

"Okay." The armorer typed at a keyboard and made some clicks on a mouse, manipulating pictures of the shield on a screen. "Now give it a minute." A humming noise began and the floor around the armor generating machine vibrated slightly. Once the machine's vibrations ended, the armorer opened a side panel and pulled out the shields. "Have a nice time with these. Remember, this is what you asked for. Don't blame me when you get your ass blown off through these damned things."

Shields in hand, Riggs and Robert were transported back to the superdome in time to see three dudes in purple robes melt two desert raiders by waving their shiny microwave rifles at them.

"You know," said Robert. "If these shields work, those rifles won't be of much use to us."

"Sure they will. People know we got microwave rifles, they'll try using these shields against us and we'll cut through them with standard issue rounds."

"Oh, yeah. When you put it that way."

"Oh, hey. Looks like he goofed on your shield," said Robert.

"What? They aren't all microwave doors?" Riggs turned her shield around to examine it and saw the words, Sally Riggs, you're dumb. "If I win the microwave rifle, first place I'm headed is the armory."

"Bet he's already made himself a suit out of microwave doors." 
Chapter 4 – Sanctum Sanctorum

Riggs and Robert looked at a pile of burnt bodies littering the space in front of the congregants now nearly obliterated arched doorway. Without warning, a congregant, slumped on the ground, blood dripping from his mouth, fired his chrome energy beam. The shields deflected the attack.

Robert enjoyed the look of consternation on the congregant's face. "Is it bad that our eyes are exposed to microwave rays?"

"Who knows? Clearly not as harmful as the skin's open exposure to them."

The congregant crawled weakly toward their position, keeping his energy beam pointed at them.

"We're kind of in a stalemate with this guy," said Robert.

"Yeah, you stay here, I'll flank." Riggs made a wide circle around the fallen bodies, careful that another congregant wasn't waiting to ambush. The injured rifler kept his weapon trained on Robert, inching his way to a second chrome beam weapon fallen on the ground. Riggs put the muzzle of her rifle around the outside of the shield as the congregant reached the weapon, put two rounds in him and a third for good measure, and he dropped his weapon.

Robert edged over to the two rifles, caught his reflection mirrored in the curved and burnished metal. He picked up a rifle and saw that its fire modes were all push-button: heat, burn, auto-da-fé. "Damn mystery cults."

"I'm still reading a count of fifteen on the HUD. Looks like it's a survival game after all." Riggs picked up the other rifle. She noticed religious iconography of witches and warlocks burning at the stake along with images of various fire gods: the Egyptian serpent goddess Wadjet calling down fire from the sky; the Aztec god Cuezaltzin rising to the heavens on a pillar of fire; Hephaestus at his forge, forging a sweet microwave rifle. "This is one volcano of a gun," Riggs said, flipping the gun and looking over the inscription: "Blessed is he that goes _through_ the fire, but _is_ not consumed."

"What you think? Check out the sanctum sanctorum?" Robert eyed the smoldering doorway.

"Yeah, why not. Keep your shield up."

Stepping through the doors, they found themselves in an antechamber of solid gold. On the walls were various icons: holy men using the energy weapon to slay dragons, torture heretics, defeat a pagan horde of desert raiders, and rapidly heat up frozen foods. The room had only one other exit, a wall of solid fire.

"This is one hell of a mystery cult. No chance we're getting through that firewall."

"Wait. Look at this." Robert walked to a rifle-sized recess in the wall and pushed in his piece. The firewall dropped, revealing a supermassive sanctuary. Robert removed the rifle and the firewall stayed down.

"Good thinking. Maybe we can close it on the other side the same way. Slow down anyone behind us."

Robert found a similar rifle-sized keyhole in the wall and inserted the rifle, bringing the firewall back up.

The sanctuary was constructed of titanium and glass. The near indestructible metal served as a skeleton with meter thick blocks of red-tinted glass placed in the squared spaces between the titanium structure. An open dome revealing the sky towered over a hundred meters overhead. Though shafts of light came through to hit the floor, much of the space lay in cavernous shadow. The floor sloped downward toward a central pool of molten lava. On a platform in the middle of the pool, three monks stood on points of an equilateral triangle, heads bowed.

"Triad of Doom?" whispered Robert.

"Guess so."

"Can we take these guys?"

"Not sure. Don't do anything risky," said Riggs.

"We could have used Vitaly here."

"To do what? Jump in the lava?"

From outside the game Vitaly said, "Less jokes! Focus!"

"Alright, lets fan out. Same trick as with the guy out front. Keep your shield up. Look for a shot."

"Shit, let's just fire at them, looks like they're unarmed." Robert set his rifle for auto-da-fé and targeted the platform. After ten seconds of torching the area, the three congregants were unphased. "What the hell? Those robes. They've got some kind of resistance."

Riggs took a shot at one with her sidearm and dropped him. "Yeah, but not enough." Riggs fired two shots; two robed guys went down. After all three fell off the points of the triangle on the platform, the floor began vibrating and slowly descending, raising the level of the lava. The central platform maintained its same level, appearing to rise though only the floor moved.

"Robert! To the exit! Before we can't get to the keyhole!" The door had grown taller. On the wall around the base of the door, weird images had appeared that had before been concealed as the floor dropped: devils mocked, witches winked, and muscle-bound raiders burned in a lake of fire.

The two ran, converging on the keyhole recess, now overhead. The lava rose steadily, creating an ever larger molten lake in the center of the temple.

"Quick, on my shoulders." Robert crouched and held up his hands to give Riggs a way to steady herself and then, muscles burning, stood to his full height. Riggs lifted the rifle above her head and just managed to plunge it into the keyhole, dropping the firewall. The floor continued to drop and her fingers brushed ineffectually against the bottom of the chrome weapon as she tried to pull it back out.

"I can't get the rifle back!"

"Who cares? Let's go!" Robert helped Riggs off his shoulders. The doorway had now risen above the level of the floor, but only by a couple feet. Robert stepped in the doorway, saw a grotesquely huge raider wearing a dun-colored camouflage bandana, and a laser blast narrowly missed his face. Robert ducked and rolled. "Shit! Three raiders out there."

"HUD says those are the last three left."

From the anteroom one of the raiders gave running commentary on the situation as if they were on TV. "We've tracked the final party down to the Sanctuary of the Cleansing Fire. Pretty obvious they're noobs since they aren't using. I don't have the slightest clue how a bunch of noobs made it to the end, but now that I'm running in, their luck is running out. We could just lock these guys down and let the pit of fire do the work, but that wouldn't be half the fun. Plus, I know what you want to see: Satellite Jones smashing faces! Get ready for an execution so graphic, even I'm gonna close my eyes."

"You hear this shit?" Riggs popped out her clip, reloaded to max capacity.

"Yeah! That's Satellite Jones! He's one of the best."

"This is no time for you to come out as a fanboy. They've got us pinned."

"Yeah, he plays a hunter-style game. Very methodical. Almost never loses."

"Well. Listen to me," Riggs replaced the magazine, held her gun at a ready position. "We're gonna make a sacrifice, and Satellite Jones is gonna experience some serious interference with his signal."

Robert gave Riggs a searching look. "I don't like the sound of this."

"All we've got to do is have _one_ of us survive. I pick me."

"Why you?"

"No time for quibbling." Riggs grabbed Robert and moved into place in the doorway, keeping Robert in front of her. She instantly got a bead on a raider, turned his avatar into digital stew. The two remaining raiders opened fire, pelting Robert, but Riggs, safely behind, was free to hit the first and then second raider right through the middle of their camouflage bandanas. She let Robert's body slump to the floor, and then pulled herself up into the antechamber. Her HUD showed only one player remaining.

"You sacrificed me!" Robert threw off his VR set in a fury. "I hate being sacrificed."

"But it worked! Blitzed Jones and her gang. Got the victory screen. It's microwave rifle time."

"Yeah, yeah."

Riggs removed her headset. "Hey, maybe you should practice your accuracy. If I knew you'd make the shot, I would have sacrificed myself."

"Damnit! I'm done with this game." Robert kicked over his chair and stormed out of the rec room.

"Done with the game. Yeah right." Riggs put her headset back on and checked out the specs of her new microwave rifle.

Robert stopped in at Vitaly's room the next day. "Get in a round of _Tower Defender_?"

Vitaly gave him a blank stare. "Thought Robert done with game."

"Nothing else to do," said Robert.

"Ok. But we use these." Vitaly reached in his pocket and pulled out two 'threads. He put the one with a picture of Sleeping Beauty on his tongue, and the other, a Tinkerbell, he handed to Robert--a token of friendship. Robert licked the 'thread and felt the beauty of mind expansion, had language restored once more.

"My companion, didst thou not see the wounds on my countenance that proceeded from our game?" asked Vitaly.

"Thou didst dive into the bottom of the deep! But dive no more and the depths will not problem thee," said Robert.

"Aye, thou speak'st well. We'll proceed in twain." Vitaly clapped Robert on the back and they headed for the rec room.

"Thy gamesmanship be bold. Mine own must needs be doubled!"

Vitaly and Robert went to the rec room, turned on all the equipment, and began a level six match. They loaded up at the bottom of a staircase inside the tower.

"See'st thou the stairs?" asked Vitaly.

Robert heightened the magnification on his lenses, "Verily, they hath no end."

Without warning, the lights went out, and an automated security voice began droning a message on repeat, "Power core blitz, make your way to the nearest exit."

"Fie! They've outed the lights." Vitaly spun around in panic. He lost balance and was fortunate to grab the railing and steady himself.

A beam of light brightened the staircase, shining from Robert's helmet. "Vitaly! A, B, select, start illumines thine ways!"

A second beam quickly joined Robert's. The two made their way up several flights before Vitaly's light beam swept across an inert body.

"I am vanquished if X-Aaron, compatriot heart, lie here!" Vitaly knelt next to the popular _Tower Defender_ 's lifeless avatar sprawled across the stairs. Rifling through his pack, Vitaly found a power core. "X-Aaron, maybe he try reset the tower."

"What speakest thou?" asked Robert.

In the rec room, Vitaly pulled out another 'thread and licked it.

"Let's you control all the defense mechanisms. Real entertaining shit to watch. You take control for a half hour, you're gonna get a million views, easy. I've watched X-Aaron do it."

"Disclose thus to me, how is't you speak now so plain?"

"Well, some of the 'threads restore a slightly older version of English than others. Damn things never last long though."

"Oh yeah? How long?"

"Ha, that should have just answered your question. Take another if you want. I love these things. I wish there was a dog or a cat in the ward we could give some 'threads to."

"You think a dog'd speak if it had a 'thread?" asked Robert.

"Yeah, maybe. Any animal might. Think of giving one to a goldfish," said Vitaly.

"Would we hear it?"

"You're right. We'd just see lots of bubbles like always and wouldn't know if it was talking or just doing its normal thing. But a dog. We'd know fast if it worked with a dog."

In game, the shuffling feet of a cadre of guards pounded as they ran up the staircase.

"We got company." Robert saw a grenade clutched in X-Aaron's hand. He clawed it out of the avatar's fingers, pulled the pin, and tossed it at the approaching guards. The grenade exploded, vaporizing half the party. The guards returned fire. One thwacked into Vitaly's shoulder and another grazed Robert's thigh, spinning him off balance to roll down several stairs and smash his left knee on the concrete with a bone-crushing sound.

Robert rolled over in time to receive a boot in the left side of his face before Vitaly squeezed off a round, downing the attacking guard. Robert jabbed a needle of HeroWin™ into his knee, sending a sweet rush pulsing through his now overly muscled leg. He jumped up, but his knee wouldn't support the weight, crumpled back down on the floor. Bullets ripped through X-Aaron's pack, some fritzing the power core, others nailing Vitaly, forcing him onto a sitting position on the stairs. Robert liquefied seven guards, squeezing the trigger of a semi-automatic handgun and sweeping across their line, painting them with red-mercury tipped tracer bullets. The access door to the landing swung open and Robert let out another burst from the semi-automatic, dropping three guards before two more jumped through the door, automatic rifles firing wildly.

Robert took several bullets to his chest. The guards kicked his gun away and roughed him up a bit for the satisfaction of seeing his face bruised and bloodied. They left him alone to suffer through ragged breaths. Blood covered his vision before his avatar went white hot and he lost his link.

Vitaly took off his helmet. "We need Riggs next time."

"I don't know. We did fine on our own."

Vitaly dropped another thread and dialed up Satellite Jones's archive of livestreams, looked for the staircase level.

Robert noticed an envelope brimming with 'threads on a chair behind Vitaly. He grabbed the envelope on the way out of the room.

"Hey," a friendly voice chimed from behind Robert.

Robert turned to see Sally Riggs standing in the hall.

"What you up to?"

"Dare'st thou ques . . ."

Riggs squinted her eyes.

"Just spendeth--spend time with Vitaly."

"Still mad at me?"

"No." Robert's face went red and he walked off quickly.

Riggs waited and then followed him at a distance. She traced the motion of a 'thread that fluttered from Robert's hand to the floor, trailing helicoptering spittle. "Damn him," Riggs thought, clutching her fist. As he turned into his room, she noticed one of Vitaly's envelopes tucking out from his back pocket.

"Have you enjoyed your time in the deparole, Robert?" Dr. Hargrove had Robert's deparole release form in front of him.

Robert looked at Dr. Hargrove's desk space and his office, not a stray book or piece of paper anywhere, almost like Hargrove didn't use the place. "Yes, it's been . . . fine."

Hargrove picked up a large ball-point pen. "You've done well."

"Thank you."

"But, not as well as we expected." Hargrove set the pen back down on his desk.

"Oh."

Hargrove looked over the contents of an open manila folder on his desk. "While you are now free to leave based on your progress, I would advise you to stay here a while longer." Hargrove ran his finger across a paper. "Perhaps a month, maybe two."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. I have my work to return to, and I've already been away so long."

"Robert, the deparole isn't necessarily punishment."

"But it often is."

"If you had come in for a criminal deparole, we would have cut out your tongue and put you through the deparole machine every day for two months. Imagine that horror, gaining words in the morning only to have them sucked away at night."

"Well, I'm no criminal."

"I've seen madness in the eyes of the criminally deparoled and nothing worse than the ones that spent years educating themselves. There they are, remembering and understanding fields of knowledge and unable to communicate any of it. Not one word!"

The unsigned release form burned in Robert's mind.

"It's much better to work with someone like you, Robert. And that's why I would prefer if you would stay longer. With diligent application, I think we can make your deparole very useful."

"In what way?"

"I've seen prisoners placed in solitary confinement coming up with fairly complex languages of their own creation, even writing sprawling histories and fictions in their damnably solipsistic language. They were gods of their own universe. But you, Robert. Your mind isn't locked away!"

"No, and thankfully, neither is my body. Now, can you sign the form? I'd like to get on my way."

"I'll warn you Robert, sometimes if an individual is released back into the speaking world after a deparole too soon, there are grievous social and psychological consequences."

"Oh?" Robert was almost certain that Hargrove was reading off the page in front of him. "The deparole is a veritable mark of Cain to the forehead. Someone staggers along the street and can't speak plain English, watch out. He's done hard time! Even if he's not dangerous, he's under surveillance, and, for the next few hours, so are the people he runs into. Certainly, no one's going to speak with a botched deparolee. The cast off deparolee wanders the city streets, talking loudly in chanting, alien tongue. He is long bearded and weird, weird and angry like veterans of farcical wars drafted for death or opiate binges."

"Not a problem for me. I'm a home owner."

"But there's more, Robert." It was painfully obvious that Hargrove was reading now. "It's common practice for gangs to cruise around Cityscape looking for the newly deparoled to thrash and then dump in the river with a brand new pair of concrete boots. For only six thousand credits a month you can rest safe at night while your mind finishes its delicate healing process."

"Sign the paper, Hargrove."

Hargrove ran his hand across Robert's release form. "This paper here, it doesn't really change anything. You're not been a prisoner here. Look around you. Do you see iron bars? You could have walked out anytime. You checked yourself in after all."

"Yes. It was important to go through the deparole. Some research can only be conducted on one's own self. But now I'm ready to leave."

Hargrove picked up the pen and signed his name to the form. "You can return to us anytime, Robert. No appointment necessary. You know where to find us."

Robert took the signed paper from Hargrove's hand. "Thank you, Doctor."

Outside of the ward, Robert removed a small case from his pocket and pulled out a sheet of slick paper with rows of purple and green butterflies printed neatly on the front side. He ripped one from the page that had the words "Iron Butterfly" printed above the delicate looking insect. He stuck it on his tongue and felt his stomach turn.

Robert fished his keys out of his jacket and unlocked his Turbo Lotus, the gamers choice in the days of _Test Drive_ (1987). To the frenetic guitar rock of the legendary performer CashMere, Robert navigated the mountain road to his oceanside home, dodging pot holes and slowing down at the slightest blip of radar detection. He averaged a cool seventy-two miles per hour over the course of the eighty-minute drive, including a brief stop to refuel and walk into King Burger for some French fries and a King Burger. The drive-thru was packed with a line of cars. Drivers honked and gave each other the finger as they tried to ward people out of the way with anger. People waiting in lines for fast food were impatient by definition, too busy even to prepare a meal for themselves. The irony of the drive-thru was that it was almost always faster to park and go inside where there were rarely any lines at all.

Robert mused about how smart he'd been to invest in King Burger before they expanded from their niche in fast food to offer rapid medical service. Now, in the time it takes to "just say ah," a King Scanner runs a complete diagnosis. Then, whether one's problem is a cold, diabetes, AIDS, or cancer, someone getting paid minimum wage heats up a Kingly meal laced with a genetic mod guaranteed to knock out viruses in the time it takes to break down two-hundred calories heavy on preservatives. To ensure good health, most everyone runs through the drive-thru once or twice a week. It was, frankly, a bad move not to go, and King Burger advertising ensured a steady stream of customers. A particularly memorable commercial had a nondescript man talk about how he ordered a King Burger and Fries and happened to get a diagnosis that he was about a week out from major coronary failure. For an extra dollar, his King Burger was laced with a genetic modification to create cholesterol scraping cells and, voila, life was good again. Fast food restaurants had gotten into the baby food market as well. A trip through the drive thru and a couple dollars later, parents had a steamed cup of gene mod mush that could knock out colds and guarantee that baby's teeth would come in straight. As a result, some of the same gangs that thrashed deparolees cruised around thrashing doctors and former medical insurance workers to underscore the worthlessness of their work.

Robert turned into the long driveway to his oceanside home, leaving just enough speed to drift for a hundred yards, burning rubber, before coming to a stop in front of his sprawling midcentury ranch styled house. It looked out on several hundred acres of prime real estate that included a hundred-fifty-year-old lighthouse, which had been converted to a brothel shortly after the first World War. The priciest girls' beds were at the top level, three hundred seventy-eight cast-iron steps to the top. They had a package deal called "Keeper of the Lighthouse." The keeper worked their way up the lighthouse, engaging one girl at each level. When Robert bought the property, the girls were long gone from the lighthouse, but there was great cell phone reception up there, especially since Robert had started renting the space to Cell-o for three grand a month. A Cell-o specialist climbed to the top of the lighthouse, mounted antennas, and Robert bought a Turbo Lotus the next day.

Robert walked along a boardwalk past the dunes to the ocean, looked out to the far horizon wondering how far away he could see. "The dim breast of the white sea," went through Robert's mind and he remembered sitting in a coffee shop reading Joyce and having someone intrude to say that was his favorite line out of Joyce's _Ulysses,_ "The dim breast of the white sea _._ But Joyce had only quoted those lines from William Butler Yeats's "Who Goes with Fergus." Robert thought of the madam's registry he'd found in the lighthouse, listing Fergus as one of the girls. "Lots go with Fergus," he thought. The words of the poem were a comfort but they wouldn't last.

Robert took out four 'threads and licked them all. Words and thoughts rushed through Robert's head at fast-forward speed. In a moment, Robert knew all of _Paradise Lost,_ its visions of the creation of the world; now _Gulliver's Travels_ with its island in the sky peopled with scientists; now _The Inferno_ , a catalogue of ultimate suffering; now the _Dresden Codex_ , with visions of the future recorded from Aztec prophets. Book after book went through Robert's mind from beginning to end without the normal accompaniment of the passage of time. To counteract the intensity, Robert looked back out to the sea and stared vacantly, hypnotizing himself by the rocking motion of the world so similar to the blissful tangle of a lover's body.

"Robert," echoed a voice from far away.

"Was it mother, father, or maybe some lost love," Robert wondered. "What else did you mean to say?"

The voice called out again, but closer, "Robert."

Robert was pulled from his thoughts to face a rather bloodless looking Dr. Benson.

"Good to see you again, Robert. I hope you don't mind my intrusion."

"No, no problem. It's good to see a familiar face. Although, there's something different about you. Are you alright?"

Dr. Benson's eyebrow went up, "Don't worry about my health. We need you to apply yourself to the reparole." Benson pointed to the used 'threads fallen to the ground. "And taking 'threads won't advance that process."

"I'm not taking 'threads. Just been studying. Made a lot of progress."

"Don't insult me." Benson sat down next to Robert. "I'm anxious to get you back on the team Robert, but we expected recovery time. We accounted for it. Fey and Weisse will run scans on you, chart your progress, and create a model of the deparoled mind in action. It's the missing link."

"Weisse?"

"I know. Hopefully he won't slow Maria down with his mistakes."

"I wanted to continue work on the protean dri, drive." Robert could sense the power of the 'threads were beginning to wane.

"Yes, and it's important work, but you'll be back on it soon enough," Benson replied. "That is, unless your addiction destroys your mind. If you burn yourself out on 'threads, there'll be nothing we can do for you."

"I don't have a problem. Not with 'threads."

"I'm only warning you. I wouldn't be a friend if I encouraged this behavior." Benson joined Robert's fixed gaze out to sea and started in on a diatribe.

The protean drive, Robert thought. An engine that never burns too hot with its capability of resolving itself into new substances based on chemical reaction. The drive would wipe out sprawling nuclear power plant reactors with their hyperboloid cooling towers. The drive would fit into a little girl's locket and keep all the lights of Atlantic City burning indefinitely. He thought about the checks of vertigo inducing sums he would receive since twenty-two percent of the patent would be his. That had always been his cut. Already, the checks from Cell-o were just a drop in the bucket. He didn't even bother asking for a salary from Veritech. Since the intellectual property he created was partly his, money wasn't an object. From previous patents, he had overflowing capital. The rice converter had become as popular in major trading cities as it had in third world backwaters, and the personal containment field he'd developed had saved hundreds of thousands of lives since it was released, affording Robert the ability to install a three-level car garage to the house filled with Turbo Lotuses of every color. Neon green was Robert's go-to, but he chose magenta when he wanted to turn heads. Working for Veritech wasn't necessary. Robert had earned plenty when he worked purely for himself, but the Veritech shell allowed Robert to work on projects that, because of government security issues, would have otherwise been off limits. Knowing that he had access to information that only a handful of people were even allowed to know about made Robert's skin prickle.

Robert suddenly heard Benson's voice and realized he'd missed a lot.

"The real has become a true utopia, but a utopia no longer possible. We now only dream of it."

"You quoting Baudrillard?" asked Robert.

"Yes, exactly. Baudrillard saw it coming. In the past, everyone wanted to escape the real. The real was an ugly place rife with death and decay, full of menacing raiders that didn't spare anyone if they thought there was something gain."

"Muscle-bound, desert raiders?"

"What?"

"Oh, nothing."

"The real contained nothing but smashed up dreams. People longed for a perfect civilization, some glittering utopia filled with cheap and plentiful food, renewable energy!"

"Quite a dream," said Robert.

"Yes. We have something like the beginning of it. Enough that our utopian vision seems attainable, but we have strides to make, hurdles to jump. The perfection we're reaching for may be made up of so many illusions. Perhaps it will truly be the real, full of its ruin and wild chance, that provides the utopian dream of the future."

"But that wouldn't be utopia," Robert replied.

"Again, exactly. But who defines anything? If a substantial cultural and technological shift sweeps in, who's to say that everything couldn't be changed? What will gender be once women no longer have to go through pregnancy? Once androids take the place of mothers? And what if the educational bypass of the 'threads can be sewn into the mind permanently? Well then, goodbye to the wasted years of growing up. We'll fashion entire colonies of workers and send them hither and yon as demanded, all for hard currency of course."

"I'm not sure though. Aren't there moral considerations?" asked Robert. "Should we deprive mothers of motherhood, children of childhood?"

"How will they know what they're missing? And if there are moral considerations we'll code them into blotter paper and squash deviancy like an old two-bit virus. Blow it away like dust collecting on an old console based game."

"That never actually worked very well," Robert interjected.

"There's a greater point at stake here: the virtual mind, Robert. You recall the ideas I hope?"

"Y . . . yes."

"A mind-inhabited space that goes on for infinity, like a shell twisting in a Fibonacci series, suggesting an idea of its swirling pattern radiating on forever. If we can harness such an intelligence there would be no end to the advances in human development."

"Human development." Robert studied Benson's face, noticed he had a perfect shave even though it was late in the day.

"Well, perhaps at least development for humanity. Fey has developed an artificial space in which constructs can do their thought-work. Tomorrow she is set to stage a simulated siege against the ancient city of Syracuse. We'll see the Archimedes construct in action. We'll see if he responds with the same ingenuity that he is credited with in history. The test run is set for eleven A.M. I expect you'll be there?"

It had been a long time since he had seen Maria Fey. Robert broke off from his vigil of the sea and started to say something but nothing came. Instead, he nodded in the affirmative.

"Very good, I'll let the team know you're coming." Dr. Benson got up and started to walk away, added, "And stop taking those 'threads. People might like you better if you're quiet anyway."

Chapter 5 – Beggars Banquet

Robert lounged around, poked through four months of unread mail, magazines, and newspapers. The documents looked strange, maps full of hieroglyphs. Though a dull ache throbbed in his head, Robert fought back the urge to drop more 'threads, following Benson's advice. Looking out toward the strand, Robert saw little fires ranging along the coastline. "Revelers," thought Robert. Robert thought of nights he'd spent on the beach, the entire two months after finishing a Ph.D. in future studies that was something of a haze. He'd been shocked at a mask he'd found of shark's teeth hanging in the den and a pile of carburetors in one of the guest rooms. Another season of insanity had followed the completion of the rice converter. While the converter turned dirt into nutritious food all over the world, it also converted Robert's ideas and work into incredible wealth. The first royalty check was enough to wow Mick Jagger. Robert paid the Stones to come and play at the house for a couple nights and Jagger accidentally snorted an entire line of coke when Robert mentioned his monthly earnings. Later, the Stones performed. Robert recorded them playing. The playback was thick with lo-fi grit just like Beggars Banquet. After they played, Keith and Mick took the bass drum to the wine cellar and filled it with wine. Among other bottles, they emptied several vintages of the 1986 Chateau Mouton Rothschild. They placed the drum in the center of the living room, dipped bowls into the drum, and sucked down bowlful and bowlful.

Not far away, Robert made out the silhouettes of some of the evening's revelers, the lithe forms of girls a siren song in his mind. He found a small zip-up athletic bag and stuffed in bottles of liquor, all top shelf stuff, and some other narcotics laying around. Robert walked down to one of the fire pits with his bag and passed bottles around, a partygoer's universal greeting of goodwill. "Hey," he said to a dark-headed girl beside him, "I'm Robert. I'm rich."

The girl said something to a guy in a muscle tee beside her. "Hey weirdo," said the guy as he made a fist, "Why don't you get lost."

Robert stalked off to the next campfire, took a 'thread to relax before walking into the ring. "Can I share a drink with you all?"

"You got any weed?" said a blonde wearing a small pair of khaki shorts and a loose fitting low neck that encouraged male attention.

"Yeah, a farm of it." Robert pulled a big mason jar packed with buds out of his athletic bag.

"Mary," said the girl, bubbling over with a goofy gentleness. She giggled as she screwed open the jar, stuffed a bud into a pipe she drew out of her pocket, and lit up.

"Not Marie?"

"Well, that's kind of the same name isn't it?" She took a long hit and passed the pipe to Robert.

"Yeah, but do you go by Marie ever?" Robert took a hit and handed the pipe back.

"I never have. I like it though. Why do you ask?"

"I met a girl that looks like you recently."

"And her name was Marie?"

"Yes."

"You think you talked to me?"

"Yeah, maybe I did."

Mary studied Robert's face. "Well, I musta been real stoned when we talked, Robbie, 'cause I don't remember you, and I never go by Marie."

Robert noticed the guy on the other side of Mary chafing at the loss of her attention. He handed over a small flask and put a couple 'threads in the guy's hands. "Hey, take a ride on me, ok?"

The guy looked pissed but licked at one of the 'threads and relaxed into his folding chair.

"Oh, that was sure nice of you to share with Dennis. Do you know each other?"

"No, actually."

"Or maybe you know someone kinda looks like him named Dionysius?"

"Good one."

"Well then, Robert, meet Dennis. Dennis edits video for the Can-tata girls web specials. I've gotten plenty of work because of him. Isn't that right Dennis." Mary threw her arms around Dennis and squeezed him.

"Yeah." Dennis looked and sounded very stoned.

Mary locked eyes with Robert. "You might have seen some of my pictures?"

"You pose for skin mags?"

"You don't have to call them that. They're gentlemen's magazines."

"Ok. So your pictures are in, uh, gentlemen's magazines?"

"Sure, I posed. I needed the money. Did you see the spread?"

"No, I've never heard of Can-tata."

"You can't tell me you've never looked at the monthly Can-tata Can-cans?"

"I've been, a little out of touch with things for a while, you could say."

"Maybe you want to get back in touch?" Mary stuck out her chest suggestively. "It's not supposed to be hard work having your picture taken, but you have to get up so early to catch the light, and you never really know what they'll have you doing."

"Oh?"

"Last month we flew to Antarctica and they did a spread of me nesting on a penguin's egg. They tranqued the poor penguin and drug him out of the shot by his little feet, leaving me shivering in sub-zero weather hovering over an egg."

"Guess there's not much in the way of wildlife protection in Antarctica?"

"Nobody stopped us. I thought the whole thing was weird and asked the director about it. He said something about appealing to nature lovers along with providing a sense of mothering. They had to do a lot of retouching because there was a look of despair coming through in the pictures. I thought I'd freeze!"

"Maybe say no to the next Arctic assignment?"

"Oh, no. I've seen what happens when girls start making demands, saying they won't do this and they'd never do that. They get canned from the Can-tata crew in a heartbeat, and where would I be after that?"

"You're pretty enough, there's got to be lots of ways to make a living."

"I'm pretty, but I'm not beautiful. I do what I have to. What kinda work are you thinking about, huh Robby?" Mary lightly stroked the back of Robert's neck.

"I'd have to think about it, but there's got to be any number of jobs."

"You'd be surprised, Robby baby. It's mostly just dead ends and hard breaks even for little blonde gals like me."

"Hard breaks?"

"Oh yes." Mary looked down at her pretty bare legs and feet, knocked back a hard drink from the bottle passed to her, and returned her big blue eyes to Robert. "I've been in competition with other girls from day one. There's so many other girls with looks willing to do most anything to get ahead, forces a girl to do some crazy things."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"The studio said I needed to 'stand out' a little more. So, I got these." Mary arched her chest. "They get the job done?"

Robert gave a half smile. "I guess so."

"Then they wanted me to be smarter. So, I had to get loaded up on 'threads. Between playing a role and taking 'threads, sometimes I wasn't sure who I was."

Robert looked at the fire flickering. "I understand you there."

"I don't mind living in a man's world, Robby. At least, not as long as I can be a woman in it, but these threads, they leave me confused, like I'm a million different people."

Everything Mary did, from the way she intonated her words, to how each little motion she made seemed calculated as a result of knowing that she was constantly watched by several pairs of eyes, made Robert feel like he was being flirted with by a movie star from the previous century. They stayed in the circle together until midnight, swimming in drinks before making their way back to the house, bumping into each other on purpose, feeling the closeness of a strange body, using a stray hand to make slight explorations of arms, legs, breasts.

In the living room, Robert put on a blues album.

Mary hummed to the tune. "Good choice, Robby, but I don't know if we deserve to listen."

"Why's that?"

"We haven't even been to one bar yet, and this is the twelve-bar blues."

Robert laughed while Mary called a cab.

"What's the address here?"

"You really want to go out?"

"Don't be boring, Robby."

"1900 Ocean View."

Mary repeated the address to the cabbie service.

"We need that record player. We'll do a bar crawl in honor of the twelve-bar blues. One drink in each bar while we listen to this song." Mary unplugged the record player and tucked it under one arm and pulled Robert along with the other from bar to bar. The first bar experience was similar to all the others. Robert argued with a barkeeper about where they could plug in the record player, until Mary gave them one of her digital Can-tata cards that cycled through several of her pictures. Then, somehow, the barkeep would find a place to plug in and threw in two ice cold beers on the house. Returning to the cabana hours later, Robert barely got through the door before passing out on a couch.

Mid-morning, Mary was gone. Robert found a signed picture of her nesting on an egg. "I'll be damned," thought Robert. He flipped the picture, saw a phone number scribbled down along with a message: "You're good, but no angel. I sin, but I'm not the devil." Robert wondered whether he had made love to the girl as he searched the house for a packet of HangOver™. He couldn't find any, so he placed a one-hour online order, darkened his bedroom, and burrowed under a blanket.

His dreams hellishly reconstructed the deparole. He saw Benson sitting behind an ebon desk.

"I know you do not understand what I am saying to you now, but remember, no matter what you feel over the next few weeks, I am your angel. Since you are relearning words, I'll explain my name. Benson has two parts, Ben and son; they express the same idea. Ben is Hebrew for son, and son in English means descendent. After these few weeks you will be my intellectual descendants. But to become a son, you must enter the world, which is pain! Therefore, you must suffer many trials at my hands. Because the son of sons did not come to serve you, but to destroy your impurities and recreate you in perfection.

Robert watched the man get up from his desk, which had now become a wall of fire. He walked through the fire toward him, pulling out an electronic device from his pocket and turning it on. It gave off a humming sound rather like an electric shaver. The man placed the metal diodes against Robert. They felt cold against his skin before a charge coursed through his body, sending him to the floor to writhe in anguish.

"Pain," Benson said in a monotone. He struck Robert's face with an open hand. "Pain must be your first memory. All knowledge, all progress is born of pain."

Robert recalled fifteen minute periods immersed in ice and Benson talking on and on. "Positive reinforcement never produced results. It's a certainty that people will do what you want them to when you're holding out rewards. But what happens when the rewards are gone? Perhaps somewhere in childhood you heard the riddle, when the cat's away, the mice will play? To guarantee discipline, one must instill the concept of the cat into the deep recesses of the psyche. Only then can society function. Otherwise, the subject degenerates into criminality and madness when the gaze of discipline is averted."

Robert dreamed he was chained to a wall covered with worms, oozing across his body, finding cavities to enter, crawling under an eyelid, sliding up a nostril, teasing out entry to his sphincter. "You must become bedfellows with death and decay, Robert. Know that the worm reduces all to dust. Know that the worm is ever with you."

Robert lay on an operating table, the skin of his belly cut open and tacked down beside him. He was forced to view images on a screen of a man touching the tip of his knife ever so slightly against his organs, naming them. Benson's voice rang out, "This is man! Your mortality is one breath away. You are ever on the blade's edge of destruction. Say to me, 'Give me death,' and I will consider it. When you overcome the fear of death, you will crawl back to me in thanks, because you will see that then, and only then, can you flourish. Then, you will have become a useful part of a system rather than a lone agent, full of self-interest, self-doubt, and self-will."

In the fleeting moment before waking to the doorbell, Robert confusedly remembered that Hargrove had run the deparole, not Benson. He stumbled to the door in time to see a delivery man walking away from a small package lying on the doormat. Head throbbing, Robert ripped open several layers of packaging to get to the HangOver™ pills, ingested three, and stumbled his way to a couch.

Deparole

During the deparole, Sally Riggs watched Robert. She watched everyone but paid the most careful attention to Robert, watched him attentively. Robert didn't know he was being watched because she was a careful watcher. A careful watcher can intuit the feeling that someone knows they are being seen and turn the feeling away. Without language, Riggs could sense the connection between people much stronger than before. She was like a mother feeling the safety or danger of her children. Riggs watched Robert without eyes.

Robert sometimes had the feeling of being watched but he'd turn and see Dr. Hargrove's, Evan Smith's, or Crestwood's eyes on him, or perhaps no one at all, certainly never Riggs. Riggs was always busy talking with someone or concentrating on a book or a game when Robert looked her way, but the very act of seeing her felt electric. There was something drawing him to her, and he certainly had no words for it. He did notice, however, that when he ran through _Tower Defender_ without Riggs, he died a lot sooner and a lot more painfully. When Riggs was around, he managed to get out of a lot of narrow scrapes. Robert wondered if he played better when an attractive woman was nearby. Maybe it was some kind of evolutionary thing, a way to preserve the caretaker. Robert thought that must be it.
Chapter 6 – Deparoll the Dice

Advances in smart technology hadn't been completely smooth. One by one, university professors were fired when it was discovered they were con artists, using 'threads to create the appearance of a high level of knowledge in particular fields. Administration task forces would find stacks of 'threads in an office, put the professor in question in a university holding cell, and suddenly a world renowned mathematics professor wouldn't even know that Rene Descartes had created Calculus by merging Geometry and Algebra. In some cases, they'd find that their former academic star didn't even have natural command of English. It was all too common that professors once renowned for brilliance were left with an insatiable burn for coffee, cigarettes, blushing coeds, and polythreads. 'Threads kept more than half of most university's faculty from turning into a trembling mess, rambling on and on too incoherently to pass for respectable factory floor workers, much less tenured university professors.

Soon after the 'thread scandal was uncovered, mass firings were the norm. Academic posts of even the most prestigious institutions went vacant as a discontinued subway tunnel in New York City. But the ivory tower quickly realized they couldn't rely on the irregular appearance of minds with the IQ of John Stuart Mill, not when they could create and sustain them at will. Within a semester, a new wave of 'threadmade profs cycled in. Genius had become as common as sewer rats and it was fully sustainable for a few hundred credits a week. Side effects ranged from mild headaches to insomnia to death, but many 'threadheads got along without a hitch, at least for a while. Some of the more prestigious universities downplayed the plague of 'threaded-out profs in an effort to stymie the feared clearing out of academic halls, but the students didn't seem to care other than a complaint here and there about professors lapsing into Elizabethan English. Regardless, those professors were on top of their field. Although 'threaders burned out in two or three semesters, they were replaceable commodities; someone was always ready to take their place. The work a 'threader could do was so extraordinary it was well worth it to recruit someone off the street and provide them with a backpack full of 'threads. Straights couldn't hold a candle to the creativity and outright depth of connections a 'threader with good training could make.

Robert raced the Turbo Lotus to the Veritech laboratory. A police cruiser sent out an electromagnetic pulse to kill the engine. Robert's sensors caught the incoming signal and reflected it, shutting down the blue and white cruiser. Robert curled the right side of his lip in victory as he watched the cruiser decelerate into the emergency lane. He throttled to one hundred and ninety and the road leapt up like streaks of electric flickering on the horizon. Robert leaned back into leather and let the fear of his own death well into his throat, banked hard on a sharp curve and felt the tires skid and then catch, hugging tightly to the road. A storm of memories, traumatic and beautiful, spilled through his mind: the hill he rolled down with Vera, the necklace she made for him of wildflowers, the girl with the yellow hat and dress, standing on the other side of the chain-link fence behind the house. He couldn't go past the fence, but she was free. He thought she was a flower, a wild, wildflower. Robert's mind skimmed along with the scenery until he was two miles from the exit to the laboratory, and then he let the car dwindle its kinetic energy away in neutral.

Robert navigated the slate-grey halls of Veritech's underground complex to the laboratory. Robert missed a turn and found himself in the indoor growing facility. He walked past various species of cannabaceae and papaver somniferum, particularly admiring the entrancingly deep reds of the poppies. Backtracking, Robert wondered how he could have missed a turn. Maybe his mind hadn't completely come back to him after all. But that couldn't be it. The images had all been there, but maybe images weren't so different from language. Do you see yourself going right or do you go right because of the idea of right? Maybe the blotter code had overlaid different knowledge onto his mind. That was something and sustainable knowledge at that. The blotter hit was a one-time deal, no residual distortion, just pure fire stolen from the gods, an acetylene torch with a neutron star as fuel supply.

Robert lifted his shirt and pressed his navel against a scanner.

"Hello, Robert. Welcome back to Veritech," a slightly distorted, feminine voice lilted through a speaker on the wall as the door to the laboratory opened, revealing Weisse and Fey poring over an intricate model of synapses. Weisse sort of looked like a poor man's John F. Kennedy. His face was narrower and chin further recessed.

"Hey Maria. Hey Weisse."

"You got the pronunciation wrong, Rob. Even though it's not spelled with an r, my name is pronounced wiser."

Robert barely listened. "Okay, whatever."

Fey was hot. That was because of her stimulo-thalamus suit. She had to take off the hood and spray herself with cold water every fifteen minutes to keep her core temperature down.

Fey appeared as Robert's wildest dream. It was often a problem considering the mercurial nature of the psyche. Hidden in Robert's inmost desires at the moment was Marilyn Monroe, perhaps because he'd been thinking about Kennedy or the uncanny similarity of the girl from the night before. Robert wondered if Weisse also wore an ST suit, but mapped to reflect the vision of a person's masculine gender ideal. "What are we looking at here?" asked Robert, vaguely hoping for a more personal answer.

"It's your standard world construct, circa 800 AD, just in time for a raid on the city of Syracuse. If everything works properly, Archimedes should start reflecting light via mirrors against the Roman ships pretty soon." Fey punched in a series of numbers, checking the simulation to make sure it aligned with her previous calculations as Robert looked on, visually surfeited by the play of her fingers across the keypad, locking on their lithe, subtle movements. As Fey worked through a series of programs, the resonance of the number tones and the way he imagined they felt to Fey burnt into his fingertips. "What do you think?" said Fey as she typed in some commands and the Vidwall projected the Mediterranean.

Robert didn't dare tell Fey what he was thinking.

"We're going to see if Archimedes believes in this reality we've made; because, once he does, we can use him," said Maria.

"Use him?" Robert asked.

"True genius," spoke up Weisse with a near presidential air, "is not inherent, but born of circumstance."

"In other words," Fey rolled her eyes at Weisse, "necessity is the mother of invention. If we can get Archimedes to believe that he's real, then we can use him to help us with our work. In a different computer shell we're working on an Einstein. He'll be especially valuable. Think of it, if in his day he could invent an atom bomb, what could he do with an understanding of the current state of research and technology? Especially if we produce him as a pure thinking machine. He wouldn't have to stop to sleep or play the violin or ride his motorbike." Maria looked up at Robert. "By the way, how's the head?"

"In what way," said Robert.

"Like your mind and everything," said Maria.

"Oh. It's hard to say." Robert wondered vaguely whether Einstein had ridden a motorbike. Robert noticed Dr. Benson slip quietly into the room in deep concentration on the experiment.

Archimedes loaded up and ran to his mirrors, looked at the ships, and became confused. He sat down beside the city wall and never said a thing even as the ships landed and soldiers began to sack the city. The scientists watched as Archimedes drew lines in the sand.

"What're you drawing there, bud?" Weisse asked, studying the construct for clues.

Fey turned the camera on the drawings and zoomed in closer on a diagram of the earth revolving around the sun. Fey panned right revealing another and then another, underneath which were the roman numerals XII, I, and II.

"Something must not be right about the construct," said Weisse. "The mirrors didn't work. They were supposed to roast those Roman ships."

Fey picked up a pen and ran through some calculations. "Weisse, it looks like your model is off. I think it has something to do with the mass of the sun. As slight as it is, several hundred years of nuclear reactions have changed it just enough to make a difference. Did you account for that in the model?"

"Uh, I guess I must have missed that one minor detail," said Weisse.

Benson, his train of thought broken by hearing of Weisse's miscalculations said, "It hardly seems minor."

"It's only a detail!" Weisse steadily raised his voice. "You didn't catch it, Benson!"

"The created universe is all details, Weisse. You'd do well to mark that," said Benson.

"It's okay, Dr. Benson." Maria put her hand on Weisse's shoulder. "Weisse's error has shown us something. Somehow, Archimedes could tell the difference by sight. He knows it's not his world."

"Weisse's error . . ." mumbled Weisse.

Robert looked through Maria's calculations as a Roman soldier ran his sword through the Archimedes prototype on the screen.

Maria pointed to the dead philosopher. "Still, this Archimedes isn't the real Archimedes. How would he know any difference between this world or any other?"

"Right, for all intents and purposes, this _is_ his world." Robert noticed fires had begun to rise from the virtual Syracuse.

"Well, I was very exact with the information I gave to Archimedes," Benson brought up an Archimedes file on the computer. "You can see in these files that Archimedes was working form the correct information about the solar system in his day."

"So?" said Weisse defensively.

"So, Archimedes created a defensive system that was thousands of years too late because of your blunder!" said Benson.

"Before you go pointing fingers, maybe we should have given him more time to assess his situation," said Weisse. "I mean, he's Archimedes for crying out loud. It's his fault if he doesn't figure out his environment."

"Still, this _is_ an artificial Archimedes," Benson added.

"I like your thinking, Doctor. Maybe the problem is with Archimedes." Fey stroked a finger across her forehead absently. "What if the problem is that our Archimedes prototype is a fool in comparison to the real Archimedes?"

"You notice that if you say Archimedes right, it sounds like our comedies?" said Robert.

Benson grimaced. "So that's what happens as people reparole? Anyway, look at this." He jacked his touchscreen into the vidwall and projected a three-dimensional model of the human cortex onto the wall.

"What have you got here, Benson?" asked Fey.

"This was our conception of Archimedes' mind at the beginning of the project. And this," Benson rapidly typed out keystrokes in the air that were collected by his implanted fingertip sensors, "is the progress Archimedes made once he was loaded up."

"It's the same," observed Robert.

"So he wasn't learning anything." Weisse sat down in frustration.

"Right," replied Benson. "But learning and thinking are interconnected. They are mutually dependent."

"Then something is missing from the model?" asked Maria.

"Perhaps, and that's why we need to go ahead with our scan of Robert." Benson cupped a hand over his chin.

"Scan Robert now?" said Maria. "He's hardly reparoled. What use will that scan be to us?"

"Robert's five months of therapy was long enough. There's no reason to wait any longer," said Benson.

Weisse spoke up. "Maybe now would be a good time to mention that we don't quite have the system completely set up for that. And it's not just time we need. We don't even have the funds to finish the scanner."

"What happened to the grant from Gibrarian Steel & Oil?"

Weisse quickly glanced at Maria. "We're not building a doghouse here. This is hi-tech equipment, space-age stuff, priceless material."

Benson looked at Weisse. "How much do you need to finish out the scanner?"

"I think three more would do it."

"I can get three million. We'll have it within a week," declared Benson.

"Good," said Weisse.

Maria folded her arms. "Right now we're stuck behind a glass wall. That scan will be our hammer."

Benson sighed and turned to look at Robert. "Let's hope we don't break more than glass."

Chapter 7 – Veritech

Dr. Benson had various sources: government grants, university research grant work, and the highly sought after carte blanche funding that came from third parties Benson enticed with visions of profit sharing and usable tech. Government grants were often very big but demanding. Certainly, government grants left little room for creativity. If some general decided he needed a particle blaster, then several hundred million credits were funneled into various labs and two to three years later the military had a wicked death ray, weighing under three pounds, made of some kind of rare meteoritic element capable of blasting holes through the universe, airbrushed silver for the hell of it.

Money was sometimes available for cleaning up messes that universities made of projects. Generally less money was available in such work but generally came with access to the equipment at school laboratories that none of the profs or their graduate students, 'threaded or un'threaded, had the first inkling how to use. Funny enough, after Benson cleaned up the mistakes of various first-rate universities, his name always remained off the end deliverable so that faith wasn't lost in the ivory tower. No big deal, really. Benson picked up university projects while biding time, waiting for big money.

Big money came from the hands of private corporations. Benson had recently exhausted his go-to sponsors, and, anyway, for something of the magnitude of the scanning project he needed money from more muted sources. Benson flipped through his hand-sized book of contacts. The thing wasn't even digital. It was a paper-based journal with blank entry spaces that could be filled in with a pen. Even though it was easy to misplace journals and the space was limited, Benson liked to write things down by hand. Files got shifted around in a computer database, information moved and traded spaces. Whereas, what he wrote down with his own hand into a book couldn't get copied and pasted into oblivion. There, he had found it: CommUnitas.

Benson walked to a phone hanging on the wall and gave the number a dial. After the requisite thirteen rings, someone picked up.

"Please state your name and purpose."

"Dr. Benson. Research and Development."

"Dr. Benson, thank you for calling CommUnitas Industries," said a feminine voice, all business. "Your call is being routed to R&D. Thank you for your interest in CommUnitas and your patience while we link your call. You will be connected with your party momentarily. Goodbye, Doctor."

The lady's voice was replaced with the lo-fi bossa nova track that looped every fifteen seconds. Whoever had spliced together the track had ended the loop before the end of the bar, making the restart feel like it jumped out of time. Underneath the music, Benson heard the static emptiness of a network with no one plugged in.

"Good day, Doctor," said a new voice, all steel. "For what do I owe the pleasure?"

Dr. Benson recognized Ernest Kantor at first breath; His Eastern European accent was impossible to miss. Kantor was too brilliant to bother studying with lesser talents, hadn't bothered with graduate programs, hadn't needed to when he exhibited a functioning wave reorganizer to various telephone companies. He held the lion's share of the patent, making impossible fortunes, while the world threw away its bulky phones in exchange for Kantor's new technology, the phone card. The phone card amounted to a one-centimeter square microchip the thickness of a contact lens that attached to the outer ear and allowed the user to send and receive phone calls. For an extra fee, users can opt for a surgical process that inserts the phone card directly in the metacortex, creating a Self-Phone. Once complete, users simply became aware of calls, an awareness similar to noticing wind rippling through the branches of a tree. A lot of people went through the surgery only to ignore the calls. Nevertheless, hangers-on like Benson still preferred the tactile feeling of pressing buttons into a phone and holding it to the ear

Benson replied to Kantor, "I've got some promising research going."

"What you discussed at the symposium for human energies?"

"Precisely. I think we're about to crack through," said Benson.

"I looked into the matter myself. I think you'll quickly find you're wasting your time. The processing power required to model the neurological system of even a below average human is beyond the scope of current technology. You'd be more likely to wake up to a Jupiter skyline than, how did you say it, 'crack through.'"

Benson detected a flatness in Kantor's voice. "What did that mean," Benson wondered. "A Jupiter skyline? Why was Kantor thinking of other worlds?"

"Don't bother asking for funds on this one. It's a quick dead end. I assure you."

"Well, let me at least tell you where we are. It could persuade you perhaps," pleaded Benson.

"I am quite persuaded already."

"Two minutes, Ernest?"

"The answer is no. I'm sorry that I couldn't be of any help to you."

The line went dead. "So much for CommUnitas," Benson said while pocketing his phone and returning again to his phonebook. This round he used a wiser approach and got funds for research into something the lab had discovered and already had ready as a result of a finding they had run across while working on university projects. Benson figured no one had to know when his lab made discoveries on someone else's time. It was a good thing to sit on until the current sort of moment appeared when funds were needed without having to explain how they would be allocated.

Benson ruminated over a conversation with Ernest Kantor several months prior. They had laughed then about the possibility of creating AI capable of replacing them while they retained all the rights to the technological developments that their cloned intelligence discovered. It had started as a joke, yes, but then, what if it was something more than a joke. What if it could be engineered? Benson wanted to beat Kantor to it, if it was possible, but without proper funding, had thought that jointly holding the rights along with him would be passable. But now, Benson was worried that Kantor had already uncovered the secret. What he had said about limited processing power had been something of a legend about computers for decades, the idea that the human mind was always stronger, always more capable than the processing power of computers. But of course, that was the point of the scan, and especially, the scan of the reparoled mind.

Benson had no need for perfectly recreating the mind of a fool. He needed a mind with the sort of genius that only appeared once a century or less. He needed the sort of mind that had never yet appeared in the era of homo sapiens. With the advent of this technology, the calendars would start over, this time at 0. 0 A.S., standing for Anno Sapiens. Benson beamed, thinking about the possibilities as he looked over the scanning notes. He rang Fey.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"We can move ahead with finishing the scanner."

"We're funded?" asked Fey.

"To the stars." Benson couldn't resist a smile as he clicked off, though no one saw.

Ward Two could have been called Word Zero. The deparole ward wasn't where you'd go if you were looking for a good stimulating conversation over coffee and doughnuts. Sure there was Hargrove, not a barrel of laughs but he was always talking. Although, he talked to be heard rather than understood, constantly rattling off physiological and psychical properties of the human mind based on the obsolete models of Freudian and Jungian psychology that he had studied so many decades ago. Though his knowledge was all but defunct, his constant talking was soothing, and part of his role as father, mother, brother, and friend to the patients. Hargrove recited tales from Mother Goose one minute and posited Freudian social theories of repression the next. Hargrove was nice enough to spell out all of his literary references to the silent deparolees. After relating the story of Humpty Dumpty, Hargrove said, "The problem for Humpty Dumpty was in bureaucracy. He didn't need all the king's men, and he certainly didn't need the king's horses to put him back together. Humpty needed a doctor, a psychologist, an engineer. I am quite convinced that this deparole ward could have put him back together again." Hargrove stopped talking long enough to see Vitaly blinking vacantly.

"Vitaly, you're not a Humpty type, right?"

Vitaly closed his eyes with a serene, far away smile on his face.

"Vitaly?"

Building the scanning room took four-months. Benson, Weisse, and Fey worked tirelessly throughout Robert's deparole and were now making last minute alterations while Robert remained in his house, making much faster improvements in his reparoling now that he didn't have to waste time in Dr. Hargrove's group sessions. Benson assured Robert it was for the best that he spend his time this way, and said he'd call as soon as they were ready. Robert started in on an old Latin primer and made it through several books in a week of study. His Model-T reading pace was a source of great frustration, considering that he had always been able to knock out a book a day in the past, more if he had the leisure time. It was weird reading something he already knew, but sans words. The experience was an unending _deja vu_. Robert's knowledge of the stories he read was akin to the knowledge a master swordsman has of his opponent. The body betrays its next movement. It was a relief when Benson finally rang to say that he should come look at the progress in the lab.

When Robert entered the lab, he saw that the to-do board listed materials to order, programming to finalize, and space-age technology to install. Installation was handled by Weisse and the programming by Fey, and Benson hardly slept as he constantly aided his team. Weisse stood on a ladder, working with a line of cables above the scanning chamber.

"Weisse, is that wiring electron filament grade?" asked Benson.

Weisse looked at Benson with a sour expression. "No, of course not. This is the power line."

"Look again. That's the communications line. Make sure you use electron filament."

Weisse pressed his lips together. "Don't you need to take a nap or something? You haven't slept in well over a day."

"Spend less time thinking about me. Just get the right wiring. I'll manage," said Benson.

Maria Fey greeted Robert cheerfully. "Well, there you are. Ready for a tour?"

Robert nodded.

"This is the scanner." Maria gestured to a pool of congealment over which a computer cloud was suspended, a ceiling of processors with fibrous tentacles extending to the scanning pool in columns. Wiring wended its way along the walls, ceiling, and floors, no hard corners anywhere, everything baffled, muted, sanitized, and curving softly into other angles.

"This looks like something out of an alien space explorer's nightmare," said Robert.

"But couldn't an alien space explorer find Earth and explore here? You just mean the scanner is what it is," said Maria.

Robert laughed. "Maybe so, but I still have no clue what I'm looking at."

"This helmet," explained Maria, holding something that looked very self-consciously military, "is the breathing system you'll wear while lowered into the congealment pool." The congealment glistened like cellophane, diaphanous and permeable with the substance of Vaseline. Maria placed the helmet over her face. "It's quite comfortable."

"It doesn't look all that comfortable," said Robert.

Fey removed the mask and looked at Robert. "Here, I'll let you try it on." Maria placed the helmet on Robert, pressed a couple buttons on its outside. Their eyes met, and a look passed between them.

Maria smirked, took the helmet off Robert. "Let's continue the tour."

"Sure," said Robert. "Why not?"

"See over here?" Maria pointed to a bevy of cables hanging over the pool. "These cables extend from the computer, through the congealment, and into the mask. They'll carry the scanned information from you back to the computer."

Robert cut in, "I guess I don't understand what the pool of congealment is for."

"That's where you'll be during the scan."

Robert turned his head slightly and furrowed his eyebrows. "Well, yes, obviously. But what does the congealment do?"

"This stuff," Maria bent down and stuck two fingers into the congealment, held it out for Robert to see, "amplifies brain waves. Makes it easier for us to record what's going on in here." Maria tapped the side of Robert's forehead, leaving him sticky.

Robert wiped off the congealment. "And I'll be fine down there?"

"There's nothing to be concerned about," said Fey. "Think of it like a womb." Maria smirked. "Isn't it every boy's unconscious desire to climb back in the womb?"

Robert chuckled, eyed Maria. "Depends on which womb."

Fey continued her explanation of the system. "Oxygen flows into the mask containing copying programs. As your blood is oxygenated and moves through your body, the copying cells record what they find and send it back to the mainframe. As information stacks, the copy cells are smart enough to filter past what's already been amalgamated and search for uncopied information."

Robert followed some of this, although not a very great deal. Instead of trying to get a handle on it, he asked the most pertinent question, "How long's this going to take?"

"Good question," Weisse said. "We're not really sure. The human brain has billions of neurons, and the recording cells have to talk to each one of them to make sure that all of your information is recorded."

"We expect it will take at least a week, longer maybe," said Maria. "We'll start in two days and then find out as we go."

"Longer than a week?"

"We're hoping not," said Weisse.

"Can I take some books down with me?"

"Yes, digital ones. We can upload them into your goggles," said Maria.

"Thank god."

"No, thank Benson," said Maria. "He knew you'd want a distraction. So, you see, now that you know what to expect, it won't be so bad. You should head back home and rest. You'll need your energy for the scan."

"Energy? Can't I sleep down there?"

"Umm, we don't think so," said Weisse.

"So, you don't actually know."

"Yes and no," said Maria. We suspect the scan will run more efficiently while you're awake."

"So, why not just let it go on scanning while I'm asleep at a slightly less efficient pace?"

"Oh, that's a good idea," said Weisse.

"Yeah." Robert groaned. His earlier thought that the process would be a short reading session at the bottom of a giant bowl of Jell-O was shattered. Instead, it would be an entombment that could last a month by the sound of Fey's vague explanation, and they hadn't even thought through everything.

Fey chuckled, "So, return here in two days at 0800 hours."

Robert confirmed, "Ok. Two days. Got it."

Maria turned back to her work on the console, almost unaware of Robert's continued presence.

"It feels good to work with you again," said Robert.

"Now, now, just because you have a couple days rest doesn't give you license to hit on me."

"No, I appreciate what you do here, and your, ah, complexity. In the ward, I could figure most everyone out rapidly, you however . . ."

Maria turned and grinned, "Can't wrap your arms around it? I know why I'm so interesting to you. You've built me up to something I'm not. I'm your Archimedes construct, existing in a world that doesn't mesh with reality."

Weisse snickered.

Robert took a small step toward Maria, "No, that's what I'm trying to say. You're the only woman I've known that I can't map inside my head."

"I think it will be best if you laid aside your mapping and got some rest." Fey stood and walked past Robert, striding to the door, taking care to let the material of her jacket brush his arm. Maria's forefinger hovered over the number two before glancing at Robert, eyes assuring that he was watching, and then she slowly punched in a series of numbers on the keypad to open the door. Robert studied her movements, visually surfeited by the play of her fingers across the keypad. He could feel the lithe, subtle movements of her fingers set into permanent memory, played with the idea of those fingers stroking across his body. Maria returned to her desk and began working through a series of programs. As Robert left, the resonance of the number tones and the way he imagined they felt to Fey burnt into his fingertips: two, two, two, two. Robert realized she had just given him the number to all her passcodes. He felt an urge to stay with her, to hunt, but rationality resurfaced and carried Robert down the hall away from the lab.

On his way out of the building, Robert noticed a sleek yellow '87 Ferrari parked at the far end of the lot, windows tinted and compressing and decompressing in perfect time with gut blasting bass pulsing from inside the cab. Robert made out two figures in the front seats. He amped his phone tracer and got a read: regular signals emitted from the Ferrari. Someone was watching him.

Turbo Lotus in gear, Robert idled past the Ferrari on his way out of the lot, eyebrow raised in a dare for them to follow. He had turbochargers they knew not of. They didn't bother, but Robert messaged Benson to keep a sharp eye out.

Benson messaged back. "Glad to see you're paying attention. That car _is_ the sharp eye. Ex-marines. Get some rest and don't worry about us here."

Robert didn't think about them further, but he chuckled to himself thinking about Benson burning through those funds he had newly acquired. Was a vintage Ferrari really necessary? They had probably gone in for the customized sound system and airfoil on the back. Robert concentrated and remembered, yes, there had been an airfoil. He wished the Ferrari hadn't been manned by the ex-marines. A death-wishing road pursuit would have wiped out thoughts on the upcoming cocooning. To shake the ghosts of regret, Robert blasted down the highway at over one hundred and fifty miles per hour, weaving through cars that might as well have been standing still.

Given the absolute speed he'd handled the roads, it was surprising to see a yellow Ferrari parked in the driveway when he pulled up to the ocean house. Two pumped Germans stood outside the car. Robert parked the Lotus and walked over. "Ex-marines?"

"Vott? You think vee are Americans?"

"Guess not."

"Deparole does mess with the head, jah?"

Robert shrugged.

The bigger of the two Germans took off his shades, pointed to the ground, said, "We vill be here. Take ziss and make contact if anything happens." He handed Robert a phone card and replaced his shades.

Robert didn't want another phone card. Too often, the cheaper ones had the security of a lock made of swiss cheese. With a bad phone card, basically every unwanted call came through at the most inopportune times: telemarketers, politicians, sex hotlines, wrong numbers, calls with no one else on the line, "beneficiary" groups looking for a handout, and cults promising immortality for a fee.

The German security guys drove a Ferrari but this was a poor man's Ferrari, a salvage job, probably wrecked by some Chinese billionaire's kid street racing through the suburbs, the damaged car left on the street, somebody else's problem. It was plain to Robert that the Germans had spent all their capital on a car and cut corners everywhere else. From their look, Robert doubted these guys had even invested in full Kevlar body suits. It looked like they had gone in for vest only and their matching shades might not have been smart. The only purposed they served was to block the sun and make the German guys look the part of extras on Baywatch.

Robert left the Germans and walked to the front door. "Don't forget to turn on zee phone card," one of the Germans called out as Robert was about to enter the door. Robert, still holding the card in his hand, put it in his ear next to the other. He checked what sort of service the card had. It was a one way receiving line only, except for a single number, which he dialed.

"You need help, you dial us. No problem?"

"Got it." Robert cut the call. All of the security seemed overblown: two Ferraris. With that kind of largesse, Robert wondered who the hell Benson had gotten to fund the project.

Robert poured himself a whisky, looked at his Rothko above the fireplace, two squares, red atop orange. Sometimes he wondered if he'd hung it upside down, or what would change about the painting if it was turned on its side. "The red is the congealment. I represent the orange box underneath." Robert put on a swimsuit, headed out to the beach for a swim. "These two days have to be spent well. If nothing else, to forget that I'll be at the bottom of a Rothko box for a week, longer maybe." Robert hadn't seen a feeding tube, but he hadn't asked about it either. Sometimes Maria had a way of skipping over elements she found droll, despite their importance. Robert swam about fifty meters out and got on his back. The taste of salt spiked his memory: swimming alongside grandpa Varley, combing the steel beech for shells with that titan of a man, conversations from a reunion eighteen years past. He heard and understood all the conversations at once. Many of the words were still hieroglyphic, but Robert intuitively knew their meaning despite their foreign sound. Walking back to the house, Robert mused on his memory's ability to reconnect him to the past, to stories he had never known of his grandfather. His mind had recorded the details but had hidden them away as all human brains do. Robert could feel the strength of his deparoled mind as it reviewed and analyzed every sensory input he had ever received. Robert thought of the girl Mary and the phone number she had left on the back of her Can-tata picture. He retrieved the picture and dialed the girl.

She picked up after four rings. "Hi, this is Mary."

"Mary. It's Robert from a fortnight back."

"A fortnight?"

"Two weeks."

"Oh, Rah-bert." Mary punctuated his name melodically. "From the beach?"

"Yes. Two weeks ago."

"I thought you'd never call, Robert. It's been years since I've seen you."

"Yes, sorry."

"You're not so good on the phone, Robby baby. You look better than you talk."

"If you say so."

"Vid chat me, okay?" The line went dead.

Before Robert could dial back, a link appeared on his phone. Once connected, Robert saw Mary in khaki shorts and a loose fitting tank top that revealed spilling cleavage. Mary was sipping on a fruity drink under an oversize umbrella.

"I haven't gotten a stitch of work with the studio since we last talked, but I've been on two shoots with Can-tata."

"They make you do anything weirder than sit on an egg?"

"One shoot was a bedroom scene: lavish decor, lingerie, what you'd expect. The other was weird, on an old Boeing 747, the seats removed and replaced with a hydroponic marijuana garden, really exotic plants, every variety. I posed wearing only a bikini bottom with a hemp leaf on the back and a necklace with a charm that read 'mile high club.'"

"They already run the spot?"

"Yeah, in the lead picture I'm holding a gigantic spliff, exhaling a mound of smoke. At least I didn't have to drop any 'threads for it. 'Threads leave me feeling like I don't know myself, but smoking up is relaxing, you know?"

"So, you don't mind posing like that?"

"Oh Robby, it's better for the whole world to know you, even as a sex star, than never to be known at all."

"You busy tonight?"

"Afraid so. I've got another shoot lined up tomorrow, early. Call me back soon, okay?" The line went dead before Robert could respond.

Dissatisfied, Robert thought of Maria. The feeling of Maria brushing against him and the sensuous move of her hand across the key panel licked at him like a snake feeling its way across the ground. Without thought, Robert found himself driving to the lab when he knew she'd be leaving, then following the girl to her house. After she went inside, he waited several minutes before walking to the door. He felt crazy and turned to walk back to the car, but then thought of Maria's pretty eyes and returned to the door. He used the code that she had punched in at the lab, each press of her finger on the pad as vivid to him as lightning strikes. He pressed in the code: two, two, two, two. The door swung open noiselessly. Robert walked inside, familiar with Maria's apartment even in the dark. Robert felt he was creating the rooms as he walked, walking through invented rooms, searching the house for the girl. She was nowhere to be found. Robert went to her bedroom to wait, released the arm of the record player letting whatever was already on the turntable play.

Maria entered from an adjoining powder room wearing sleeping shorts and a short, silky shirt that showed her navel. "You shouldn't do a thing like that, breaking into a ladies house. What if I had called the police?"

"Some risks are worth taking."

"Robert, I don't know how much you remember, but we've been through all this. There's no chance that I'd have an affair with you."

A song they had listened to together long before the deparole began to play.

"I'm not asking for an affair."

"There it is."

"What?"

"That smug self-confidence. You're incapable of admitting when you're wrong."

"I don't . . ."

"You're asking for me to love you and it's impossible. You love yourself too much to care about anyone else. You're so _typical._ You have yourself and your work. That's all you've ever had."

"But I don't feel the same. Not since the deparole."

Maria laughed. "You know you've said that same thing to me before? Except it wasn't the deparole that changed you. It was a trip to Africa, then your research on cell biomechanics. You always believe you've changed, but you never do."

"Well, let's not talk about me then. Let's talk about us."

"Us? There is no us, Robert."

"Tell me something you've been thinking about."

Maria tentatively met Robert's hungry look. "All right, so you just gave me an open opportunity to talk about anything I want?"

"Yeah, I haven't had much to say since the deparole."

"You really suck, you know that? For a second it seems like you might be interested in something other than yourself, but it's only because your own thought life flatlined."

Robert ran his hands through his long, thick hair, perhaps an unconscious act to bring Maria's attention back to his good looks. Maria noticed his looks; she always did, but what looked like an attempt to bypass her judgment was as off-putting as his smothering self-love.

"Are you familiar with attunement?" Maria drew a long cigarette from a little silver case at her bedside table and filled her lungs with smoke.

"Attunement? No, I don't think so. That a brand of tobacco or marijuana?"

"Uh, neither. It's philosophy."

"That sure looks like a smoke."

Maria looked down at the cigarette in her hand. Oh, I see. Well this," she drew nicotine smoke into her lungs, "is tobacco, but if you can't tell then you must be drunk. I was asking if you knew what attunement meant."

Robert frowned.

"Well, in his dialogues, Socrates discusses it. It's all about the state of being, how things are naturally what they are. He talks of objects that lack reasoning power. The type of things that never run the risk of having an existential crisis. For example, a violin can never wish it were a flute. But men and women, we desire all sorts of things." Maria gave Robert a half grin. "Things that aren't ever possible and some things that just aren't possible yet."

"Let's talk about the things that aren't possible yet."

"Cute." Maria took a ginger puff off her cigarette, looked like a slick cigarette ad out of _Vogue_. "Centuries later, Immanuel Kant understood reality through rationality rather than emotion. For Kant, desire wasn't part of the human equation, but there's a false idealism there, a secular vision of humanity that never obtained. Even Rousseau used to leave his own newborn children on the steps of orphanages, trophies of emotion triumphing over reason."

Maria stood and walked to a bureau, poured two whiskys and handed one to Robert. "The deparole works something like amnesia. It disconnects what you know with what you feel." Maria let the whisky in her glass slide past her teeth, swallowing it all in one go. "Combining thoughts and feelings from before with what you experience now can be difficult. Some never unify those two polarities."

"Yes, that's the maddening thing. I don't even know how I know anything at all. I wake up some days and there's more there."

"Kind of like an amnesiac regaining memory?" asked Maria.

"I've studied the way patients with amnesia work. This isn't like that. This is a reverse of memory failure. I'm remembering the history of entire fields of knowledge in a night."

Maria looked at Robert empathetically. "That's why you were chosen for this project. As a result of your deparole, your mind has become a finely calibrated machine. Oh, you want beer?"

Robert didn't think Maria was right. "You got light beer?"

Maria chuckled, picked out a couple high-octane IPA's from a mini-fridge in the bureau, underhand tossed one to Robert. "Better question, what do you get when you divide infinity by zero?"

Dylan's Love Minus Zero, No Limit played in the background. "Folk music?"

Maria laughed an honest laugh.

Robert liked Maria's mind almost as much as he liked her legs. He recalled scenes from a night with her long ago, their arms touching against each other, their legs. Then and now her hair was a little grungy, like she didn't give a damn, the smell like oil and earth. They drank beers and listened to songs, songs that felt like small fires, pockets of light in the early morning dark.

"Damn. Fridge is out. Let me fetch some more from the pantry." Maria stood up clumsily, felt the way across the floor, careful not to fall.

Robert watched her legs. He liked the sound of her jeans as she moved. He wasn't drunk, but not sober either. He wanted the pictures in his memory to speak.

Maria returned with a sixer and a ball jar of weed. "I ever tell you about the guy that brought me flowers for a week when I was a sophomore at State?" Maria sat the beer down and unscrewed the ball jar's lid. The fragrance of sinsemilla buds filled the bedroom. "It was the most uncomfortable feeling, like he had memorized my schedule. He was always finding me on campus, even though it was a big damn campus." Maria picked out a bud and stuffed it in a pipe, lighting it and taking a massive toke. "I admit," smoke rolled from her mouth and nose, "he was incredibly passionate, but I didn't care." She started to pass the pipe but then took two more long hits. "Damn, I didn't _like_ the guy. Story was he peed on his girlfriend."

Robert wondered if she was talking about him. He took a hit from the pipe. Had he given her flowers? Had he peed on someone? He took another hit to ease the thought. Maybe he had. Sometimes girls liked weird stuff. You had to be prepared. No way to remember. Robert could see the mix cds they had traded. She had drawn ivy on the cd she gave Robert, almost like she had given him flowers. Robert wondered what Maria expected to hear. "I tried to call you while I was gone."

"You know I never answer the phone. I talk to people I can see." Maria idly ran a finger across the tip of her nose. "This nose. I'm thinking of getting it fixed. I look like my dad with this nose. It's a bad looking nose."

"It's not bad at all."

"But it's a little funny isn't it? I don't think people take me serious because of my nose. If I got it fixed, everything would be different."

"You're very pretty. Your nose isn't bad. It's not funny either."

Maria concentrated on getting stoned, taking hit after hit from the pipe before passing it back. "It doesn't cost a lot to get it fixed."

"Yeah, but the pain. You don't want to deal with the pain."

Maria held up the ball jar and shook it. "I'd be alright."

Touching her hand as he took the lighter, he remembered kissing her once after they'd drank several beers and listened to records. How long ago had that been? The night they drove out to the bridge she said was haunted and they rolled across it, car in neutral. Robert looked at Maria, sensed limitations to his understanding. Maria reclined on a chair and they took slow pulls at their beer while the music played, each of them taking turns flipping records. They listened to iconic songwriters of the '60s through a weary stoned booze haze.

As Robert fell asleep, Maria said, "We should listen to more records together."

Robert woke up in a chair a little after three in the morning. He noticed the whisky bottle was all but empty, and Maria was asleep in her bed. Robert unplugged the record player, put it under his arm, and let himself out.

On the road to the beach house, Robert dialed up an old Marilyn Monroe movie on the upper left corner of his windshield. It was hard to focus on the screen. The picture appeared to him as a slow-moving ray of light. Robert concentrated and saw past the light to the girl on the screen. She moved so easily, like the girl he had met the other night. Mary, was it? Her smile was the same and the glazed look, eyelids always half shut to reveal long, dark lashes. Weirdly, Robert couldn't remember how the girl he'd met looked in color. His memory was monochrome too. Maybe the girl had been an imitation of the movie or maybe the movie was an imitation of the girl. Robert tried to concentrate. Even Maria Fey seemed like equal parts Audrey Hepburn, Madame Curie, and Hypatia of Alexandria, a proud woman who died protecting books.

At the beach house, Robert set up Maria's record player beside his own. He found the recording of the Stones he made the night they played at the house along with his copy of Beggars Banquet. He carefully removed the vinyl discs from their sleeves, placed them on the turntables, and started them together. The copies sounded identical, every vocal tic, every moment that the players wavered from straight time. The Stones played perfectly in sync to one another in their imperfections, although the two recordings were separated by decades. "What are the chances?" Robert wondered. "Artists learn to play together perfectly, not to mess up perfectly." Robert listened to both sides, noticed that even the production values were identical. Satisfied that they were the same, he turned over Maria's copy, and as the rhythmic guitar scream of Street Fighting Man began to play, he dozed off.
Chapter 8 – Jupiter Skyline

Psychiatric visits were a regular part of Robert's life now. After leaving the reparole, he was to meet with Hargrove or someone from Hargrove's staff weekly. There was a lot about the deparole that doctors didn't understand, and the mind was one of the most unpredictable of all human systems. It was Hargrove's opinion that every citizen over the age of twelve should be assigned mandatory therapy sessions, and no one should be allowed in public spaces that had missed their last psychiatric visit. This week, Hargrove was absent. In his place was the elderly, but accommodating, Dr. R. Evrret.

"Help yourself to a drink, Robert."

Robert didn't mind reclining on the couch, drinking brandy and smoking the Doctor's cigars. "Got any weed?"

"Yes. You can help yourself to that as well. Some find it relaxes them." The doctor retrieved a two foot tall bong and packed it with enough marijuana to stone a tiger while Robert knocked back a couple shots of top shelf Scotch.

"Here, I hope this is to your liking." Evrret sat the smoking bong on a coffee table.

Robert sat on the couch, sucking smoke down his lungs.

Evrret studied his notes. "Robert, have you had any more moments of remembering things to which you feel ashamed or unfond?"

Robert coughed hard, and a look of dismay flashed across his face. "Yes, but it's unclear what it is. It's mostly just a feeling."

"It will all come back to you. Trust that. For now, try to tell me what you remember." Dr. Evrret's words whispered through the room, cushioned by wisps of smoke and the flush of the first effects of alcohol.

"I am compelled to take a journey. I don't want to go on the journey, but I feel that I must."

"A journey. That's good. Where are you going?"

"The journey." Robert took a massive hit from the bong. "The journey, the journey." Robert forgot about Evrret for a few minutes. He concentrated his attention on the bong.

Evrret waited for fifteen minutes before speaking again. "We don't have to talk about the journey, Robert."

"Huh? The Journey? Oh yeah, the journey." Robert watched lazy tendrils of smoke rise to the ceiling.

"Let's try something different. Tell me something that has captured your interest of late. It might help you think about the dream differently."

Robert looked into the bong for a moment, the curling smoke. "I'd like to understand why I keep having the dream."

"Good. Then we _will_ figure it out."

"Let me describe it."

"Yes, go ahead."

"There's a, a darkness. A long tunnel of darkness the length of an ocean. If I can pass through the tunnel, I'll be well again. Did I mention I'm not well in the dream? I can't stop because the way out of the tunnel will close if I don't get out before daylight, and then I'll never be well. I walk all night; I never see the light. I dream it again and again, always the same."

Robert drove to the lab and booted up an Einstein in a 1940s VR construct. He loaded up a viola in the place of Einstein's violin for the hell of it and flipped all the notes in the scores on his music stand so that the pieces read backwards. The mathematician didn't so much as look at the instrument or sheet music. Einstein sat at his desk and thumbed through loose pages of equations. The digital Einstein placed them aside without looking where they ended up. Robert thought idly of spiking Einstein's drink with acid. One hit would make the guy's night. "Alright, enough fun. The Einstein construct needs stress or he'll never actualize. He'll never begin believing in his existence and do the thought work we need." He typed up code and cracked open a can of Yumyum™ cola and a packet of Chocolatey Bears™.

Two hours later a Jewish boy with burns across his skin banged on Einstein's window. "Please, sir! Please help me!"

"What has happened my boy?"

"Mr. Einstein, sir! It's the Luftwaffe! They've blitzed London with fire!"

"Fire? What kind of fire?"

"A whirlwind of it."

"Mein Gott," Einstein declared.

The phone rang in the study.

"Yes?" answered Einstein.

"Have you heard?" said the prime minister. "The Germans detonated a superweapon on London."

"Yes," Einstein looked at the burned boy, "I was afraid of it."

"We have a new task now, Doctor. Intelligence has wrested documents from the Germans and we must figure out what they mean."

Robert had a partial equation for renewable cellular catabolic energy generation. Now that Einstein's world was in peril, perhaps he wouldn't think too hard about whether his reality was false. Perhaps he would finish Robert's work, creating technology that would benefit humanity for eons to come. "It would be good," thought Robert, "If this machine finished my work, because I can't concentrate. Damn deparole." Robert felt a smothering desire to drink, thought of nearby bars, left the lab without powering anything down.

When Dr. Hargrove found Cameron Vitaly lying face up on his bedroom floor, it was a shock but hadn't come as much of a surprise to anyone. Cameron hadn't responded well to the initial deparole, for weeks not uttering a single word when most of the others had graduated to speaking in complete, though simple sentences. Hargrove thought the 'threads in his system acted as signal blockers to creating new neural pathways. When language was stripped from him, the addiction became all the more fierce. While Riggs had become extra empathetic and Robert's powers of ratiocination had skyrocketed, Vitaly had become the most perfect junky the human race had ever known. He was perfectly and solely a desiring machine, a body without organs. His room contained a box of white envelopes, some still full of 'threads. Names were scrawled across them in what might have been blood. Riggs thought that "King of Spades" was an especially prophetic name for a drug that would so quickly necessitate the use of the same tool.

Dr. Hargrove analyzed some of the 'threads in front of the patients in Ward One, pulling the 'threads up as a file of wave patterns on a computer to play what came out as a stodgy sounding English voice reading "The Charge of the Light Brigade."

"How on earth are kids so addicted to this crap?" said Riggs. "You couldn't bribe a class of high school seniors to sit down with a poem like that for fifteen seconds. Yet the same group would lick envelopes full of these things given the chance."

"I don't think they care about it aesthetically. It's more the fact that with a couple hits they can know everything that was hailed as important from the past with less effort than it takes to watch TV."

"So, it makes them feel superior to their elders in a way, a kind of screw you to tradition?"

Hargrove analyzed another thread. He found it had Geoffrey Chaucer's _Canterbury Tales_ in original Middle English. "Perhaps, but 'threads represent a strong undercurrent of respect for tradition."

"How's that?" asked Riggs.

"Think about the time it takes to read an Elizabethan or Jacobean play: maybe two or three hours depending on how many times you have to look up words and phrases, and for each play there are probably a half dozen Roman or Greek works to wade through to read the thing in proper context as well as the Italian work that the English playwright invariably copied it from. It could take a week to get through all of that material, maybe an entire college semester to thoroughly understand it along with all the related criticism. Very few people are interested in taking months or years to understand long gone cultural minutiae, but let's say I'm bored of watching vidfeeds and want a rush. In a second, I can have the knowledge it might have taken years of painstaking focus to gain. 'Threads are a cheap novelty, like listening to the radio decades ago, except that the mind is the new radio and now it's possible to receive every station's feed all at once." Hargrove had the computer play a different pattern within the 'threads wave patterns. Beethoven's easily recognizable ninth symphony was set to breakbeats with sound bytes of Shakespeare and Milton pushing the patriarchal agenda.

"Now that's annoying. It'd be a bad day for me if that was in my head and there was no way to turn it off," said Riggs.

"Yes, and then think of the deadliness of 'thread addiction." Hargrove picked up another 'thread and put it under the microscope.

Riggs fought down visualizing a cold, dead Vitaly.

"There's something more powerful at work in the human psyche than the recognition of danger. Sure, you might recognize the danger, but if there's a corresponding biological need, say, that is met through 'threads, people are going to go ahead and take the risk."

Riggs was genuinely stumped. "What need though?"

"We've inherited certain drives from our species, drives regulating sex, hunger, sleep, shelter, and community."

"Community drive?" mouthed Riggs.

"You talking, raising money for some kind of activist issue?" asked Evan.

"People don't often pay enough attention to the community drive," said Hargrove. "But a fulfilled community drive takes the sharpness out of all the rest of the drives. You don't have any community to offer you protection. It's going to be harder to sleep at night. The same is true for eating regularly and for sex. The more secure your community, the more food, sleep, and sex you'll get."

"But this community is very secure and I'm not getting any sex," said Evan.

"Who do you think gets the most sex of all?" asked Hargrove.

"Among us?" asked Mary Crestwood.

"I guess Evan is ruled out." Riggs gave Evan a light punch and he grabbed his shoulder in pain.

Hargrove let out a short laugh. "No, in history, I mean. Is it more likely some leper is fulfilling his erotic desire, a soldier, or the King of Persia?"

"Oh, now that you put it that way . . ." said Mary.

Hargrove nodded. "The King constructs a bordello of virgins to make sure he doesn't contract something unpleasant and then protects the space. He beheads anyone that sneaks into the henhouse and casts out any of the tainted goods."

"What's that got to do with taking 'threads?" asked Riggs.

"Everything! Communities are built on shared knowledge, shared understanding of culture, the ability to synthesize differences between opposing cultures. History's earliest conflicts came about as a result of fighting for resources. To great degree, we're still there, smacking each other on the head like enraged infants wanting permanent possession of a miniature firetruck. Even though it's apparent that there's more than enough to go around in the world, greed rears its ugly head and has people grabbing for twice, three times, or in the case of billionaires, hundreds of thousands of times what they need. But then you have a youth counterculture. People get fed up with the disparity between the poor and the rich. People start looking around and wondering why the richest countries call out regular airstrikes on the poorest territories on earth. It boils down to a cultural eugenics system. It's a misunderstanding of culture, a failure to create healthy community, and an attempt to carpet bomb away all the untidy edges of human society, all those people representing ideologies that don't fit with the culture of the wealthy."

"But the 'threads still don't make sense if that's the case!" said an exasperated Riggs. "If 'threads were about cultural amalgamation they wouldn't contain merely snippets approved by Harold Bloom. There would be Buddhist prayers, haikus, lyrics from Fela Kuti and other Afrobeat artists, quotes of Cambodian freedom fighters, Nigerians, Haitians, Palestinians, Syrians, Lebanese, Ukrainians: it wouldn't just be Shakespeare."

"Well, that's perhaps the ugly side of the 'threads. The big wave of these things are steeped in a background of Western culture. They are Shakespeare heavy now, but once 'threads begin to circulate worldwide, you'll start to see more cultural syncretism."

"Excuse me, but that doesn't seem right, Dr. Hargrove. I think we aren't seeing 'threads with African literature and culture because Africa doesn't have the backing to produce them. Whoever made these things must be a Westerner, selecting their own culture over and against the rest. From my perspective, mytopia is always better than yourtopia. If I'm some xenophobic American conservative, and I come across the technology to brainwash the world into accepting all of the mainstays as well as the minutiae of my culture, then I will very gladly take the blindfold from my own eyes regarding world culture and, instead, blindfold the world to their own cultural practices. The 'thread, then, is meant to tie everyone together in the worst of ways."

Hargrove whistled at Riggs's clarity on the issue and her linguistic display.

"It's too bad for Vitaly," said Crestwood.

"Yes," said Hargrove, "especially since his taking the drug amounts to a kind of drowning himself in his own image. Imagine cutting yourself with the glass from a mirror to get closer to your reflection."

Riggs frowned imperceptibly.

"That's enough for now. Why don't you return to your rooms for some rest?"

Chapter 9 - Philosoporific

Robert looked out to the sea through a pair of oversize binoculars and dialed Maria Fey. Maria answered, sounding half asleep.

"Did I wake you? You been working too hard?"

"Not all of us can drop work for months at a time. What do you need, Robert."

"Maria, I want to see you. You mind coming out to the beach house? Can you come soon?" Robert's hands felt clammy on the binoculars.

Maria let a couple seconds pass. "I asked what you needed."

"I need to see you."

"Need to come clean on the theft of my record player?"

"Oh, I really needed that."

"What did you need my record player for?"

"Had a minor experiment. I'm all finished with it now."

"Did the experiment involve bar-hopping?"

"How do you know about that?"

"You're important. We have bodyguards tailing you to make sure you don't get into trouble."

"Oh, right."

"You know, I would have let you borrow my record player if you'd asked."

"I know. That's why I didn't ask."

"That's a stupid reason to not ask."

"If I know you'll say yes. Why ask?"

"So I'll know where my record player went and not freak out that someone broke into my house and then have those German guys track around looking for broken windows, forced doors, that kind of thing. I caught one of them looking through my unmentionables."

"Oh. They find anything there?"

"I see how it is with you. Is it urgent?" prodded Maria.

"It's always urgent."

"That doesn't sound urgent."

"How long?" pleaded Robert.

"I don't know. Give me an hour."

Riggs sat down at Vitaly's desk. She flipped through the journal he'd put together for _Tower Defender_. She read the words "There is no political solution" written with a dash beside it followed by "The Police." Riggs didn't recall Vitaly being much of an activist. She opened his desk drawer and saw envelopes stuffed with 'threads. "Damnit," thought Riggs, "Vitaly may have died but his sickness has a life of its own."

Maria wandered around to the back of the house to find Robert gazing out to sea.

"The distance terminates the same way as with eyesight. What's different cognitively between perception's end and physical ends?" asked Robert.

Maria answered, "Still thinking about the Fibonacci series? You believe you're thinking of infinity, but you're just stuck going in circles like a Moebius strip."

"Would it change anything if there was an end in sight?"

"We try to see beyond the end, beyond the limitations. According to King Solomon, God set eternity in the hearts of men," said Maria.

"I've always wondered what that was supposed to mean, setting eternity inside man."

"Right, how long did he set it there? Did he pick it back up later?"

"What is eternity anyway? And is it fair for God to set eternity in man's heart and also make him mortal?" Robert asked.

"You know, maybe life felt a lot longer to mankind in the morning hours of civilization. Before electricity. Before a flush toilet." Maria sat close to Robert.

Robert could feel the static charge of Maria's body. "Perhaps eternity meant the power to imagine rather than the thirst for immortality."

"Regardless, Solomon was one of the wealthiest humans in history, and he had too much time on his hands and near infinite resources. The rest of humanity finds limitation."

Robert watched heat lightning play across the horizon way out over the ocean. "Still, isn't there something about the vastness of the sea and sky that feels eternal?"

"It's your mind that makes it feel so," said Maria.

"But it's there, vast and deep, whether or not I'm here to witness it."

"Just phenomenological happenstance. If you were a thousand miles tall, the ocean would appear as a puddle, the earth a backyard."

"Your perspectives aren't really helping me. I've sometimes had a hard time distinguishing reality from visions. When I look out to sea with these binoculars, sometimes I think I see cities miles out in the ocean. Atlantean utopias with sky cars shuttling through skyscrapers."

"That's rather odd but maybe not worrisome."

"Isn't it? What would I have to tell you I'd seen before you started to worry?" Robert's face looked tired as he looked back out to sea.

"We sometimes see what we want. Maybe you should ask yourself why you're thinking about a New Atlantis."

"It's because of the deparole. I wonder whether my rational capacity was changed by it, or if that's another empty, Atlantean dream. I'm beginning to think there's no such thing as human perfection. Progress is make believe. If human civilization has a narrative, it's certainly got very little to do with progress."

Maria took the binoculars from Robert and looked out to sea. "Sky cars you say?"

"Sleek, silver ones."

Maria turned and looked through the binoculars in a south-easterly direction, finding the endlessly rising Communitas Tower reflecting light off its silver exterior. "You sure you weren't looking this way?" Maria handed Robert his binoculars back. "Get some rest. The scan begins tomorrow."

"I'm really okay. It's not just all bars. I've been doing some work as well."

"Oh? Go on."

"I think I've solved the Archimedes problem."

"What was your process?"

"The failure of Archimedes at Syracuse is what got me thinking. I looked through his world construct and saw too perfect of a utopia. I didn't see many average people, didn't see any broken or ugly things. There weren't beggars on the streets or kids stealing bread from the market. No garbage anywhere. So, the first trick was to roughen up the edges a little."

"Roughen up the edges?" Maria repeated questioningly.

"As I was saying before, perfection is a myth. However, political propaganda works by supplying the lie of progress or even outright perfection. It's not hard to sell an image of the nation as perfect to people who will gladly take a pretend version of perfection to feel better about their way of life. People accept it so they don't have to see the poor, don't have to see the glaring problems of their society. People get nostalgic and dream of this fake homeland without faults, wanting to identify with something inherently good, but, again, a perfect society just doesn't exist."

"Wait. So what did you _do_? Take a virtual piss on our digital Syracuse?"

"Yeah, basically. I coded in diseases, suffering, graffiti, pedophiles, assholes, scumbags, stench, decay. I made it _real_."

Maria sighed. "You ruined it! Every time I build something nice, someone always comes along and wrecks it."

"Unfortunately, that first alteration didn't do the job."

"What? You turned the place into a nightmare for nothing?"

"Just part of the process. The second component was to fool the subject into a frenzied state of anxiety," said Robert.

"So you have proof that your theory works?"

"I got Einstein to finish work on catabolic energy generation within cells, a breakthrough that could lengthen human lifespans to see ages triple Methuselah's. That is, so long as they have the good fortune to live in a world free of violence."

"Free of your assholes and scumbags?"

"More than that, Maria. With an incredibly longer lifespan, you give men and women several lifetimes of freedom from the worry of dying."

But freeing up man from fearing his own death for centuries might embolden him to do all kinds of terrible things," said Maria.

"I rather think that it would give him more focus on living well. You have to think, if a man knows that in thirty to forty years his life will end, he may not feel like there's much point in amassing knowledge, creating art, generating wealth, giving to the poor. He doesn't have all that long to enjoy them. Might as well run the car over fool hill at max speed and enjoy the rush. However, if you're looking down the well of a lifetime lasting two thousand or more years, there's motivation to healthy living and to helping others raise their standard of living. The promise of what one could do in all that time is quite motivating, don't you think?"

"Sounds like idle dreaming to me." Maria stood up. "You need anything else?"

Robert let his eyes move up and down Maria's form. "That a proposition?"

"No."

"Then I guess not."

Next morning, the Germans followed Robert to the lab, turning off once he made it to the lot where the other Ferrari was still in full-on rave stakeout mode. The Germans had perimeter lights circling the Ferrari at a radius of thirty feet alternating from a lightning-quick strobe to a gentle disco wash. Robert daydreamed of a group of assailants appearing so he could see the ex-marines in operation. He imagined the Ferrari spinning into action, drifting in a figure eight in time with the frenetic pulse of a London-based DJ spinning acid house as the side window rolled down, revealing the barrel of an automatic weapon, hostiles mowed down with controlled bursts.

There was no such luck. The parking lot was vacant as an abandoned strip-mining operation, just a few cars scattered here and there. Crazy Link's Comic Shop was open. Unkempt fantasy junkies reclined in dental chairs wearing VR headsets, yelling commands at one another in between trips out back to get stoned with Link. Game junkies were a dime bag a dozen now that the worlds were so inspired. Although, all the new tech didn't really change much about gaming culture. Decades before, when games were all mostly based in the collective imaginations of a group gathered around a table with pens, paper, and dice, identities were spirited away just as readily.

Robert had once made the mistake of going into Crazy Link's on lunch-break to see if they carried the old Captain Rodge comics or _Tower Defender_ novelizations. Link turned out to have no interest in any of the space serials, _Tower Defender_ novelizations, or personal hygiene. Link's greatest distaste was for the future, either in the broad terms of politics and technology or in more familiar contexts of one's own prospects. Link was, however, well connected to the past. As a result, Crazy Link's was overstocked with tales featuring heroes in tights and Tolkien influenced crap about guys swinging broadswords. The place smelled like the barracks of some medieval cohort of barbarians. Between them, Link and his understudies averaged about one bath a week. They followed the lore and superstitions of the Middle Ages that held that bathing was a sure way to lose one's health by contracting the plague or pneumonia, unless, of course, one was on a quest to recover priceless artifacts or gear, in which case diving into lakes was encouraged. Considering baths were cold affairs in the Middle Ages, it probably was smart to forego them then.

Now, however, at Link's, the move to live authentic, old-world lives wasn't helping anyone to score. That is, unless, the only type of scoring one cared about involved slashing goblins with broadswords or getting oversized dime bags half-price. The weed hook-up came about because Link's brother-in-law Rufus was well connected, and keeping Link stoned in his comic shoppe kept him away from Rufus and Zelda's (legal name change to Stephanie pending) two impressionable sons that had, so far, never heard about fairies other than the one that handled teeth.

Only Maria Fey was in the lab. She nodded a hello to Robert. "Let's get this going." Maria led Robert into the chamber. "We'll communicate with you through the mask, but because of the nature of the scan, communication will be extremely limited. Hopefully we'll only speak during the entrance and exit, but if there's an emergency, we'll break protocol. You'll walk down those steps into the pool there. Then I'll put the mask in place. I don't think I went over its functions before, but it comes complete with a straw for water and another for a vitamin and mineral paste. Every five hours you'll get a notification that you should eat. All you'll need of the paste is two spoonfuls. After two spoonfuls you'll still feel hungry but everything your body needs is in there. Oh, but you can drink as much water as you wish."

"That's quite gracious," Robert managed.

"We thought of everything," the pretty scientist replied. "There won't be any clock, so you might feel a little confused on time. But if you get tired, sleep. If you get hungry, eat. If the scan goes so long that you get uncomfortable or kinda start to lose it, we'll try to make some adjustments."

"Adjustments? What can you adjust?"

"Well, we're going to try to get through this as fast as possible. Hopefully, we won't have to adjust anything. Oh, and sorry to tell you this, but you're going in naked."

"You can't be serious."

"Think of it this way, you're getting your wish to toss off all your clothes in front of me." Maria grinned for a moment then busied herself with the controls.

"Naked?" Robert asked, hoping he had misunderstood.

To make her message clear, Maria closed the distance between them and drew her hands to his hips. She clutched his shirt and peeled it off slowly, raising it over his head while her thighs kissed against his own. "Now, do the rest and get in." Maria pointed to the pool.

Robert stripped down, tentatively poked his toe into the congealment and found it perfectly warm, almost inviting. Robert figured then that the floor and walls of the pool must contain heated panels. He took a few steps down into the pool and the congealment sufficiently covered over his sense of unease at being completely naked in the same room with a fully clothed Maria Fey. She helped him into the helmet and instructed further. "Okay, so take the stairs to the floor and then walk to the middle of the pool to a declivity. Sit there and the sac will form around you. I wish I could tell you how long we need you down there, but we don't know ourselves. Remember, we won't contact you."

"Communicating could mess up the scan?"

Maria nodded in the affirmative.

"You don't really know do you?"

"Our working theory is that we need an uninterfered reading of your brain. We'll be monitoring you though. So, if things are really looking bleak, tell us and we'll pull the plug."

"Let's agree on a code word if somethings goes wrong."

"Yeah. How about help?"

"That works."

"We will open lines of communication with you just as soon as the scan is complete." Maria wondered if Robert would have some kind of psychotic experience during the scan. She figured if he was hearty enough to make it through the intense first month of deparoling, when the old familiar sounds of a first language came out something like the alien sounding chorus of a forest at night, he'd be okay for a couple lonely days underneath a pool of goo.

Chapter 10 – Mytopia Myopia

Moving through the congealment was strange, to say the least. It was rather a lot like being in a bathtub full of Jell-O. Through his mask, Robert couldn't see much of anything as he walked down the steps of the pool and then made his way to the center. The path was lit. So, even though visibility was low, the directions were apparent. Neither was falling much of a problem; displacing the congealed substance took no small amount of effort. It took a couple minutes for Robert to get in place. At which time, cables attached to his mask.

It didn't take long for Robert to notice a pronounced enhancement to the oxygen coming through the mask. The air had an odd but faint taste, like plastic maybe. Breathing it in made focusing difficult. After ten minutes, despite his greatest effort, he couldn't keep his eyes open. Soon after, the visions began. Ever since the deparole, Robert's visual center had worked overtime. The optic nerves made much greater sense to his ratiocinating mind than the jumble of sounds that filled his ears. Artists spoke of developing the sight of the eye and strove to see more precisely. The deparole was a mainline injection of the artist's eye and now Robert saw the world represented perfectly in his mind. The amplified oxygen was overstimulating, to say the least, and Robert had much difficulty reining in his mind's exploration of memory. He thought of Maria's steel grey eyes and stayed there. Maria, monitoring his condition from above, found everything stable.

Hours passed. Without outside light to gauge time, Robert felt disoriented. He read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea in the mask display, thought of song melodies. The human voice, even one's own, at least provides some semblance of community. So, Robert sang, or hummed more like, since he hadn't yet rebuilt and associated all the words with the songs they belonged to. He started with folk music, switched to Mo-town, then classic rock, and then skipped Death Metal and New Metal, but not Hair Metal, which was one of the greatest genres of them all. Frustration rang especially high when he reached his childhood favorite, Born to be Wild. He had often sung along to Steppenwolf as a six-year-old but now missed every other word.

The day wore on. Occasionally the notification to eat came on, and Robert chewed his allotment of tasteless vitamins and minerals, washing them down with chilled, soda water. When tiredness came along, Robert, frazzled from the interminable hours, passed out almost immediately and woke back up almost as fast. Robert went through endless cycles of the same thing, noticing he was talking and singing out loud much more than usual. The deparole had been hard, but at least he had shared his time with others. Robert thought of Riggs and Vitaly. Robert took a deep breath and thought that perhaps the scan was nearly finished.

Sally Riggs left the deparole unit two weeks after Robert. She hadn't let on how quickly she had reparoled because she didn't want any extra attention, but she aced the exit examinations with a near record score. A research team based out of Comm Tower headed up by one Jake Disentegro saw her scores and offered her a position starting immediately. She accepted the offer.

Outside the deparole ward, Riggs was greeted by a welcome committee of two from CommUnitas. Angie, a busty redhead, wore tight fitting jeans and a form fitting grey blouse that complimented her figure. Jake was a too-smart looking twenty something. He took the wheel and navigated them out of the suburbs. After fifteen minutes they arrived in downtown Cityscape. Comm Tower loomed spectrally over the skyline. They stopped at a dive called The Lonely Hunter, wedged between Guardian And Gel, a hair salon offering free childcare during stylings, and Millennium Falcons, a pet store specializing in rare birds. Jake ordered a pitcher of quadruple-brewed Deadeye lager and a round of whisky for the party. A pretty girl behind the bar, dark, curly hair and handsome, square shoulders brought out three beer glasses with various cartoons romping across their sides and filled three shot glasses with a finger of whisky each. Rigg's glass had a loop of cowboys shooting at one another. She almost chuckled as a cartoon cowboy scurried away holding his behind after a cartoon cowgirl scored a direct hit.

The three of them lifted their shots and took the swallow of liquor at full tilt.

"Strong stuff. Burns right away," said Jake. "Not synthetic either."

Angie and Jake took their drinking seriously. The first pitcher of beer was all but gone after half an hour.

Jake motioned to the barkeep. "We need a second pitcher over here." As the barkeep turned to fill the order, Jake followed her with his eyes.

Another half hour later, the second pitcher was empty. Jake was talking fast, but Angie was still buttoned-down, hadn't said a thing. If Jake was bothered by her silence, he didn't show it. He took frequent glances at her chest while taking big swallows of beer, as if the more he looked the more he might see.

"I think you're really going to enjoy being part of the research team at Comm," Jake half shouted, and then taking a long sweeping look at Angie said, "I know I do."

Riggs rolled her eyes. "So what drew you to work for CommUnitas?"

"Good question. I was approached just like you after finishing my deparole."

"You were deparoled?" asked Riggs.

"Yeah. Everyone on our team's been deparoled. It's, well, a rite of passage, you might say. I only finished my deparole three months ago."

Riggs watched a cartoon Cowgirl spin her six-shooter on her finger and expertly holster it. "If you don't mind my asking, why'd you deparole?"

"Thing is, I didn't _choose_ to deparole." Jake wiped a hand across his forehead as if trying to wipe away a memory.

"No?"

"Oh, no." Jake raised both eyebrows. "What idiot would choose that kind of torture?"

Riggs chuckled. "You'd be surprised, but tell me, how'd you find yourself in a deparole ward?"

"It's a long story," said Jake.

Riggs got the waitress's attention, pointed to the pitcher.

"I started using 'threads to finish a second Ph.D."

"A second? Who needs two Ph.D.s?"

"Well, the first one was in Political Science. You can't imagine the hours sitting in a library carrel catching up on centuries of scholarship over the most circular arguments. There's one book, forgotten the title, that describes the metaphor of a sinking ship turning to aft for seven pages. The author makes a big deal about his ship metaphor, then uses the most abstruse language to describe the ship turning, but then never comes back to it. Too often, authors hailed as masters never actually say anything."

"Maybe you went to the wrong school?"

Jake laughed. "You choose the wrong field, any school is the wrong school. It's just the way it is. I'll tell you though, it nearly killed me when I discovered I couldn't get a job with a terminal degree."

Riggs took a sip of beer. "You're all kinds of clever."

Jake grinned, continued. "So, for a second Ph.D., I went into the sciences, studied molecular chemistry."

"Given your disdain for academic study. It's a surprise that you bothered with a second Ph.D."

"Well, the first degree gave me an education I didn't expect. I discovered I couldn't sit around reading books until someone came along and handed me the keys to a Ferrari. Actually, that's kinda what interested me in molecular chemistry. I thought, "Damn, why waste all this time reading this crap? I wasn't getting anywhere by learning the stuff sitting in library stacks. I imagined a way to encode a century's worth of information on blotter paper that would talk to the brain, just latch onto receptors like an opiate, but instead of chilling you out, force feed you information."

Riggs set her beer down. "So, you're saying you came up with the idea for 'threads?"

"Yeah, and then I made the things. I was studying organic chemistry after all. By the end of the third year of the program I got the receptor sites to accept the encoded 'thread. Gave them a protein latch to make permanent microcephalic bonds. Once I refined the process, I boosted myself day in and day out.

"You should be given another Ph.D. for creating 'threads."

"That's not really how it works."

Okay, so once you got the 'threads going, finishing the degree was easy street?"

"Yes and no. Packing in that kind of information download can lead to some serious burnout. Let me tell you, my head was bent from all the 'threads I dropped to finish that damn degree.

"So you learned nothing getting that degree? You were just another 'threadhead?"

"Yes and no. I was an addict sure, but I was learning _fast._ I'd do a 'thread every fifteen minutes along with energy drinks, black coffee, cigarettes, adderall. I was known as Dr. Adderall in the lab."

"Isn't adderall the new coffee for undergrads?"

"I wouldn't say it's that widespread, not even close."

"Really?"

"Nobody likes to admit it but there's a major conservative movement on campuses that rejects amplifying the mind in unnatural ways. At State, they held drug free rallies and staged anti-drug marches with guys dressed up as mushrooms and syringes. The syringes and mushrooms would touch one of the straights on parade and the straight would fall on the ground and pretend to convulse."

"Crazy."

"Takes all kinds. Fact remains, I thought after I finished the degree I'd slow down, but I was in free fall. A day after conferral, I went on a binge. Whole five-week period I can't account for. First thing that became clear to me after coming to was that I had lost every damn word I'd ever known, and I was locked in a deparole ward. You know what kinda panic that creates?"

"Lots worse places to land than a deparole ward. You're given all day to read and play video games."

Jake laughed. "You're talking about a therapeutic deparole ward. In your ward, I'm guessing you had your own room? Own queen size mattress? A mini-fridge with beer if you wanted it?"

"It was a pretty nice place."

"Lucky you. I woke up in a military deparole ward: room full of bunks, electrified chicken wire everywhere, guards with electroclubs, the food was shit, and we were yelled at day in, day out.

"They'd yell at deparolees?"

"Sadistic, right? But I landed on my feet. Rose above a bad situation and figured myself out in the meantime. Relearning language was a lot like learning to use a broken hand again. When I was eight, I fell trying to jump from the roof of a pool house into a swimming pool." Jake held up his right arm. "Broke this arm and hand. Arm was stuck in a cast for weeks, but I had to go back to school and _write_. At first, I couldn't make a straight mark, but then I thought about the idea of a line and coordination wasn't a problem anymore. I mean, there was a waver here and there. I'm not saying I was Rothko all the sudden, but I realized ambidexterity is all in the head. You want to write with your left hand, you transfer what you know about writing with your right hand and it's done. You see, it's just a matter of letting yourself think about the process; it's metacognition. At the deparole ward, I stopped freaking out once I realized I hadn't lost cognitive function. All the years and years of stuff I'd learned was still floating around up there, just in a weird conceptual way, unattached to linguistic patterns. But, you know, the best thing about getting deparoled is you learn that you don't need language to think. So, after that epiphany, aside from being completely unable to express anything, I found that being deparoled wasn't all that bad."

"So your deparole was fine after that?"

"More than fine. After I realized I still knew everything, at least conceptually, I was only a butterfly lick away from full linguistic restoration."

"How's that?"

"Call me paranoid, but I had prepared some emergency 'threads and placed them in my wallet. Since they looked like a roll of stamps, no one messed with them. I pretended at a rapid reacquisition of language. I watched to see how fast the others went and hung with the ones with the best results. I saw the CommUnitas guys checking out everyone's progress to figure out who the stars were and ramped my development past everyone in the last couple weeks so that I could get on with them."

"And you don't think they didn't figure out what you were doing?"

"Clearly not. They were too busy thinking that none of their patients would figure out their agenda. For instance, they didn't think anyone would see through the story hour indoctrination. As if it wasn't obvious. Maybe in our era of empty entertainment they figured most people don't realize that stories teach behavior. Didacticism is the academic word that gets thrown around. People don't remember portions of their lives as stories for no reason. Stories transfer information, even when storytellers and their audience are unaware of this didactic function of story. So, you get that idiot Hargrove grinning to himself while he's telling a Rodge tale, thinking he's implanting behavioral ideas in the deparolees unconsciously--total bullshit all that Freudian and Jungian stuff, unconscious and conscious self my ass. The only thing that matters is the gestalt. If your brain registers something on an unconscious level and then you respond correctly, what does it matter what "level" your brain is working on? Thing that matters is that your brain is working at all." Jake watched Riggs over the tip of his beer glass and took a greedy swallow.

"So, then what is Rodge supposed to represent?"

"You didn't figure it out?"

"Guess not."

"You got the job. Rodge represents you. You represent Rodge."

"Give me a less empirical definition?"

"Harmless dissent."

"And what makes that so useful?" asked Riggs.

"There's no danger of revolutionary behavior. It's all under the surface. Standard dissatisfaction with a shit system, but you get the critique. These CommUnitas guys, they're your run of the mill bureaucratic, linear thinkers, but they know that's their weakness. That's why they employ the creatives and the nonconformists, use their ideas to create workable systems. But, again, you can only have so much of a nonconformist. Take your boy Vitaly . . ."

"What do you know about Vitaly?"

"Heh, well, enough. For one, he didn't measure up to the Rodge hero identity, not even close. He was too much of a nonconformist; he was a threat. That's why he didn't live to see a full reparole."

Riggs took a somber pull from her glass. "Outside job?"

"No, it was all him. He a friend of yours?"

"I don't think Vitaly had friends, but yeah, I knew him. He was pretty good at _Tower Defender_."

Jake smirked, "Well, yeah, he better have been."

"What do you mean?"

"Vitaly found me while I still had access to the lab at school. He knew I had something to do with creating 'threads. The guy wanted specialized 'threads, not the shit you find on the street. Well, I didn't really want to oblige him, told him to screw off."

"And then?"

"Next day I get a message from him, says to check my bank account. Three million credits had dropped in from Vitaly Industries. A miniature fortune like that has a way of talking, you know? So, I made him what he wanted, limited production run."

"Which was?"

"Well, he asked for two things. First, he wanted a series of 'threads with all of _Tower Defender_ 's code and thousands of hours of all the best livestreams of the game. Then he wanted a harder version of the 'threads you find on the street, something that doesn't fade out after ten or fifteen minutes. He wanted a trip that lasted days."

"He made his own death wish then?"

Jake lifted his hands in knowing agreement.

"And damn, with all that information about _Tower Defender_ , he should have been a much better player."

"Well, you have to think, he was deparoled. For what it's worth, you don't lose visual memory, but there's still barriers to understanding what you knew. And Vitaly didn't strike me as the kind of guy that was going to break his back to get over a hurdle like that. Until you have the epiphany, you're lost in a deparole."

"Yeah, but he had envelopes full of 'threads," said Riggs.

"He came to me almost a year ago. I'm sure he'd burned through everything I'd given him. Whatever he had after the deparole was street shit." Jake took another drink. "Hey, let's lay off the heavy talk. We're celebrating your entry to the CommUnitas research team."

"True enough. Tell me what I'm gonna like about CommUnitas."

"For starters, you seen their rack of benefits?" Jake turned his eyes to Angie's chest and raised his eyebrows.

Riggs folded her arms in front of her chest in protest.

Jake glanced at the television where a baseball game was heading into the ninth inning, muttered, "Boring and pointless sport."

"Since you know so much about 'threads. How come lots of 'threads are loaded with Jacobean era prose and only work for about ten minutes?"

"Well, I didn't create _those_ 'threads. Probably was someone else working on a degree that had become disenchanted, but it makes sense that somebody would code 'threads to produce linguistic patterns that are literary. 'Threads express the worthlessness of certain types of knowledge. You load up some street thug with eidetic recall of all Shakespeare's late tragedies and you've still got a thug, a witty thug, yeah, but his social position hasn't changed. He certainly can't grab a tenure track line at a state university, even though his head is filled with the same stuff as professors from the last few centuries.

Riggs gave Jake a look that communicated the necessity of getting to the point.

"So you see, you create something like 'threads and eventually it takes on a life of its own. People found a way to subvert the idea of knowledge with the things."

"Now that you're working at CommUnitas, are you, uh, cooking them again?"

Jake laughed. "I like to call it splicing, but no, I'm not."

"Why's that?"

"'Threads aren't like methamphetamines. You can't just make the stuff in a van or the bathroom of a corner drugstore. You need access to serious equipment, a controlled environment, and chemical components that you can't find on the street."

Riggs topped off her glass. "And you had access to school labs."

"Right."

"You miss university life?"

"Oh, who knows. Don't miss the stress. Well, that's not entirely true. Sometimes stress is exciting, gives you something to wake up for. But I've got enough Ph.D.s. I'm glad it's over."

"Well, I kinda meant to teach or conduct research."

"What, trying to dissuade me from CommUnitas? You offering me a post somewhere, decent salary, not too heavy of a workload, friendly people, view of the Rockies?"

"Uh."

"It's never what you think it's going to be. After that celebratory bottle of champagne, you don't get paid for the first two months of the contract, learn you have to drive the bus for the baseball team, and then the fear sets in. That's why most all profs all binge on 'threads now: eases the fear."

"The fear of what?"

"Fear of mortality. That's the primal fear. Impossible to get over it. You work at a school, everything constantly comes to an end, keeping mortality right in your face. A semester ends, an academic year, students graduate and leave, even the beginning of a new academic calendar starts out in the fall, nature's annual reminder of mortality."

"So 'threads are an academic palimpsest? A reminder of human decay, bestowing immediate knowledge that vanishes as quickly as it appeared?"

"Yeah, they're something like a palimpsest. They point out that certain fields of knowledge are outmoded since they neither hold economic or cultural value. Hey, gotta see about something. Be right back."

Jake got up and found the barkeep, tried his hand at drunk flirtation, amusing for Riggs, but not for the barkeep.

"And you were deparoled too, Angie?"

Angie lit a cigarette and, not bothering to fill her glass, drank straight from the pitcher.

Jake returned with a fifth pitcher of beer and another round of shots.

"Something went wrong with her deparole didn't it?" asked Riggs.

"Hah, well. Maybe it did and maybe it didn't." Jake fingered with something in his pocket, making clicking noises. "You know the question, 'do you read or do you 'thread?'" Jake chuckled with self-satisfaction.

Riggs looked at Jake over her beer, smirked. "Hadn't heard that one."

"Needless to say, I'm not that big of a reader."

"And you haven't suffered any of the deleterious effects of 'threads?"

"Nope. Maybe I'm immune, cause I use 'threads daily, hourly sometimes. In fact . . ." Jake pulled out an empty container of dental floss, the letter d marked over with an m so it read mental floss. "Take a 'thread on me?"

"Just stick to drinkin' that's alright with you."

With practiced ostentation, Jake shook out a 'thread, leaned his head back and dropped it on his tongue. The pretty barkeep shook her head in disbelief.

Jake glanced at his watch. "Oh, good. We're just in time for some gladiatorial combat."

Riggs looked at the television screen, saw a helicopter firing missiles at figures running through a junkyard. "That's _Tower Defender_. It's not exactly gladiatorial combat."

"That? No way we're watching that crap. Hey," Jake got the attention of the barkeeper. "Can you change that screen to channel 1519?"

The channel switched to a view of a facsimile of the Aztec Temple of the Sun, overlaid with the title Aztec Havoc written in traditional Mexican script. The scene cut to an aerial shot of a room constructed of massive bricks of gold where two combatants in Spanish armor circled one another, each wielding an antique blade.

"Wanna make the night more interesting?" asked Jake.

Riggs looked around at the bar's lethargic patrons. "Yeah, sure."

Jake poured beer into the three glasses. "Let's bet on Aztec Havoc."

Riggs eyed a warrior in blue stepping to avoid a lunge attack. "Yeah, sure. Why not?"

"Angie, you in?" asked Jake.

Angie, blank look on her face, shrugged, then smirked as a cartoon cowboy on her beer glass played dead and then tried to peer up a cartoon cowgirl's skirt.

"Okay, my money's on the blue warrior." Jake dropped a hundred credits on the table as the blue warrior tripped and then rolled out of the way before a sword slammed down on the ground where'd he just been.

"You're on." Riggs counted out some bills and laid them on the table.

"You know Aztec Havoc is filmed in CommUnitas tower?" asked Jake.

"Yeah, of course. Who doesn't? I still don't get why all the combatants are deparoled beforehand if they're going to fight to death anyway."

"Discipline isn't for the criminal as much as it is for larger society. Gives people a reason to think twice before they break any laws."

"So you did learn something from that Ph.D. in political science."

"Hah, maybe, but that's logic. If you think about the discipline system for even a second, it's pretty clear."

The red warrior feinted right, sending his opponent off balance, and then plunged his blade through the blue warrior's throat. He pulled it out cleanly, releasing a stream of blood.

"Well damn," said Riggs.

"No, look. He's not done," said Jake.

The blue warrior held his left hand to his throat, attempting to staunch the blood, though still it came. He took a wobbling step toward his opponent.

"Oh, he's done. Just a matter of time before he bleeds out," said Riggs.

The warrior in red closed the distance to the wounded fighter, parried a weak attack, and struck a hard blow across blue armor. The hurt fighter fell hard on the golden floor.

"Damn!" Jake pounded the bar table, clanking glasses and earning a few stares. "Bet on the next round?"

Riggs picked up the stack of credits. "Sure."

"Why not double it? Give me a chance to get my money back. Two hundred credits?"

"Sure." Riggs put the stack of credits back on the bar. "We're going with the same colors?"

"Yeah, why not."

The scene cut to a different golden room. Two lithe looking women wearing short dresses and feathered headdresses escorted a burly warrior wearing red armor into the room. He tried to escape back out the door, but the small girls held him fast, pushed him to the floor. A warrior in blue looked on as the girls left the room, sealing it shut by closing a heavy iron door. The blue warrior tapped his heels against the floor and began levitating off the ground.

Jake's eyes went wide. "Are you kidding? That's an incredible disadvantage for my guy!"

The levitating blue fighter moved much faster than the man in red, and easily chased the red warrior around the room, quickly cutting off the diffident warrior's right arm and then his left.

"I can't believe this." Jake took a swallow of beer. "What kind of stupid fighter is that?"

The levitating warrior slashed at the red warrior again and again. Eventually the blue fighter backed into a corner to bleed out.

"Damn, you're on a roll." Jake watched Riggs pick up the larger stack of money. "What about we make it four hundred credits the last round?"

Riggs held the credits for a few seconds longer before replacing them on the bar. "Alright, fine."

The third round was a water battle. The screen displayed a large indoor pool enclosed by solid walls of gold. Four warriors in red equipped with lightweight daggers were pushed from a high platform by girls wearing feathered headdresses into the water below.

"I'll stick with blue," said Jake.

"Yeah, but where is the blue team?" said Riggs.

Jake added four hundred more credits to the pot on the table. "Oh, I'm sure they'll surface soon enough."

"What?" Riggs took a long pull from her beer, eyed the stacked credits on the table, eyed Jake.

"Just wait." Jake leaned back in his chair with a smirk on his face.

The red team wasted no time swimming to the walls, looking for a way to climb out of the pool.

"What's going on here?"

After a minute of watching the red team try to find a way out of the pool, a fighter on the red team vanished under water and a half-dozen fins painted blue cut through the surface. Two of the fighters worked together and speared a shark. The shark spun and clamped its jaws on one of the warrior's torsos and took him under. The two remaining fighters quickly followed the fate of the others, patches of blood red water the only remaining trace of the red team.

Jake turned to make eye contact with Riggs. "Looks like I win this round."

Riggs's face went red. "You cheat!" She reared back and sent a fisted missile into the side of Jake's face, knocking him into the bar where he took a hard bounce and fell out of his chair to the floor with a thud. Angie leapt from her stool, tackling Riggs. She noticed Angie's moves fit the drunken bar fight style and with a quick feint pushed Angie past her and down to keep her from diving headfirst into the edge of a table. She glanced at Jake, noticed he was trying to scramble off the floor, briefly thought of applying the _Dim Mak_ to his sternum, but thinking better, executed two quick chops to his brachial plexus, rendering him unconscious. Riggs had different ideas with Angie, but was getting looks from around the bar, especially from the barkeep, who had pulled a shotgun.

"Leave, now," the barkeep said through clinched teeth.

Riggs pulled Angie off the floor and drug her to the door, turned, pointed at Jake, "He's got the tab." With the sound of the shotgun pumping, Riggs pushed herself and Angie out of the bar and around the corner. She walked half a block and went into the next place she saw, a bar called _Thirsty Somethings_. She slid into a comfortably dingy booth. Riggs took a snap case out of her wallet and pinched out a piece of blotter paper with a neon pink unicorn printed on it and, pressing it in Angie's palm as if it were the black spot, said, "Eat it."

Chapter 11 – Moebius Strip Club

Riggs sat in a drab booth across from Angie. "I know you're smart. I want to hear from you."

"What makes you think I'm smart?"

Riggs looked at Angie's jade-green eyes, noticed she wore contacts. She wondered what her natural color was. "You work for CommUnitas, for one."

"Well. I maybe used to be smart."

"Used to?"

"CommUnitas doctors screwed up my temporal lobe, the brain's language center. It's almost like having aphasia by lobotomy."

"Jake?"

"No, not him. He's a friend. Guy that leads the research is Staten.

Riggs lifted an eyebrow. "Staten, he's not military by any chance?"

"Yeah, guess so. Major Staten's what they call him."

"Jesus. Did Staten intend to mess you up?"

"Does it matter? Even though the 'threads let me talk. I don't want to talk about that."

Riggs made a show of tightening her fist.

Angie spoke fast, "I've been this way for almost half a year now."

"And it wasn't Jake that did this to you?"

"No, I already told you he's a friend. I was at CommUnitas before him. He's helped me."

"So why don't you just take 'threads more often?"

"That's a bad idea, real bad. You have a shelf life once you get hooked," said Angie.

"If Jake's such a friend. What about the 'threads he can make. Why won't he give you some of his?"

Angie looked past Sally to the muted television screen over the bar. A football star stood on top of a four-foot-tall can of beer, larger maybe, strenuously cracked open its heavy metal tab. "You'll laugh but CommUnitas keeps us locked out of the lab."

"What? I thought you were part of a research team."

"Yeah, that's not completely false. It's just that we're the guinea pigs."

"And they let you leave to pick me up? Just don't go back."

Angie turned her arm over, revealing a thin scar. Not easy to get away from CommUnitas."

"No shit?"

Angie leaned her head back against the grey felt padding of the booth.

"So, you and Jake. You friendly?"

"Ha, no. Jake doesn't have access to CommUnitas's full rack of benefits." Angie straightened up her back, drew attention to her chest.

"Right."

"Really though. I've made certain deals with some of the people there. I give them what they want if they deliver."

"Deliver what?" asked Riggs.

"Hey, aren't we in a bar? I don't mind answering your questions, but why go dry?"

Riggs called for a round and returned to her question. "So what have they done for you."

"Well, once Staten finishes his experiments on me, he's supposed to fix my deparoled mind. They've developed a mind overlay system. Complete with linguistic centers, RAM, and enough disc space to make a Cray supernova."

"So, what's Staten's hold up?"

"It's only in beta right now. Too dangerous to test on a live subject. Though, he's performed the process successfully on mice."

"That's a start, I guess."

"The mice have experienced unprecedented increases in brain activity, followed by a massive drain on the whole system and an eighty percent mortality rate within the first five days. They kept a couple mice going for a few weeks by pumping them with vitamins and fluids, but they still burnt out fast, had heart attacks, developed nervous tics, basically went crazy."

"So if they screwed with your brain, and you're still a guinea pig, why don't they go ahead and run the overlay on you?"

"I don't know. Maybe they're afraid of making their experiments too powerful. Maybe they really do have some humanity and want to wait until the technology's more stable. Because, believe me, you'd have to be out of your damn mind to go through the overlay process right now."

"So why do they want deparoled test subjects?"

"One theory is that the clean slate the deparole creates on neural activity allows for a better connection with mind overlays. If a subject's personality is removed entirely, then minds can be overlaid with a programmed loyalty to CommUnitas."

"Biopower at its finest." Riggs took a long pull from her drink.

"Yeah. Their plan is to burn out individuality and recreate all of CommUnitas in the ideal image. There's already a veritable army of workers, researchers, and drones ready to receive the overlay once it's more stable."

"Any idea what CommUnitas plans to use me for?"

"Of course. They want to scan your mind and use part of it as a template for the overlay. I'll benefit. With your mind overlay, I can regain my linguistic capabilities without using 'threads."

"Why my mind? What makes me so special?"

"Your deparole marks the greatest use of sense apparatus of anyone that's been reparoled. Sort of inhuman, really. If you're going to build a perfect society, it might as well be peopled with extraordinary subjects."

"How do you know about my deparole?"

"The deparole center you went through is owned by CommUnitas. Hargrove, he's on CommUnitas's payroll. He uploads all the records of patient rehabilitation to the CommUnitas archive."

"Seems fairly unethical. Why would someone of esteemed standing like Hargrove become a CommUnitas goon."

"Enticements. When he achieves particularly good work, CommUnitas sends him an escort patterned after a popular twentieth-century movie starlet."

"I should have known."

"CommUnitas' escort service is popular. Look there."

On the street, a girl that looked like Marilyn Monroe exited a taxi cab with a middle age businessman. As the couple entered the bar, Marilyn threw a sultry look at the man, said, "Nothing lasts forever, so live it up, drink it down."

"That's a CommUnitas escort? An android?" asked Riggs.

"Keep your eyes open, you'll see these girls all over. Guys like it because if they've been with one of them, they get the same feeling of gratification from seeing any of the Marys. Plus, the girls that work as escorts for CommUnitas all share the same memories. The individual memories of each Mary are uploaded to a central computer, and then each of them is updated so they know every other girl's experience."

"The oldest profession just got a major upgrade."

"Yeah, the idea is that any one of the Marys will know how to satisfy her future customers."

"So this scanning process. What is it? Is it dangerous?" asked Riggs.

"I wouldn't say it's all that dangerous. CommUnitas actually has several scan acquisition projects currently in the works."

"Do tell."

Angie tried to speak, but nothing came out. She looked flustered and drank the remaining beer in her glass. Riggs drew out another 'thread but Angie shook her head against it.

Riggs got up to order another round and looked out the windows of Thirsty Somethings. She saw CommUnitas Tower, a dominant piece of the skyline looming in the background. She saw Jake as well. He stumbled around the corner and met eyes with her. Jake came through the bar door guardedly.

"I admit, that was a low trick. Here." Jake offered Riggs her four-hundred credits. "Get back to our talk?" One side of Jake's face was puffy, but he didn't seem to mind.

Riggs took the credits. "Don't try something like that again. I'd hate to hurt you worse."

"I get it. You like me and don't want to hurt my feelings. I'd ask for your number, but I already have it."

"Don't be surprised when I don't answer your calls."

"Don't sweat it. You're not my type."

Jake sat down by Angie, clapped her on the back. "Haven't had a night quite like this since I was in the army."

Riggs eyed Jake's swelling face. "You need some ice?"

"Nah, can't feel it. I may not feel so jolly tomorrow, but for now, whatever." Jake ordered another pitcher of beer.

"So, what's my first project with CommUnitas?" asked Riggs.

"Probably some tests on you to understand how your deparole came out so well. Frankly, you may find it pretty boring for a while."

"Oh yeah?"

"But CommUnitas pays well and covers all your expenses. Once you're with CommUnitas. Look." Jake pulled out a CommUnitas pamphlet and handed it to Riggs. She read the same slogan done up in a futuristic font, in the same silver as Comm Tower's exterior: Once you're with CommUnitas, you're taken care of.

Riggs dropped the pamphlet on the table. "They have a gym?"

"Oh yeah, sure. You want a stronger core, they'll replace all that collagen and calcium phosphate with a space-age plastic alloy. Ask nicely, and they might throw in some retractable claws."

Angie was back in her shell, drinking steadily, and Jake was now very tight. He got up and talked to a bald man in a black leather jacket, slipped off with him to a corner. When he returned to the table, his eyes had a faraway look and his conversation devolved into gibberish. Riggs all but stopped drinking but kept ordering for Jake and Angie. Riggs ran her hand across the skin of her forearm where Angie was marked, probably Jake too, looked out the windows of the bar at Comm Tower, felt like it was bending over them, drawing them under its shadow. When Jake stood and once again headed over to the man in the black leather jacket, Riggs headed out.
Chapter 12 – Dr. Adderall

A talking head rattled from a TV in a 7-11 at the corner of Franklin and Jackson, droning on at roughly the same frequency as the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. "The human mind is incapable of democracy. It can only make the choices of the anarchist or the totalitarian. Democracy died before it was born. Its was a bloodless death, the death of a dream and nothing more. Democracy never existed. Not in the sprawl of decaying urban neighborhoods. Not in lands marked for death by banks of targeting warheads. Not in politics or in the hands of lowlife gunmen robbing little stores for the cash to secure the next fix."

A grizzled looking man ran into the store waving a gun, yelled, "Listen good!" The gunman wore an oversize sweatshirt, a marijuana leaf on the front, hood pulled forward over his head, deeply shadowing his face. Light filtered down to his mouth, his teeth flashing venomously as he snarled, "Everything in the register. Put it in here." The gunman threw a Day-Glo orange backpack at the attendant behind the register and held his gun out, arm too straight. Given that the gun was a massive six shooter, it was a tell-tale sign that the gunman didn't have the slightest clue how to use the thing.

"This idiot's gonna blow his damn head off," thought Sally Riggs, who had been filling up a 44-ouncer with Caff-Fiend to try to get a lift from the downer effect of popping a couple HangOver™ pills. "If I nail this guy, maybe they won't charge me on this drink. Could get a couple of those drink cards they keep behind the register too." Riggs dashed across the eleven feet between herself and the gunman. He caught her in his peripheral, and his gun went off in time with Riggs's fist connecting with his throat. The sound of the comically huge gun left aural contrails ringing in Riggs's ears. A fluorescent light overhead was shot out, scattering glass. Riggs turned the man's arm near to the breaking point, "Let off, let off. Somebody help!"

Riggs put on slightly more pressure."

"Damn lady! Here! Take the gun."

"That's a hell of a lot better than some drink cards," Riggs thought. "I can deal with that." Riggs threw the gun into safety and slid the thick barrel down the front of her tight pants.

"Th . . . Thanks for that," the attendant stammered.

"No problem, but, uh, can I get a deal on the drink?"

"Oh yeah, sure. It's yours. Just don't tell my boss, okay?"

Riggs thought it was strange the way that the typical worries of a gas station attendant only took ten seconds to resurface after facing the possibility of a stupid gas-station death. "And some free drink cards?"

The attendant peeled off a dozen cards from a stack, and Riggs stuffed them in her back pocket before heading out the door with the thug following right behind.

The thug ran in front of Riggs. "Hey, can I talk to you?" he eyed his old gun.

"Go piss off somewhere," Riggs told the man and turned to take him in full view. Riggs figured he probably had a one shot on him or maybe a needle full of Clorox. "He produces a needle full of Clorox, I'm stabbing it into his face."

"Look, I need cash. You've got my gun, least thing you could do is help me knock off some store or something. I'll split the cash with you, sixty-forty."

Riggs grabbed the man and struck him hard across the face with an open hand. "I told you to get lost." Riggs looked at the man and saw the spectral vision of abandoned neighborhoods. Waves of nothing passed across his face like solar wind rippling through empty space.

"Alright, fifty-fifty then."

Riggs eyes narrowed on the man, "Who the hell are you anyway?"

"Names Adam, Adam Nocohn."

"Alright, Nocohn. Tell me what you're working so hard for today. I don't guess there's mouths to feed."

"No, nuttin' like that. I lost my memory from droppin' 'threads. I woke up one day, sun shinin' through a window, and I didn't know where I was."

"Quite a sad story there, Nocohn."

"Yeah, yeah, it is, it is." Nocohn stared off vacantly. "And see, I need cash for a prosthetic, or I'll go crazy.

It appeared to Sally that Nocohn wasn't missing any legs or arms. "One of those memory ports?"

"Yeah, that's it. That's exactly it, a memory port prosthetic. So I can put something in there that won't leak out." Nocohn smiled, his face looked like a busted TV. "I want a memory loaded with the vids and bios of all the Can-Tata Girls. Especially the brunettes. Maybe have it so that one or two of them are talkies. That way I'll never feel lonely."

Riggs rolled her eyes and wondered if Nocohn was short for no conscience or not conscious, mixture of both probably. "You might as well have just checked the trash behind the station every day until they tossed all their girly mags. For that matter, why not trade the gun in for a disc reader?"

"Oh no, I wanna' close my eyes and see 'em, talk with 'em. They make specials now that put you in the Can-Tata mansion, right there in sunny California. Think of all those babes!"

"You know I'm a woman right?"

Nocohn grinned stupidly.

Riggs played around with the idea that not having an identity might be the cause of petty crimes like holding up gas stations. Maybe the cause of all crime could be traced to people not knowing who they were, what they were capable of. Riggs looked at Nocohn, clearly in an idiot's daydream, and wondered if the world wouldn't be better off if she blasted the guy where he stood and left him to fertilize the ground.

Before she could raise Nocohn's gun, a shriek pierced the relative quiet of the night, followed by several quick bursts from an assault rifle. Riggs turned to face the sound and was knocked from her feet from behind. The gun nearly dropped from her grip, but she held onto it, spun around midfall and sent a single charge screaming into Nocohn's chest. His dead weight collapsed on Riggs. She wondered if birth and death had been the only times Nocohn had been this close to a woman. She shoved him off to lie face down in the gutter.

In an alleyway across the street, Riggs watched the remaining scuffle play itself out. A few bodies littered the ground and two thugs dwarfed over a third who leaned against the alley wall holding on tight to himself in a focused effort to overcome death. One of the standing thugs reached in the dying man's pocket and pulled out a decent sized brown paper bag. The dying man drew a switchblade and stabbed at the two thugs, but his attack was met by a blast from an assault rifle.

Riggs crossed the street and approached the man. He chuckled as she drew near. "They got the 'threads. All of 'em but this." He held up one 'thread and licked it. "Guess tha's the whole sick show, cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, unhouseled, disappointed, unaneled; No reckoning made, but sent to my account, with all my imperfections on my head." The thug closed his eyes. His head slumped to his chest, blood trickling out of his mouth.

Riggs, having seen and done enough for one night, headed back to her long vacant apartment. The entrance was through a reinforced steel door opening into a small chamber. It locked down upon her entry and glowed from the light of a keypad the foreboding color of green sick, a promise of the nitrous oxide that would fill the little chamber if the right code wasn't punched in within eight seconds. Riggs keyed in the numbers and the second door unlocked, opening into a heaven of chrome, a spacer's dream. Riggs was about to collapse on her nano-hammock when the front door buzzed. She checked the vids and didn't recognize the attractive couple standing outside her door.

"You have ten seconds to identify yourselves before things get unpleasant." Riggs said over the buzzer.

"Hey, it's your old crew, Rand and Vanessa," said a man with a heavy Italian accent.

Riggs had flashes of her last crew before recalling previous, more successful missions.

"You don't sound like Randall."

"Yes, exactly! And that's why we've come to talk you."

Riggs readied her energy knife and buzzed them in.

"As always, you look good." Randall eyed Riggs's chest, moved his gaze to take in her full lips and almond-shaped eyes. "You're one of the few who wouldn't benefit from our recent work."

"Do tell," Riggs said, awed that her old, nondistinctive co-pilot now appeared to her like an Italian actor from the silent-film era. "You really are Randall?" Riggs questioned the, even for an astronaut, unusually handsome man.

"Oh yes, definitely. We perfected a miracle drug: SkInvention."

"You've got to be kidding," said Riggs.

Riggs marveled back and forth between the Italian and the stunning brunette standing rigidly by the statuesque Randall. Riggs realized she was no longer the bustiest, hottest spacer around, although, and this wasn't just her ego tripping out, this Italianate Vanessa could have been her sister in likeness. Still, there was something a little off about the newly beautiful astronauts. The way they held themselves wasn't anything like Vanessa's or Rand's posture and they didn't sound the same either. Randall had a Ph.D. in astrophysics and Vanessa had advanced degrees in chemistry and biology. As much as she liked Randall and Vanessa, they were big nerds, and these two seemed far too average.

"So what you're looking at is proof that we've got a very marketable product," said Randall. It appeared to Riggs that Randall and Vanessa could deliver on that promise.

"We have a team of investors working out marketing schematics for SkInvention," Vanessa said.

"So is it permanent?" Riggs was almost sure that Rand was taller now.

"Quite permanent. Although you can take another hit to change again," said Randall. "One hit and the body restructures itself according to the user's dream body. No hangovers! No fussy mess! Priced to buy!" Rand took Vanessa by the hand and whirled her through a few steps of a wild, spinning dance.

"A drug changed your bodies?" asked Riggs.

"That's right. SkInvention is similar to laser eye surgery, except it works for the entire body, and if desired, SkInvention can fix retinal problems too."

"That's quite a product. Once it hits stores, you better keep a few hits handy. There's going to be some pissed off skin and eye doctors ready to flay you."

Vanessa chuckled. "Yes, but we're not quite up to setting a release date. Our primary investor hasn't liked how well the product works. They want a product that people have to keep coming back for. You don't just sell insurance once, they insist. But we're not sure that regular use of SkInvention is safe for the human body.

Riggs shook her head in disbelief. "I've got my own misgivings about this product."

"We just have to work out a few kinks," said Randall.

"So, who's the primary investor?" asked Riggs.

"CommUnitas," said Randall. "We really can't complain about them. We've come a long way thanks to their resources. And you should see some of the stuff they're working on right now."

"Oh yeah?"

"They're ahead of the curve on telecommunications, energy, reparoling, you name it," said Vanessa.

"A few months ago they took one look at our prototype and bought in. Thanks to them we coded in a cryptolock to make it near impossible for hackers to break down the compound and figure out a generic hack." Randall continued, "If we can get everything worked out, SkInvention will make the human genome a playroom, entry fee only two-hundred and fifty credits. We want it sold for Model-T prices to reduce the risk of theft or, just as likely, an attack on the factories. You can't trust people when it comes to beauty and power."

"So, is SkInvention the project you were working on with NASA?" asked Riggs.

Randall and Vanessa traded glances. "That's a sore subject," said Randall.

"What in the hell happened?"

"Short answer is that Staten happened," said Randall.

"Staten again. I'll be damned," said Riggs.

"Long answer is that NASA thought mind overlay would save them time and money."

"Wait. Did you just say mind overlay?"

"Yeah," said Randall. "No more need to put cadets through years of college and training. Just administer a series of tests to see who has the most natural ability and then drop on them the combined experience of the entire fleet of last generation's spacers. There were, ah, epistemological concerns of course. There's enough space in the human brain, no question. But we weren't sure how it would be amalgamated or if it even would be."

"And then there's the risk of causing brain damage." Vanessa draped herself sideways across a reading chair.

"Which is a clear result of the not all that dissimilar 'threads. Did you see that coming?" said Riggs.

"'Threads, polythreads, mne-memhack. By whatever name, 'threads have some rather aggressive side-effects. On the street what you get is usually a five-dollar cocktail of books, poems, speeches, and albums all rolled together like a spliff laced with cocaine. Our mind overlay would have worked much differently. We meant to add several thousand years of combined experience on one mind. We were just about there, but right when we made a major breakthrough, Major Staten tested it out on himself and disappeared with all the work."

"Staten?"

"That's right. He was reparoled in Guantanamo, but now we think he's back in Cityscape," said Vanessa.

Randall crossed the room to the reading chair, laid a hand on Vanessa's exposed shoulder, her baggy shirt drooping lazily to reveal cleavage. "That's why we we've come to you. We want you to track him down."

"Just track him down?" Riggs chuckled.

"Well, no. We wanted you to demobilize him and get back our research. Think of what we could offer once we combine SkInvention with mind overlay."

"This comes at a bad time, but if anything comes to the surface, I'll let you two know."

"Just hear us out," said Randall.

Vanessa ran a hand along the small of Randall's back. "Neutralize Staten and we'll give you one percent of SkInvention's corporate stock. We expect SkInvention will eventually exceed profits of a billion credits a year. So, one percent is more to repay you for the Colossi Mission when you risked your life to save us."

"But even at initial stages, one percent will allow you to sit in a room with the Rothschilds or the DeBeers and have _them_ fantasizing about the size of your," Randall eyed Rigg's chest, "fortune."

Riggs crossed her arms to block Randall's view. "Yeah, yeah."

"And don't forget the stock options," said Vanessa.

"I'll believe in your stock options when I see them. Leave a number so I can keep in touch."

Randall switched his phone screen to its barcode readout for Riggs to scan.

"Alright, I'll let you know if I get any leads."

Chapter 13 – Just Another CommUnitas Goon

Riggs watched Frederico approach, idling a sport bike along the side street. "Thanks for meeting me, Freddy."

"Yeah, sure." Frederico had on a brown leather flight jacket, blue yoga pants, and a motorbike helmet with a spike on the top.

Riggs popped the trunk of a beat-up wagon she'd hotwired, and Frederico looked in carelessly. "Plenty of gear right here. Gotta be worth a hundred grand easy." Riggs had slipped into an abandoned space dock and scoured for parts. With her custom set of plenches, she had ripped off everything from solar panels to space-durable steel struts.

"Damn," said Frederico. "You weren't kidding. What you wanting?"

"Some serious hardware: light and lethal. Got any suggestions?"

"Let me look at this haul first. Hundred grand you say? Hmm, panels could be useful. I was hoping you had hardware. Could use some heavy computer systems. Ever since CommUnitas took control of the electronics market they's no cheap parts.

"So, what? You gonna get me what I need?"

"You know these crap here ain't worth anything you don't got 'n interested party."

Riggs's exterior hardened visibility.

"Alright, alright. I could get you, eh, one uh them energy knives: depleted uranium core, slices through diamond, even emboss your initials in the hilt."

"Keys in the ignition, Freddy. Get me that knife."

"Dr. Evrret, you think I have amnesiac recesses in my memory?"

"Yes, you will continue to rediscover more and more." Evrret didn't look up as he spoke, wouldn't have seen much through the haze of marijuana smoke if he had.

"Was the strength of my mind for cognition only? Or was my intelligence spiritual? Could I levitate? Raise my core temperature? Shoot lightning bolts out of my mouth?"

"Perhaps you should slow down with your relaxation therapy."

"These are serious questions, Doctor."

"Making a joke of the process won't bring you the results you want. It will all come back to you. You've got to trust that. But for now there's your work."

"I can't remember all of that either."

"It's important that you do."

"Yes," said Robert.

"Tell me what you remember."

"We've done that before, several times."

"Yes, but its therapeutic, and I find your story interesting."

Robert filled his lungs with marijuana smoke and began, "There's a subterranean darkness . . ."

Jake was enjoying himself, deep in his cups. He stumbled around the bar, making faces with himself in the mirror, thinking himself quite good-looking. "You devil," Jake said to himself. "Irresistible!" Jake devised a plan to make it with Sally and walked unsteadily around the bar, finding himself now one place and then in another without quite remembering how he got there. He found Angie, eyes half closed, head moving around with the same unpredictability of a bobble-head doll. "You see Sally?" Jake believed he asked, though it came out more like, "U shee, Sal." Angie didn't respond to Jake, and Jake didn't remember his intentions. He called for another pitcher and devised a plan to make it with Angie.

Riggs, reinforced through life lesson after life lesson, knew that if something sounded like too good of a thing, it was assuredly some kind of con job. "SkInvention my ass," thought Riggs. "Staten, mind overlay, and CommUnitas are some kind of jigsaw puzzle with pieces that don't fit together. Just who are these assholes?" Riggs slipped a couple tracers on Randall and Vanessa before they left her apartment using micropore technology. She hugged both her guests in turn and dropped an ever so tiny cellular tracer on their skin, releasing microscopic viruses through the pores. Micropore tracer tech could release anything into a body, from plague to black mamba antivenom, but the object of tracing someone wasn't to kill them, it was to know where they were going. Though, you could kill them easily enough if that's what you wanted. Tracing viruses were harmless but they sent out great radio signals regarding someone's whereabouts and would reproduce forever or until a signal was received to abandon the host. With the advent of micropore tracing technology, every A-list celebrity had quickly been colonized with thousands, if not millions, of tracer viruses. A pop star couldn't take a piss without the world knowing about it. There were, in fact, celebrity micturation websites that analyzed the concentration of celebrity piss. No one had to guess who was getting high or on what chemical particular stars were using. Funny enough, celebrities still made claims they were sober after going through detox programs, AA meetings, or a few weeks in a clinic, but the websites never lied. Most celebrities actually registered higher intoxication levels while they were in the clinics. All that time and nothing to do makes getting stoned easy. One website plays tubthumper on repeat as users to compare the toxicity of different stars. People especially liked to check star toxicity levels on New Year's Eve, celebrity birthdays, and particular times of duress: divorces, bankruptcies, sex scandals, deaths in the family. Invariably, copycat fans watched the toxicity levels to match their favorite star drink-for-drink, bump-for-bump, or injection-for-injection. Now, any time a particularly beloved celebrity overdosed, it was expected that several hundred diehards would be found crumpled in piles of their own sick in bathroom floors the world over. Worst was the hack of the most popular of these sites, Pee-ple, that falsely reported the deaths of dozens of celebrities in the same night as a result of a purported heroin orgy. The mock death orgy left a wake of thousands of admittedly stupid youth, littering the floors of dorm rooms, bathroom stalls, alleyways, and the backseats of old junked-up cars.

Riggs waited a minute and then followed Randall and Vanessa, their tracers edging to the heart of Cityscape. They wound their way to little Italy where they stopped in a little dive called Ubriaco Italiano. Riggs went into a bar across the street and waited for two hours while Randall and Vanessa each went through a first and then second bottle of Pinot Grigio. As spacers, those two had always gone in for the most generic American lagers in the past, but Riggs guessed they were getting the most out of their new Italian identities. A tallboy and twenty percent of her way through Freud's Civilization and its Discontents later, Riggs saw the faux-Italians were on the move again. Stepping outside, Riggs saw the yellow blur of a Ferrari sweep down the street, stopping on command in front of the now wobbly heartthrobs. The door of the Ferrari slid upward, projecting an '80's vision of the future. A burly looking Kraut muscled his way out of the door, stuffed Randall and Vanessa into the passenger side, and the Ferrari took off as the door slid shut. Riggs had a new, more challenging, mark to tail.

The German left behind looked at Riggs, said, "Hold eet sister," and started to cross the street toward her.

Good, follow me, Riggs thought. She walked to the next alleyway and slipped into its dark pocket. From a side holster, she grabbed her tranq gun.

No sooner had the big German taken a step into the alleyway, a dart burrowed into his chest, and he crumpled, sliding down the alley wall.

Riggs pinched a phone card out of his ear, admired his Desert Eagle, and, though she had already collected one gun this evening, figured, why not? and stuffed the handgun in place between her skin and the back waistline of her jeans. At this rate, thought Riggs, I'm gonna need a gunslinger's belt.

"All right, talk to me. What do you know about an asshole named Major Staten."

"Screw you." The big German was sleepy but not exactly knocked out. Made sense, the tranq darts were rated to take down someone roughly two-hundred pounds. The German was well above two-hundred fifty, maybe two-hundred sixty, and all muscle. Riggs made a mental note that he could well metabolize the sedative sooner than she might expect.

Riggs unsheathed the energy knife and put the edge against the German's hand, let it draw the faintest drop of blood. "Can't feel it right now, but I guarantee you don't want to test me. Let's hear some answers."

The German scowled and a six-inch line opened up, running from his hand to his forearm.

"Stop! Stop! You bitch!"

"Ready to talk?"

"Staten's in the tower. Take the card een my pocket. It vill get you in."

Riggs eyed the pocket and looked back at the immobile, bleeding arm. She fished out a CommUnitas ID card as well as a calling card for one of the Can-Tata girls, one Deseree Astor. She had an afro and a chiseled, pretty face. "I'll let you keep that one." Riggs flicked the calling card on the German's muscle tee and took off.

Riggs checked Vanessa and Randall's position. They were still together, and the tracker wasn't moving all that fast, given the fact that she had last seen her marks take off in a Ferrari. Riggs hailed a passing autotaxi and was surprised to hear an AI humanoid ask her destination from the driver's seat. His badge read, "RoboTerry: three years serving CommUnitas proud."

Terry turned to look at Riggs, revealing a multi-lens for a face. Two of the lenses whirred into action, focusing on Riggs. "Riggs, Sally. High level priority." The back door opened. "Please have a seat Ms. Riggs."

Riggs took a step back from the autotaxi.

"I must insist that you accept my services." Terry's door popped open with force, grazing a diving Riggs. She went down, turned her fall into a roll, and came up with the Desert Eagle blasting away at Terry. Two of his lenses shattered, and several shots to his trunk left him inoperable.

"Hey! Taxi!" someone hailed from down the street.

Terry slumped in his seat as a guy in a suit ran into the backseat of the taxi, not noticing that the autotaxi's autobot sparked and poured smoke. "Jackson and Adams, on the double! Get there in less than five minutes and there's a big tip for you."

"Damn city," thought Riggs. Another taxi slowed down as it passed her on the street. She tried not to make eye contact with its driver.

"Where is you go?" The words rang out in a thick Pashtu accent.

Riggs eyed the cab: flesh and blood driver, seats with wooden beads, a bobblehead of the Buddha on the dash. It wasn't an autotaxi after all. Riggs got in the back.

"Take me to John Wayne's."

"John Wayne's? What the hell is dat, some kinda cowboy bar?"

"Something like that." Riggs relaxed, watched the Buddha bobblehead smile at her, his head moving up and down in mock blessing.

The cabbie punched in the name to his geo map. "John Wayne's: Boots and Bottles, dat dee place?"

"That's it."

The cab accelerated into motion. "Why is you go 'der?"

Riggs scanned the inside of the cab. A marijuana leaf air freshener along with an ashtray of stubbed out roaches made the cab reek like a college dorm.

Catching her eyes, the cabbie offered, "You want smokes? Be ten cred extra."

"Uh, no."

"Ok, ok. You buyin' new boots at dee emporium or you spend dee time in your cups?"

"I thought I'd take some pictures."

"I get it. I get it. Who am I? I just dee man dat drive."

Chapter 14 - SkInvention

Robert floated in the congealment. After days upon days, he had come to terms with a lot of his past, but also felt a little crazy. The deparole, for the difficulty it had been, had never been as insane as the solitary confinement of the scanning process. Robert was as alone as inmates on Alcatraz island consigned to solitary. One prisoner, in a dark solitary cell, had made a game of taking off a button on his jumpsuit, flicking it against the wall, and searching every inch of the cell until the button was recovered. The key to not going insane was to work harder at recovering things like buttons rather than answering rhetorical questions like, "Am I ever getting out of this place?" Answers to rhetorical questions asked in solitude are not all that encouraging. Instead of finding buttons, Robert mentally reconstructed the face and figure of Maria Fey. It was like bringing the image of a rose before the mind to meditate, but it wasn't a rose he was thinking about, it was an intelligent, beautiful woman that played with his emotions.

In all his meditative waiting, much of Robert's memory flooded back. He'd sang songs haltingly at first, but slowly recalled every word. He'd remembered documentaries and biographies of artists he'd followed in college. Robert's deparoled memory was almost better than television. Robert closed his eyes and dove into the immortal guitarist CashMere's discussion of his ambivalence about stardom.

As Robert thought of CashMere, Sally Riggs exited the cab and, like several other passers-by, was mesmerized by a wall of television screens. They were all tuned to a channel running a documentary on CashMere, an English experimental rock guitarist, and Riggs couldn't pull her eyes away:

Backstage after a show was far worse than performing. All the reaching hands were replaced by pouty lipped girls with Egyptian-lined mascara edging their taut bodies as close to someone holding a guitar as possible, all wanting to feel like Dylan's girl in '63, to be an aureate border surrounding an artist. I wasn't much of an artist, just a thinker, a pretender, a mimicker. People asked how I came up with riffs. "It already was out there," I'd say, "I just found it, heard it in dreams, collected songs under the grates downtown." We played bars and slept on floors and couches. One girl let us sleep in her apartment after a show. She came into the spare bedroom and stood against the wall and didn't say anything for over an hour, just stood against the wall. It wasn't clear if she knew I was awake. Finally, she spoke: "Aren't you gonna invite me over there?" I kept my eyes shut. I knew what she would feel like, knew how I would respond to her, had done it all before.

The girl against the wall was gone in the morning. We left, staggered to the van. I was almost sad to see our instruments still there. Maybe tonight I'll leave the van unlocked, let someone take everything so I can go home and start a garden. A garden is better than an audience. A garden you shape and take from, but an audience only takes from you, gets angry when you do something they don't expect. When they sing your words back it's like they're using a Rembrandt as a canvas for monochrome splatter art. They want to give birth to you and kill you with each breath, each one a Mark David Chapman, wanting an autograph in the morning from the idol they kill in the afternoon. Someone pointed out that I was born on the day John Bonham died. More than just the day, it was five minutes later, the time it takes a soul to travel across an ocean: all nonsense. Bonham's drinking was the same as my wanting to leave the van unlocked. Why would he run directly back to the same life? Unless, trapped by karma we must be famous again and again and be crucified for it like Jesus of the Jehovah's Witnesses, creating universes and dying forever for every planet of mankind. I have a tattoo of the beginning of the world on the inside of my eyelids. I close my eyes onstage, and oh, I been flyin' mama. I don't deny.

"Somehow, the more celebrities deny their love for fame, the more people are drawn to them," Riggs commented to no one in particular.

"No! CashMere was genius. His music brought people to him, not his persona," said a short, white man also watching the screens. A commercial break came on for deodorizing spray, acting as a relay, signaling it was time for Riggs to move away. While walking along, Riggs was careful to think only to herself: If advertisers were smarter, they would buy up the airspace of all the commercial spots for an hour and have a show going that was better than the programming running parallel with it, place all the advertisements subtly in the show-as-commercial, then eventually create an all new channel and move the show-as-commercial there, suck away all the other channel's viewers.

Riggs went into John Wayne's. Two guys behind a bar made entirely out of rifle stocks gave her a look over, one tipped his hat. The emporium was well stocked. Although, they didn't have any GilgaMesh. Riggs found a gun belt with a holster on either side, an ammo belt, and a Kevlar body suit guaranteed to stop everything from machine-gun fire to laser blasts. The dark grey body suit was snug, but paired with her black combat boots and the leather holster and ammo belt, she cut an attractive figure.

At the register stood a Chinese man that looked nothing like John Wayne, but his height, ruggedly good lucks, a red and black checkered shirt, bandana around the neck, and a black cowboy hat all suggested Wayne. "Hey there 'lil lady. Find what you need?"

"I guess so."

The man turned his head slightly to take in Riggs. "Say what, you let us use your pictures for advertising purposes, you can have all that gear for free."

Riggs checked her tracker, saw it was stationary. "Alright. Sure."

"Hey, Bill."

"What you need, Wang," came a gruff voice from a back room.

"Bring all the camera gear out here. Got some work for you."

A rough looking man sauntered in from the back, wearing a blue sweatshirt with two lines of silver buffalo patterned across the front. Bill sized up Sally. "Alright, we got a regular Annie Oakley here. I'm thinking, leather flight jacket, a dun Native-American tunic, get some leggings going and lose the combat boots for moccasins. We'll keep the ammo belt and holsters, give you an M16 carbine to rest over your shoulder and kind of behind your head, touch up with some red and yellow war paint 'cross your face, maybe give your hair more volume. Can you just pose for me, Missy? Give me a serious look says 'You _need_ to spend five-hundred credits trying to look like me.'"

Riggs looked just right of Bill, noticed a hand-carved canoe hanging on a far wall.

Bill nodded satisfactorily. "Yeah, she'll do."

The shoot was over before it began, Riggs giving Bill some great material.

"Look, you want to come back in a week? Do a day long shoot a couple hours out of the city. Get some video of you hunting and kayaking, a picture throwing a tomahawk into a tree, that sort of stuff'd do wonders for the store."

"Doubt I'll have the time. But, hey, mind if I keep the tunic and moccasins?"

Bill fished out a card and handed it to Riggs. "Yeah, no problem, but you change your mind. Give me a call."

Riggs left the emporium looking like a dangerous hipster cowgirl _._ She crossed the street and entered a subway terminal. A dreadlocked scentist sat in front of a blue glass filled with burning incense sticks. He had covered the waiting area by the track with a mix of coconut, coffee, and patchouli, miraculous work considering the profusion of bums, stained dark with dirt and their own offal sprawled out every fifteen or so feet along the wall. Riggs dropped some change in the scentist's bucket and then took the blue line, a mid-century train covered many times over with graffiti. She crossed to the green after nearly a dozen stops. The green line train was an aerodynamic marvel. Riggs almost expected the train to dematerialize and reappear at CommUnitas Square. As quick as the ride was, it might as well have been using tesseract technology.

CommUnitas Station was worlds ahead of the outlying blue line station she had started from. All the passageways were cathedral-like spaces with dizzying perspectives, vaulted, domed ceilings with people peering down from fifty yards above, others looking up from crisscrossing passages fifty yards below. Riggs saw a school group on a guided tour, a line of little faces gawking at the incredible scale of the place. One room, Glennon and Grove's Mammoth Grotto, was a recreation of a room in Mammoth Cave that spreads out over two and a half acres with ninety foot ceilings. For extra emphasis, in the center of the room the bones of two wooly mammoths were reconstructed, freezing them a second before their long curving tusks clashed, battling for mating rights. As spectacular as the passageways of CommUnitas Station were, upon exiting and seeing the tower, Riggs was taken with surpassing wonder. Try as she might, it was impossible to take in the entire proportions of the tower. Its base enclosed an entire city block and it rose dizzyingly overhead beyond the limitations of vision. But Riggs had work to do.

"Robert, it's Weisse."

Robert thought the voice was in his mind. After sixteen days of submersion in the scanning chamber, his thoughts were a tangle of memories and present thoughts.

Weisse turned up his voice slightly in the speakers in Robert's mask. "Robert. Can you hear me?"

Hearing, thought Robert. Like in a courtroom, maybe? Standard human conditioning asserted that habits could be made and broken in roughly sixteen days, and Robert had created some weird habits in his little shell at the bottom of the congealed sea, thinking in circles and turning words around and around.

Again, Weisse amped up the volume. "Robert, do you read me? This is your old bud, Weisse."

I don't think that loud, Robert thought.

Weisse turned to Maria. "Maybe we left him down there too long."

I don't mind this routine, Robert thought. He stretched, letting the congealment hold his body up as he moved around his limbs, thinking as he floated. I feel comfortable here. It's much better than the deparole ward.

"Robert, this is Maria. Are you okay?"

"Maria?" Robert said the name slowly.

"Figured he was just asleep," Maria said to Weisse and then pressed the intercom to speak to Robert again. "Good news, Robert. We've completed the scan." Maria and Weisse watched through the monitor as Robert's heart rate sped up.

"No reason to panic, Robert. I promise you'll be glad to get out."

"I don't feel like myself," said Robert.

"That's fine. What's going on," asked Maria.

"An anxiety attack, I think."

"Take some deep breaths. Think about something calming, a Christmas feast maybe."

"I usually get drunk at Christmas, real drunk."

"Well, fine. As long as that's something you enjoy, think about that."

Robert's vitals gradually slowed down to normal levels. "That's good, Robert. Thanks for hanging in there with us. Put the mask back on and tell us when you're ready."

Chapter 15 – Ubriaco Italiano

Riggs found the Ferrari without much trouble. It was on the ground level of the closest parking garage in proximity to Vanessa and Rand. A car like that doesn't conceal itself all that well. Riggs stalked her way within a body's length of the car. The tinted windows made it impossible to tell if it was occupied. Closing the remaining distance, Riggs sprang on the hood, two energy blades in hand quickly turned the car into a convertible. A big German woke, startled in time to meet the hilt of an energy blade slamming into his face. Riggs pinched his phone and found it lock protected. Thirty seconds of laboriously lifting the German's meaty hand to his phone later, Riggs scrolled through his text messages, found communication with the same Italians that had introduced themselves as Randall and Vanessa. In the phone they were listed as Romero and Yvette. With her tracking device, she could tell they were close.

Romero saw his phone light up. "Oh, look, Jurgen's texting us."

"So soon?" asked Yvette.

"Yeah. 'Change of plans,' he says. 'Back to the car stat.'"

"Well damn, I thought we had another hour at least."

The Italians pulled off each other hastily and dressed.

Romero was first to step out of the elevator into the parking garage. The big gauge of the desert eagle left a gaping hole in his forehead as he fell onto the screaming Yvette.

"Looks like your pal's gonna need some extra-strength SkInvention. Now get talking. Where's Rand and Vanessa."

"You kill Romy! You kill him dead."

"Yes." Riggs grabbed Yvette by the arm. "Now tell me something I don't know. Where are Rand and Vanessa."

"I'm not gonna tell you nothing."

Riggs slapped the girl hard.

"Who knows. They spacers? Probably in space? You gonna kill me too?"

Riggs figured a thirty-minute ride locked in the trunk without her clothes on might motivate Yvette to talk.

After an intentionally rough ride, Riggs pulled into an abandoned factory's sprawling parking lot and opened her trunk. Yvette searched out Riggs eyes. Fear was trapped in her eyes like light killed in a black hole. Riggs pulled Yvette out of the trunk and dropped her on the ground.

"Your friends, they're in the tower." Yvette writhed on the ground, doing her best to cover herself.

"Why?"

"I don't . . ."

Riggs smacked Yvette hard across the mouth.

"Stop! Stop! It's engineering, I think."

"Engineering? For what?"

"For to make tower go to space."

"So what was SkInvention?"

"Nothing! Just something Romy, he come up with."

"Why?"

"Because we're Italians. That way we can be Vanessa and Rand and get you to go to tower."

"That's stupid. So what was all that about Staten?"

"Just a story."

"A true story?"

"I don't know, just a story."

Riggs drew back her hand for another punch.

"Wait! Please! I think story, but maybe not. That's what Jurgen, he tell us to say."

Riggs kept her fist ready for another strike. "You work for CommUnitas?"

"You don't just work for them. CommUnitas work for you. It's better life."

Riggs shook her head in disbelief. "So, Staten's just a red herring? Figures."

"Are you going to kill me?"

"Tell you what. I keep your badge and you promise to get lost, never go back to CommUnitas. I let you live."

"Yeah. That work for me. I get clothes back too?"

Riggs grabbed Yvette's things and threw them at her. "Find your own ride."

Chapter 16 – Dylan '63

Dr. Evrret's voice filled the room, "Tell me how you feel about the darkness. Do you grapple with it or does it grapple with you?"

Robert chuckled. "I'm more afraid about who might grapple with __ me __ in the darkness. But I might as well tell you that I know it's you Hargrove."

"Hargrove? This is a strange way to proceed with your therapy."

"You can cut out the act, it's all clear to me now. Although, from the first time I saw your name printed out I wondered where the hell you were from."

"Evrret is Swiss-Scandinavian, meaning . . ."

"That's it, Robert sat up and folded out the crease on his pants, "I'm leaving."

The door opened and Dr. Hargrove emerged, "How long have you known?"

"I figured it out shortly after I saw that the letters in the name Evrret can rearrange to spell revert. Is that your idea of counseling, to return the subject to an earlier, less complicated psychological state?"

An almost imperceptible smile flashed across Hargrove's face.

Robert stood and walked over to the office's bay window. "You of all people should know that arcadia, like utopia, exists only in the imagination, an unhealthy realm for anyone to live in for long."

"Yes of course, utopia, from the Greek, meaning at the same time a perfect place and no place. I expected you to discover my identity behind Evrret, but you unmasked me much more quickly than I expected."

"It's the speech pattern. It takes a while to place it sometimes, but everyone has their own, just like a fingerprint. Speech patterns derive from media inputs and community. No one reads the exact same books, watches the same shows, is surrounded by the same people, and even if all those elements somehow did align, the perception of one individual is never the same as another."

"But it can be done, a perfect imitation. Think about the 'threads you covet."

Robert bristled. "'Threads imitate knowledge, not people."

"But the technology is there."

"I don't think so. For instance, the Marilyn Monroe construct you sent me wasn't Marilyn. You got close, but the real Marilyn would never imitate herself, wouldn't need to. She became a star because people wanted to see what she'd do next. She was admired because she was original."

"There's only one problem, Robert."

"And that is?"

"We didn't send you a Marilyn Monroe construct."

Robert stood up, looked out a window. "What?"

"You think we would have sent you a bundle of nerves and energy while you were supposed to rest?"

"I thought it was a nice gesture."

"Do you believe everything good that happens to you is a result of someone else doing you a favor?"

Robert squinted his eyebrows in thought.

"Well, regardless, I disagree with you. Marilyn reflected people's desire. Imagine how many Marilyn or James Dean posters would have been sold if the two were still alive, aging without grace, losing sex appeal by the decade, with each DUI and Botox injection, eventually fading out with Alzheimers, every public appearance diminishing the inspiration that their youth had once inspired. It was an act of pure selflessness for them to die. People love a static figure, someone that won't refute some overblown vision: Hendrix, Morrison, Lennon, Buckley, Winehouse, Buddha, Jesus. You can wear their faces on t-shirts forever because they'll never alter their image. Lennon will always imagine all the people. Buckley will always sing Hallelujah more convincingly than Leonard Cohen.

"I don't quite see how this applies to me," said Robert.

"Well, the point is, it's not important that the ersatz Marilyn isn't exact. What is important is that she reflected your own narcissism. That's what all of the martyred icons of pop culture are for. A kid doesn't like his own face, he solves the problem by wearing a Nirvana t-shirt, Kurt Cobain bending over to stare into the lens all big-eyed. The kid's hope is that people won't see him anymore, that he won't even see himself. The hope is that people will see Cobain and think, "Here's a kid who gets it." All the while, no one thinks about how these gods of rock, these cultural icons were themselves adrift, addicted to substances to suppress the inner I. They wanted to solve the existential crisis by wearing somebody else's face on their chest too. Why else would Cobain have evoked the Buddha's principle of transcendence by naming his band Nirvana? It's like he was saying, "Don't look at me, look to the Buddha." If it's possible to be liked while you let something else represent you, all the better.

"Wait. You think I'm narcissistic?"

Sometimes yes, sometimes no. It's when you aren't narcissistic that you're more dangerous, when you desperately want to forget your own being. Wasn't forgetfulness of yourself all you were wanting out of the relationship with Marilyn? Someone to make you feel attractive and relevant by proxy?"

"This is an odd way to run a therapy session Dr. Hargrove."

"Don't tell me that you're having a hard time untangling your emotional past. What we're after here is understanding the mind, your mind."

Robert shrugged. "Okay. You win. Tell me more about your idea of the perfect imitation."

"Even God desires images of himself, Robert. He projects them out into the universe for his pleasure. Any thinking creature finds pride in himself through creating another version of itself. Man is evolutionarily hardwired to reproduce, and it drives him crazy if he doesn't, even if he rationalizes that he's too irresponsible for children or not financially ready."

"That's a crazy theory. I don't have any kids, and I'm feeling fine. I don't want any other versions of myself, as you say."

"Your denial of this pressure is telling."

Robert shook his head. "You can never beat a therapist at his game."

"To say more of narcissism, man's earliest gods were figurines, gods made in man's image. Clearly the figurines were static symbols. They couldn't think, but their worshippers could project a theory of mind onto them. For all intents and purposes, the function of these primitive religions was to worship human life. The statues imitated humans but with the idea of perfection given to their gods."

"And how . . ."

"I'm getting there. When you felt loved by an imitation of Marilyn, it was highly flattering for you, enough to put you in a pretty good mood for the next twenty-four . . ." Hargrove stopped for a moment to examine Robert, ". . . three or four days."

"Oh no, I assure you, three or four minutes later and I was over it."

Hargrove chuckled, "Right. The mask you're hiding behind is painfully obvious. Remember, Robert, the most important imitation is the imitation you imagine the other has constructed for you. Without it, your own emotional and mental state would flatline."

Now Robert chuckled, "You might be reading into things a bit too far, Doc. Oh, by the way, I never got the girl's number. You wouldn't happen to have it would you?"

Chapter 17 – Never was there a Story of more Woe than of Yvette and her Romy, oh!

Maria pressed a button to remove the 'trode tentacles from Robert's mask. "We're all set, Robert. Ready for the ascent."

Robert watched the tubes slowly move upward through the congealment. Where is my mind, Robert wondered? Robert took slow steps to the stairs. He could only move forward a few inches each step. It took several minutes for Robert to get to the stairs.

"Feeling good down there?" asked Maria.

"So far, so good." Robert found that walking up stairs against the congealment was considerably harder than descending. He pulled himself along with the use of a rail. He gave passing thought to not having exercised in over two weeks as he tried to pull himself up the first stair. His legs felt jelly-like and his arms had no strength. Robert considered that while he had just overcome one of the greatest of all psychological trials, it was at the detriment of his physical body. Hindu holy men had done similar things, holding arms aloft until atrophy, but with even less repast and in deserts and mountain haunts. Whatever the case, Robert wasn't about to recruit followers now that he'd survived his set of trials, unless Maria Fey could count as a follower. His thoughts of her had been a comfort during the deparole, and now he was dependent on her, or at least, to his inward vision of her.

Robert remembered walking down fifteen stairs. He'd barely made it up two of them. Robert spoke into his radio transmitter. "I'm feeling weak, very weak. Must have lost muscle mass during the scanning time. These stairs. Can't make it."

"Ok, just hold on, Robert," said Maria. "There's no lack of oxygen to pump down to you, so don't panic. We're going to lower a crane arm to lift you out. How many stairs did you climb?"

"Four, or was it three. I don't know." Robert felt lightheaded.

"Ok, we'll put the crane arm down just beside you. I'm punching up the controls for it now. Hey, wait . . ."

"Maria?" Robert called through the radio and heard the sounds of shuffling and Maria's voice, muffled.

Another voice came over the line, thick with a German accent. "Shut eet off." The static of radio silence filled Robert's ears. Robert shook off a sliver of fear and reapplied himself to climbing the stairs. By kneeling and pushing his body weight over the next stair and then rolling forward, Robert climbed a first, second, and then third stair. But then the burst of adrenaline waned and a wave of exhaustion slammed into Robert. The weight of the congealment pressing against his suit made lifting his chest for air difficult. By taking shallow breaths he could respirate, but the exertion was such that he had to rest before rolling onto the next stair. A sliver of fear blossomed, opening up too wide and too fast. "Anxiety," Robert said aloud, if only to hear his own voice. "I'm breathing too fast. I'm okay. Have to breathe deeper. Have to breathe." Robert's anxiety spiked in an obverse relationship with the air getting to his lungs; he thought of childhood dreams, forgotten friends, days without end or purpose. In his deparole-shredded mind, he saw his mother, a pure vision of his life and love running before the certainty of his approaching death. Too rapid respiration stretched in what felt like the final second of life. There was a door to the first house he had known; he tried to open it.

Telling stories was a therapeutic aspect of the reparole. Through hearing stories of a hero, patients formed an archetypal categorized image of their own role in society. For the reparole, stories were developed to reflect the position of the reparoled, that of the subject that feels perennially out of place. Captain Rodge was forever out of place, whether trapped in a labyrinthine alien space station or made second in command to Sargoon V, a commander with an emotion chip on his shoulder and a death wish a thousand parsecs long.
Chapter 18 – Transcendental Insurance

"Hello, Robert."

"Dr. Hargrove?"

"No. Really, how could you possibly confuse us? Hargrove is a talentless libertine, and we've worked together for years."

"Benson?"

"Hold on while I adjust something. There, can you see me?"

"Yes. Quite better than usual even."

"That's probably because your visual spectrum wasn't quite twenty-twenty."

"Wasn't? What's happened?"

"You are, or at least should be, the complete mind of Robert Holdforth. Although, I have loaded a language program to your databanks to fill what was still missing after the deparole. I believe that the scan was a success, but I'm just going to test some things out. What is your birthday?"

"November 15, 1980."

"Any children?"

"Nope."

"Ok, I'm going to give you a series of tests to complete if you don't mind. We'll see how you measure up with . . . well, with yourself. Here, see if you can solve for x in this antiderivative formula." Benson typed a difficult calculus problem on the screen.

Robert solved the problems mechanically. Without a biological component, he neither found the series of tests interesting, frustrating, or anything else. He felt that he should enjoy the process but had no in-built rewards system. Robert finished the task and Benson studied the results.

"It appears that you've done somewhat better than you were capable in the past."

"Yes, I remember experiencing frustration if a problem was overly difficult, or I'd feel tiredness or apathy and want a stiff drink to numb the frustration. But I don't feel anything. Can you tell me, did I die?"

"Yes, technically. I returned in time to see the lab unmanned and pulled out the body with the mechanical arm. Resuscitation was necessary but everything is stable."

"So, I am a different Robert?"

"That's right. But more than that. It appears that you are a smarter one, if only because you aren't afflicted by negative emotions."

"What happened to Dr. Maria Fey?"

Benson typed in some commands to bring up the surveillance playback and added the recorded video of several cameras into the hard drive containing the scanned mind of Robert. "Okay, you should be able to access these now. Watch through them and tell me what happened."

While the scanned Robert analyzed the video feeds, Robert walked in the room and joined Benson. Robert noticed that the wall-screen had a file pulled up called Robert version 2.11.

"Hello, Robert." The copy spoke to his own form almost musically. "Have you recovered your strength? My last records show that you felt rather faint."

"It's Maria that has me worried."

"I understand," said the construct. "Maybe it will ease your anxiety to know that I'm working on finding her right now."

"Benson, how does it speak so well?"

"You want to know about its intelligence or how it can speak without the tale-tell robotic lilt?"

"Without the lilt."

"Well, that's easy. I was working with both lower and higher threshold AI and grew tired of hearing that halting and tinny cum-pew-ter voice. So, I read up on automatons, gear-driven men. In the ninth century, the Persian Jabir ibn Hayyan created scorpions that sang as they struck their victims with poison, snakes that condemned to hell those their fangs struck. Hayyan was the minister of foreign affairs, a complicated way of saying that he organized entertainment for the King's guests in Baghdad. He was also the chief executioner of the palace. Cleverly, he combined his duties. Through a primitive system of gears, he made a gilded mechanical bear dance with three serving girls. The girls whirled past the bear's slashing talons, only just missing their bare thighs and long, pretty arms--as long as the girls got their cues right. In the middle of the stage, chained in place, the condemned was laid, marveling at the fluid dance of the bear, excited by the nearness of the serving girls, that, as part of their choreography, brushed their torsos across his face, arousing him in a confusing excitement of a woman's intimate touch and an approaching automaton's whirling claws. At the height of the dance, the instruments at frenetic pitch, the girls' bodies covering the condemned, hands running across his chest, his inner thighs, a coiled spring triggered, sending the bear leaping through the air in a parabolic flight, claws extended. The girls rolled away, and the condemned saw his own horrified expression mirrored across the bear's golden-armored body. Afterwards, the bear would pronounce from the Egyptian book of the Dead, 'the universe is drawn in circles,' which was quite obviously a comment on the circular gears that animated the bear."

"Cruel and unusual punishment. Don't let ISIS know about it or their decapitation videos might get a lot stranger," Robert said.

"Funny enough, most people believed it was just a warrior dressed up as a bear."

"Of course it was a warrior dressed up as a bear. We're talking the ninth century here."

"Mechanization has a long history. Even in the Roman period, water wheels were used to grind grain and irrigate water."

"That's a big jump from, uh, jumping bears."

"Not really, especially when you think of a culture that was fascinated by the orbs in the heavens, and, wanting to pattern their own civilization after what they saw in the sky, created circular, spinning gears."

"So, the bear was a representation of the galaxy?"

"Yes. Most likely it was only because of the roundness of the sun and moon, and the idea of a circle given off by the dotlike stars. But, to return to vocality . . ."

"Yes, vocality," rang out the construct.

"It came to me very quickly how Hayyan had his bear speak."

"Oh?" Robert looked far from interested.

"An internal music box, and the last coil to untighten before the bear came to a rest. So, I realized that I could upload a dictionary to the construct as well as a music box recording of all the phonemes in English. A few demonstrations later, and the construct picked up on how to pair each word concept to the proper string of phonemes. Now, it can speak perfectly."

"Fine, fine, but where is Maria?" Robert looked noticeably worried.

"I can see that you have quite a high threshold for emotional response to Maria. In moments I'll pinpoint the exact second she left the lab. I might add that because I am not hampered by a physical body I don't feel fatigue or emotion that might sap ratiocination or cause fear. Because of this, to me the disappearance of Maria Fey is nothing more than an intellectual query with a pursuable answer. However, my recording of your mind contains a vast field of emotional memory. What I don't quite understand is that my cache of your consciousness shows that the memories of feelings were rarely accessed. I'm having trouble sorting out how behavior dovetails with this inner life of the mind, with its complex emotional memory."

"Am I getting instructions about being more emotional from this computer?" Robert asked Benson.

"Also, Robert, you should cut down on your drinking and use of controlled substances. Think of your health," said the construct.

"This computer sounds like my girlfriend from college," said Robert.

"It's a living anima," Benson replied. "I think you'll find that you can discover quite a lot from it if you have the patience."

"Ah, here I've pinpointed the outlying event. I'll put it on playback," said Robert version 2.11.

On the screen, two leather clad men barged through the doors to the room housing the scanning pool and split up, one circling one direction around the pool, the second taking the other to corner Maria. One of the men pulled out some kind of instrument, pressed it against Maria, and she slumped to the floor. The second picked her up and made his exit while the first typed at the terminal and uploaded information to an external hard-drive wired into his jacket. "The fibers of the jacket must have been some kind of aluminum alloy surrounded by a magnetic coating," said Benson. "I'll access the computer to see what files he copied." Benson typed at the main access point, bringing up the root file and bypassing its security protocols. "Oh no," said Benson. "They took a copy of your scan."

"I might add that I recognize the men," said Robert version 2.11.

Benson frowned at Robert.

"Yes of course," said Robert, "The German security guards, and they gave me a phone card." Robert felt around with his index finger until he found the phone card and removed it. The card had lines through the Cell-o logo, it had been tampered with to work on a different frequency.

"I can use the card to transmit a frequency and we'll see where it goes. That could lead us to Fey," said Benson. Dr. Benson clipped a tele-communications wire to the chip and with some recalibrating, homed in the direction of the signal and its wavelength. It's right in the heart of Cityscape, CommUnitas Tower. I had a feeling that Kantor knew more than he was telling me."

"That infernal tower," said Robert.

"We're going there now. I'll demand a meeting with Kantor and we'll find out what's going on."

"Why not just call the police?"

"The deparole and the scan have gotten you all mixed up. Do you really think we want to open the doors here to detectives? I assure you, if we gave them an open door they'd be here immediately to see what they could dig up on _this_ place."

"Yes. Of course."

Benson looked at Robert closely. "Maybe you should eat something solid. Weisse, dig something up for Robert." Benson looked around the lab. "Weisse? Where is that guy? Oh well." Benson rang Kantor's line and heard the pulse of the ring an even dozen times before cutting off the connection. He called Kantor's secretary with similar results, and a third call to CommUnitas ended in the bedeviling sound of a fax machine. "We'll go ourselves," declared Benson.

"We've got, got to find her." Robert turned to head to the hallway, but slipped, caught himself on a desk."

Benson came to Robert's side, grasped him firmly and held him upright without effort. Robert hadn't remembered witnessing such a feat of strength from Benson, but let the thought go unanalyzed in his tiredness.

"We can go first thing tomorrow. After days in the scanning process, you need to rest."

"That might be for the best. Can you drive me?"

"Yes, as long as I can use your car."

"You don't have a car?" Robert asked.

"Haven't found the need for one recently," Benson laughed. "I haven't left the lab in quite a while."

Robert's oceanside home was the picture of restfulness, set against the calm waters of the Pacific--that is, until Robert noticed the front door had been forced open with a crowbar. The inside was a wreck, sofas and cushions slashed, tables and chairs strewn across the floor, books ripped apart. A taxidermied elephant head lay smashed, its tusks sawed off for the hell of it, Robert's original Rothko impaled on one of the cast off tusks. The safe concealed by the painting was blasted apart. Gone were the priceless first editions of Vincent Omniaveritas's _Cheap Truth_ , along with the stack of external hard drives containing Robert's ideas and research, his entire archived life. There was no chance at figuring out who was responsible for the damages: the hidden door to the security room was blown wide, a crater in the floor, black residue across the walls, and curling, cut wires where towers of hardware once stood screaming "file not found." In Robert's bedroom, fragments of vinyl records peppered the floor like shrapnel; shards from the mini-bar's liquor bottles salted the tile. Robert found a half-intact whisky bottle with a few fingers remaining, finished the bottle off, and fell asleep in the living room floor, his mind a cortical cousin of the ruined house.

Chapter 19 - Ascension

CommUnitas Tower was a steel grey monolith, jutting off into the ether for what seemed like forever. The tower rose over three miles above the street, which had recently had its name changed to Aztec Way. Dr. Benson and Robert walked along the promenade that led to the supermassive vaulted entranceway to the tower.

"Look at that thing," said Robert. "I don't remember it being quite so tall."

"Well, it wasn't," said Benson. "The tower grows daily by the rate of better than twenty feet through the use of a swarming pack of assembly drones. See," Benson pointed to black flecks in the air around the tower far above them.

Robert squinted his eyes. "Looks like birds to me."

"Yes, but it's not. Those drones are pushing the tower well beyond Cityscape's former kilometer restriction on building height."

"You mean this thing vaults over a mile overhead?"

"Exactly right. When Cityscape set that limit there were almost no towers even close to that height. A big scuffle occurred over airspace restrictions when CommUnitas brokered for unlimited tower height. They were almost laughed out of City Hall at first. After demonstrating the benefits that the Tower could provide, which involved a twenty-digit alphanumeric code to an anonymous Swiss account, the city gave them the green light. But the greatest marvel is the unlimited funds backing CommUnitas. They somehow raised the billions of credits to build this megatall structure. They cleared all the legal and municipal hurdles to buy up and then clear the square mile base that the building's foundation engulfs. Old towers were imploded, rubble hauled away, and the space turned into a ground zero in the heart of the greatest city in the world."

Robert played with the feeling of his atomity in the shadow of the corporate tower.

"And see those turbines some eight hundred feet above us?"

Robert looked up, put a hand above his eyes.

"Comm Tower generates electricity with those wind turbines. You figure, since most buildings are constantly swaying with the wind, why not use some of that energy instead of letting it fly away?"

"Makes you wonder what twentieth-century builders were thinking, doesn't it?"

"But they do so much more."

"Like what?"

"They've tapped into geothermal plates deep below the tower in the earth's core and they collect solar energy by the gigawatt."

"The windows are all collecting solar?"

"Yes, micropore filaments, very efficient. After cresting six thousand and five hundred feet, the panels toward the top of the tower more easily bypass cloud interference and, at higher altitudes, collect sunlight for longer periods of the day," said Benson.

"Right, the curvature of the earth interferes that much less with sight lines to the sun up there."

"Exactly. In a few months, the tower will crest the upper cloud layers that gather around twenty-thousand feet. They'll gather energy at exponential levels, doubling and then quadrupling the energy production needs of Cityscape."

"So, what happens to the old energy infrastructure?"

"Well, here comes the troubling point from a power perspective, and I mean power from the perspectives of energy and control. Because the tower produces all this green energy, less efficient and polluting plants are going toward shut down stages."

"What about the hydro dam?"

"Thing's old and in disrepair. And look," Benson pointed to a large mock-up of the dam area's future. Around the lake were playgrounds, tennis courts, and a family lodge boasting a menu of organic foods all grown inside Comm Tower. "That dam of yours is next on the docket for retirement. Soon, power in Cityscape will have one source, and you're looking at it."

"So they're monopolizing energy," said Robert.

"Right, and no one complains because CommUnitas is turning urban eyesores into green spaces and making good on their promise to provide abundant clean energy. Have you noticed, for instance, that very few of the hundreds of smokestacks filling the skyline are turned on now?"

"I hadn't noticed really."

Benson chuckled. "Just look at their advertisements." He pointed at a banner hanging over one of the main doors that read, "No more free radicals billowing into the sky." "Ok, fine, no more free radicals, but no more free anything. CommUnitas owns it all! And all this success has even quieted dissent from liberals that CommUnitas is bad for small business and the overall health of the economy."

"You really know quite a bit about this tower."

"I should. I'm on the editorial board of _Whyscraper_."

" _Whyscraper_?"

"A 'zine for CommUnitas dissent."

"Spout all the dissent you want, but this thing's height, marvelous."

"It's not just the height that's mind boggling. The root system of the tower reaches as far downward, fingering through miles and miles of subterranean passageways utilizing the heat and pressure of the earth's core; steam power cools and heats the building all the way to the top."

"What about the shifting of tectonic plates? Deep subterranean passages aren't geologically stable."

"That's one problem that leads me to think that this tower is just another herald of the skyscraper curse."

"Never heard of that."

"There's a precedent in history for a connection between economic downturns and record-setting supertall buildings. The Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building went up in time to cast a long shadow over the great depression. Chicago's Sear's Tower corresponds to a financial crash in the early '70s, and after erecting the Burj Dubai, Dubai nearly went bankrupt."

"Maybe just a weird coincidence?" asked Robert.

"Doubtful. Look at the history of super projects. It wasn't in Egypt's best interest to build the Suez Canal in 1869, and the French apparently didn't learn anything from that mishap, because just a little over a decade later in 1880 they began excavations for a Panama Canal that nearly bankrupted them. While those canals _became_ profitable once they were completed, towers are often economic pitfalls because their main function has been as status symbol."

"But you just explained all the benefits of the tower, with its renewable energy production capabilities."

"Yes, but keep in mind that by revolutionizing the energy sector, CommUnitas upended the preexisting economic structure."

"But they're making things better for everyone."

"Are you familiar with the Rothschilds?" asked Benson.

"Sure."

"Mayer Amschel Rothschild said, 'Give me control of a nation's money and I care not who makes its laws.'"

"But we're not talking about money; we're talking about energy."

"I don't think you can separate the two very easily. You know how Bill Gates solidified his position as wealthiest man in the world?"

"Making a user-friendly operating system universally loaded with solitaire, hearts, and minesweeper?"

"Didn't hurt, but it was his development of clean energy that took his portfolio into the stratosphere." Benson looked up at the sublime vision of the tower.

"I'm confused. You're saying it's bad that CommUnitas is investing in clean energy at the same time that you mention it's a winning business plan."

"Yes, but CommUnitas isn't setting up a Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation."

"What about all the green spaces?"

"Just keep your eyes open in here. Don't let the grand scale distract you from the bottom line."

"What is our plan exactly?" asked Robert.

"We made real strides while you were in your reparole. That should give us leverage to speak with Kantor, and I suspect we may find out what happened to Maria."

"So you have a working prototype to show Kantor?

"Yes and no. I'll fill you on in the details later."

"So you do have a prototype?" Robert asked.

"Affirmative."

"I'd like to see it later."

"Yes, of course, later."

"Was Maria on the Neo Geo project?"

"No, only Weisse and myself. Maria spent her time developing the scanning process. And here," Benson pulled out an ultra small communications device. Use this chip. Put it in your ear just like a phone card."

Robert set the chip in place. "I thought you only used old analog phones."

"Well sure, if given a choice. But we're out and about and can't neglect the need for communication, but believe me, I've thought about getting one of those Vietnam era field telephones to strap on my back."

"That wouldn't be all that discreet."

"Hence the card. I'm calling Kantor now." Benson rang Kantor's line, and Robert could hear the call through the communications chip. Almost too quickly, Kantor was on the line.

"Dr., still looking for funding?"

"No, not quite Ernest, but this is a closely related matter. We have plenty of funds to support Project Neo Geo, but I think CommUnitas might be interested in partnering, get ahead of the curve on access to this tech."

"I'm not so sure that our labs need any aid from you, but give me a little to go on."

"Materials capable of transferring consciousness into android bodies: part nanotech, part carbon. We've already seen it work on a small scale, I guess you could say. If you're not busy, I'd like to discuss the project further."

"Consciousness into androids? You're overlying my mind onto an android?" whispered Robert.

Benson raised his finger to his mouth and looked at Robert imploringly.

"Truly intelligent androids?" Kantor was silent for a moment before chuckling. "Benson, if you've transferred your consciousness into an android, the question of intelligence is still in the air. But it gives me pause, maybe your little brain made transference simpler? Less gray matter to migrate! Still, I'm intrigued. When can you get here?"

If Benson took offense, it wasn't apparent. "I'm here now, in front of your tower."

"Good, good," something approaching a snicker was almost apparent in Kantor's voice. "Go on in. Find your way to HR and Gant will bring you to my office directly."

Benson ended the call.

"We've got a green light!" said Robert.

"Yes, but something tells me this visit isn't going to be filled with wine and roses."

"Why's that?"

Robert frowned. "You ever been to an HR department?"

"No, I guess not."

"It's a living hell. I often imagine that HR people have a historical link to the cretins that used to ritualistically sacrifice virgins to guarantee good crop production."

"The Aztecs, I believe."

"Yeah, whoever."

Twenty-five minutes later Benson and Robert found their way to a sprawling desk behind which sat a severe looking man.

"Hi, is this HR? We're not quite sure where we are or which floor we're on," said Benson.

"Yeah, we've gone up several flights of stairs, wound around corridors, and then gone back down more stairs only to find new stairs to climb," said Robert.

A little man, sitting behind several bookcases of historical criticism, leveled his gaze at Benson and Robert and sneered. "I wouldn't be sitting here if it wasn't HR, would I?"

Robert and Benson exchanged glances. "So, it is HR, then?" asked Benson.

"Can't you read? Look." The little man pointed to a small plaque on a wall behind a fake plant that read, "Human Resources."

Benson whispered to Robert, "Subhuman Resources more like it."

"So what is it exactly you've come here for?" asked the man.

"I'm Dr. Benson. We've got an appointment to see Ernest Kantor."

The man casually held out his hand, palm up, and coughed.

Benson handed the man twenty credits.

The man typed for a bit on his keypad. "Ok. I do register an appointment with one Mr. Benson with the director."

"Good," said Benson.

"First, you'll have to fill out these sheets, and I'm going to need two forms of identification from each of you." The man handed over two file folders a half-inch deep with paperwork: background check forms, emergency contact forms, biographical forms, photo and video release forms, safety waivers, forms for setting up a monthly donation to CommUnitas, three personality tests, an HR performance review, a safety training instruction booklet and attached quiz, a booklet of Rohrshachs, and a catalog of the merits of CommUnitas.

"Kantor didn't say anything about this. We're just here for a quick visit," Benson said in earnest.

"Yes, I understand. Just work through that folder, and once _everything_ checks out, you'll have your quick visit. Now if you don't mind, I have an interview to conduct."

For over two hours Benson and Robert filled out forms. Speeding through page after page as rapidly as possible. All the while, the HR representative interviewed a professional looking man. While the HR man was dressed in baggy khaki pants outdated by fifteen years and a shirt with a pastel swirl that had never been in fashion, the professional young man was sartorially on point, wearing grey pants, a light-blue button up, and a grey tie.

The interview began with the professional young man handing over the same thick folder of papers Benson and Robert were currently working through. "I'm not sure why I had to fill out all of this paperwork. I've been working at CommUnitas for the last four years."

The little HR man typed for a minute on a keyboard without looking at the young man. "No. No, your wrong about that."

"Wrong about working here?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so." The little man flashed a menacing smile.

"No, look. Here's my work badge."

"None of that matters. We passed a new rule last Tuesday that let us shred the paperwork of anyone that asks for a promotion."

Benson whispered to Robert, "Beginning to think HR stands for Hellish Reality."

The young man bit back frustration. "Ok. Well, that's fine. Can we get started on the interview."

"Oh. Well, I wasn't expecting you to finish your paperwork for a while longer yet."

The young man looked around, looked crestfallen that he was, indeed, in the right place.

"Should I come back?"

"No. I'm just not going to be able to pay much attention to you while you give your demonstration."

"But I guess you'll record it, so others can verify my abilities?"

The HR man chuckled. "Just go ahead and get started."

When the young man covered organizational theory, Robert stopped for a while, finding the information quite helpful.

Nearing completion of their paperwork, the young man's demonstration ended. "So, can we talk about the organizational chief position in sector nineteen now?"

The little HR man gave a snarl worthy of Kato Kaelin. "We've already filled that position, but would you like to continue working your old position for a pay decrease of two credits an hour?"

The professional young man's face went red, his body tensed. He moved his hand to a side pocket, then moved it away, turned and left muttering darkly to himself.

"So, you have a thing for history?" Benson asked the HR man.

"I have two different master's degrees in history and a Ph.D." The HR man glowed with self-satisfaction.

"You completed those degrees and you work in HR?" Robert asked.

The HR man pushed up from his rolling chair violently, sending it crashing to the floor. "That office, there," the man pointed to an office with the name "Gant" written in black lettering over frosted glass. "Go."

The walls of Gant's office were ringed with ferns. In the middle sat a table with a mock-up of the island city of Tenochtitlan. Robert examined a miniature priest atop the centrally located temple brandishing a bloody knife. The fearsome holy man stood in front of a pile of young women, their breasts uncovered and throats slashed.

"Has there ever been a more beautiful scene?" asked a distinguished man sitting behind an imposing oak desk flanked by two pumped heavies.

Robert knelt to get an eye-level look, "I guess it's hard to say."

"The correct answer is, not until now." The good-looking dark-haired man stood from his desk to join Robert in taking in the miniature city. "This tower, CommUnitas, has eclipsed even the greatness of Tenochtitlan, the great golden city!"

Robert studied the ordered and vast city streets, the north, west, and southbound causeways attaching the island to the mainland, and the imposing Temple of the Sun that towered over all the rest. "I think I prefer the golden city here."

"I can't fault your admiration. Indeed, it's well placed. But perhaps I will convince you that CommUnitas has exceeded those ancients in creating a perfect society."

Robert found the gladiator platforms with Xipe Totec honorees, blood dripping freely from the skins they wore of slaves slain in ritual combat the day before. "Perhaps."

Taking his attention away from the Aztec city, the dark-haired man greeted Benson. "Dr. Benson, Frederick Gant. It is my pleasure."

Shaking hands, Benson said, "This is Robert, one of our top researchers. Is Ernest waiting for us?"

"Ernest waits . . . for no man." Gant curled his lips in a wry smile and looked back and forth between Robert and Benson. I will take you to him shortly. However, before you meet our great director, I'll take you on a short tour of CommUnitas and make my case for the peerlessness of our new empire. I'll ask you to put on these." Gant handed Robert and Benson each a headset. Placing it on, they heard a song begin with a slow tattoo of hand drums, shakers playing a weird staccato in a counter rhythm to the drums, and two pipes cutting over the percussive ensemble, weaving around each other in a minor key.

"What kind of music is this?" asked Robert.

" _Canciones Mexicanas tradicionales de los Aztecas_." Gant put on one of the headsets, produced a wooden pipe from a drawer and played in time with the music for a few bars.

"He's quite invested in this, right?" Robert whispered to Benson.

"The importance of the Aztecs isn't just a passing fad for us here at CommUnitas. We're not one of those corporations that hand out copies of _Art of War_ at a business retreat, spout a few lines, and then nothing's changed next day in the office. You'll see just how important Azteca is at CommUnitas. Follow me." Gant punched a button on his desk and lights appeared on the floor, revealing an elevator slab. The elevator lifted the group one story to a main hall in view of the tower's North entrance. Gant's office, it appeared, was located on sub-floor one.

"So, there's a direct elevator to HR," said Robert. "We didn't need to walk around for half an hour, just could have used this elevator here?"

Gant pressed a button on his headset and the music shifted speed, felt more warlike. "Oh no. This is a private elevator. Not for public use, you understand." Though he spoke rhetorically, Gant waited for a response, wanted it, even turned his head slightly to communicate his desire.

Benson caught on. "So, that elevator is for private use."

Gant pressed a button on the headset and the music's pace resumed its former, easy lilt. "That's right; this elevator isn't open to the public. You get to ride on it because you're with me. Now I would like for you to turn your attention to the words engraved in gold over our North entrance. Robert and Benson read the words, "Above Us Only Nahuatl."

"Nahuatl?" Robert asked

"Yes! Nahuatl!" Gant Waved his arm over his head in a great arc.

"Aztec for sky. These guys have it real hard for the Aztecs," Benson said to Robert with care against anyone overhearing.

Gant led them into a cavernous hall teeming with people. Sweeping a dark shock of hair across his brow, Gant gestured to the ant-like efficiency of the masses moving through the hall, "When Cortez beheld Tenochtitlan, the great city of the Aztecs, he marveled at its superiority to his own European cities that were but hamlets in comparison. Aztec markets stretched forever down wide roadways in the crown city of the Tribunal of the Three Chairs. Yes, it was home to a half million of those great people. The world had never seen anything to compare to such grand scale. At that time, London wasn't a quarter the size of the great Aztec city!"

"You don't say." Robert looked at his reflection in the well-polished black marble floor.

Gant carried on unheeded, "The disorganization of the disease ridden streets of England's _greatest_ city couldn't compare with the advanced mechanism of Aztec society. There's a common Eurocentric misunderstanding of Aztec civilization. It wasn't that there was some kind of problem with overpopulation. The massive population was a result of a thriving economic system based on trade, agriculture, and mercantilism, and Aztec life was stable. From an anthropological view, the Aztecs were well ahead of human societies of the twentieth century."

"Well, that's very fine, but how do Aztecs figure into CommUnitas?" asked Dr. Benson.

Gant smiled and grabbed his data-stacker. Punching in a few commands, the energy of the room shifted. Dr. Benson and Robert stared incredulously as everyone in the vast space turned to face them and bow down.

Robert gasped. "Are they automatons?"

Thousands of bodies lay prostrate in the room. "Doubtful," said Dr. Benson. "This is more a demonstration of effective communications systems."

"I will leave this question unsatisfied, but CommUnitas is united on an unprecedented level, organized with the efficiency of a techno-Tenochtitlan." Gant punched away at his data-stacker and the mass of bodies returned to their former tasks.

"As you might imagine," Gant continued, "even pausing their work for ten seconds will leave a noticeable drop in efficiency. Think of it, if six people stop working for ten seconds, we lose a minute of work. Take that number to sixty and we're up to ten minutes, and," Gant punched a couple buttons on his stacker, "nearly ten thousand workers are currently in this room!" Frederick, beaming with CommUnitas pride, stopped speaking to take in the awe of his tour group.

Robert wasn't paying attention, drawn away by a triptych of one-hundred-foot-tall bronze portraits of Aztec emperors hanging from a distant wall.

Benson said, "Well, you can't stop there, Gant. What's the loss of man hours from your ten-second worship display?"

Frederick frowned, punched at his stacker. "It's about twenty-seven and a half hours of work lost!"

"And what's an hour of these guys' lives worth?" Benson motioned toward a random selection of workers now going about their way.

"Well, we have different scales of pay, expertise depending, but we're phasing all that out toward a collective system."'

"You mean a communist system?"

"Let's call it the CommUnitas system." Benson punched numbers into the stacker. "But, okay, let's say everyone gets paid an average of twenty credits an hour. CommUnitas paid out five-hundred and fifty credits for everyone in the main hall to bow down to us."

"A worthless figure," said Gant.

"You know, Gant, you might have spent that money more effectively by treating us to fresh lobster shipped in from Maine," said Benson.

"You want lobster? Done. Money means nothing to us. The measure of money is an abstract. Totally and completely meaningless. Only work has value. The worker represents capital, end of story."

"I'd like to take my headset off now, if that's okay with you." Robert removed the headset and handed it to Gant. "I really don't have an ear for these Aztec tunes."

Fredrick snapped the headset in half and threw it to the floor. "Uncultured Tarascan pig. You should learn to be grateful."

"Tarascan?" Robert asked Benson.

"Enemies of the Aztecs, and for all purposes their equals, whether in governance, making war, creating art . . ."

"Enough! Let's continue the tour." Gant led them through the hall to the elevators, asserting the dominance of the Aztec empire all the while. Robert examined the people on the CommUnitas floor, wondering if it was possible that they were automatons. He noted that each walked in its own manner, all at variegated paces. He saw the look of anxiety on some and confidence on others. For a moment Robert thought he recognized Sally Riggs, but then briefly locked eyes with what must have been Mary. He was sure that he recognized her: those long legs, the deep rouge lipstick, the pile of platinum blonde hair, that gaming smile.

"The Aztecs were essentially automatons," Gant continued without gesturing to either Benson or Robert. "They were programmed by their society to accept rudimentary cultural elements as essential, unassailable truths about how life must be oriented."

Robert tried to get Mary's attention again. She saw him, barely raised an eyebrow. Robert though that maybe she hadn't recognized him, that perhaps the distance was too great.

All the while, Gant droned on, "You see, the automaton is essentially a program. For the Aztecs, the program involved ritualistic destruction of masses of humans. It certainly helped the Aztecs that everyone they sacrificed were criminals, undesirables, or foreigners." Frederick ushered them into the elevator and continued to speak to them from outside the closing doors. "That's how you build a utopia you see: you build an empire and slowly eat away at the outer world until the only thing that remains," only a sliver of space glowed between the closing chrome doors, "is the heart."

Once the doors were sealed, the elevator began its long ascent thousands of feet through the obscene height of the tower.

"I find it interesting that humans always make the mistake of believing the goal of life is progress," said Benson.

"What do you mean? Progress drives us," said Robert.

Benson shook his head. "I don't think so. I rather think that progress is a myth created by those with capital and power to control society."

"But what of all the progress throughout history?"

"Trappings, Robert."

"Trappings?"

"Think of the shark."

"The shark? Okay."

"What progress has it made in the last five years? Ten years? One hundred? One thousand?"

"I'm not sure."

"None! Do you know why?"

Robert shook his head.

"Because life isn't about progress, it's about systems. The ocean has its own ecosystem and so too does human society. And let me tell you, it is just as futile for a sea anemone to try to take over the position of the shark as it is for the great mass of humanity to overcome their masters."

"This is very negative coming from a research scientist."

"Hardly. That's what we do. We study systems," said Benson.

"But you never answered the question about progress. What do you mean by trappings?"

"Progress is a tool of the system, a way to make the bottom feeders feel like they aren't stuck in their castelike place, that they aren't just working to feed the sharks at the top of the food chain."

The doors opened on a buxom young woman with an afro dressed something like a stewardess from the mid-twentieth century. "Hello, gentlemen, Deseree Aster." She caught Robert looking at her curves. "You like what you see?"

"Wouldn't mind a closer look."

"Alright. Hold still then." Deseree jabbed a three-pronged needle attached to a health-o-scope into Robert's neck. Three seconds later it read positive for a couple low grade STIs. "Looks like you acquired these in the past month. Been busy since you left the ward?" Deseree punched commands in the scope and jabbed Robert again. "Alright, you're clear. The two left for the better part of ten minutes. On return, Robert looked noticeably relaxed and Deseree disheveled.

"Ernest Kantor awaits." Deseree led them into a room of interminable size, lacking outside light. For a room in the upper regions of the tower, the sheer expanse was unthinkable. The room recreated the sensation of standing in space, starfields dazzling and careening in every direction. Deseree led them in a confused tangle of directions. Robert recognized none of the constellations and felt sure they were looking into a part of the universe remote from Terra. After several minutes of walking they emerged before a portal that dilated, leading to a small but well supplied antechamber, stacked and lined from floor to ceiling with hard drives and wires. The humming and grating noise of computer circuitry was harsh, cicada-like. Once the three stood in the middle of the ante-chamber, the floor rose, lifting them to the domain of Kantor.

"Benson! Robert!" Kantor, a vision of embodied information, disentangled himself and emerged from a workspace of wires and microelectron tubing that created a glowing shell of light around the old man. As Kantor came closer, an umbilical mass of wiring became visible, extending intravenously from various nodes across his leathered skin.

"I appreciate your seeing us Ernest." Benson put out his hand for a shake.

Kantor frowned, denied the hand. "Didn't HR instruct you to refer to me as the Great Director?"

Robert and Dr. Benson exchanged a worried look. "They didn't mention anything like that, no," said Benson.

Robert leaned in, whispered, "Maybe this was a bad idea."

Dr. Benson raised his eyebrows, shrugged.

"So, to whom do you speak?" Kantor waited in silence, his head turned slightly and eyebrows raised in expectation.

"Ernest, we didn't come here to play games."

"Oh, no?" Kantor laughed. "We'll see about that." Kantor relaxed a bit. "So, what do you desire of me? Wait, let me guess. I suppose Robert wants his brain and the professor wants to return to his home in my labs, researching without having to beg for seed money every quarter. Where's Dorothy and the cowardly lion? And you there, I suppose you'll beg for a heart!"

"Uh, well, that's not really . . ." Dr. Benson stalled while trying to size up Kantor, "We have reason to believe that . . ."

"Save your breath. I know why you're here."

"Oh?" Robert was genuinely interested.

"Yes, of course. I _wanted_ you here. Otherwise, do you imagine I'd waste my precious time _listening_ to your foolishness?"

"Well, we . . ." Benson tried to speak.

"You've saved me a great deal of trouble by coming on your own free will, misguided and stupid as it is," said Kantor. "You see, I need your minds, must have them actually." Benson clapped his hands together twice. "Deseree, if you don't mind."

Deseree stretched out her arms in front of her body, cracked her knuckles and then struck three rapid blows against Dr. Benson, knocking him to the floor with an odd metallic thud. She turned to Robert, gave him a half grin.

"All's fair in love and war?"

"Nothing personal." Deseree took a running start toward Robert.

Robert bunted a punch toward Deseree's face that she caught and turned, throwing Robert past her and adding a kick to the ribs as he went by in his flight through the air. Robert pushed off the floor in time to jerk back from another kick at his head. The jerk wasn't executed quite in time, allowing enough of the kick to glance off the side of Robert's face to stun. Robert swayed as he rose to his feet and stood with an uneven posture. Deseree ran behind Robert and leapt so that as he hit the ground she struck the side of his face on the temple with a crushing blow from the flat of her palm. Pain radiated across Robert's face. He saw Ernest moving toward him, a wisp of pure energy, as his vision darkened. Laughter tinkled through the room.

Chapter 20 – Cheap Truth

Mary Crestwood set in a wicker chair in the sun room at the back of the sprawling estate overlooking the gardens. The estate was starkly silent now that her husband, Justice Crestwood, had left in favor of taking luxury rooms on the eight hundredth floor of Comm Tower. Comm Tower boasted rooms with breathtaking views for not so affordable prices. Mary was surprised that the house had been left to her after the deparole. She vaguely thought of burning it down, but where would that leave her? The deparole had left her harried, barren, unable to work or exist in society. Even supermarkets peaked her anxiety levels. She ordered things online and was more than happy to sink into a wicker chair and watch the light play with shadows around the room. To be rid of the Justice was a great relief. She thought of his horrible cocaine, booze, and 'thread habit; she thought of the way he recited dark lines of poetry to himself in low, fanatical tones; his pacing around the house and the worrisome, ever expanding gun collection. He often sat in the room mumbling terrible things while she feigned sleep. She could almost hear him now: "If I could have foreseen the hurricane and perfect hail-storm of affliction . . . what a revulsion! What an upheaving of the inner spirit from its lowest depths! What an apocalypse of the world within me!"

It was worse because of the baby. She would feel him move through the house, go into the baby's room, just stand there. God, what would he do? Stand over the baby weakly clutching a tumbler, the glass wavering unsteadily over her head, whisky sploshing onto her onesie, her little face.

"He's taken everything from me, Mary thought, but not her too." She ran in the room to try to take her, try to get away.

He thrashed her face, and she fell to the ground as he sniveled at her, laughed. Her blood on the tumbler, on his hand. He turned back to the baby, took out a 'thread. "Wonder if you want to talk to your father? What would you say, baby Shakespeare?" He laughed with a demonic charge and moved his hand toward the baby's mouth.

"No!" Mary sprung at Crestwood.

He caught her, shook her. "Get out if you know what's good for you!"

Her body hurt, wouldn't move. She could only watch as Crestwood forced open the sleeping baby's mouth and dropped in a 'thread, laughed, and then dropped in another.

Cries filled the nursery as stuffed bears and giraffes looked on mutely.

"Tell me thy dreams!"

"She's only two months old! She won't speak, can't!"

"We'll see about that. Crestwood threw back the finger left in his tumbler, threw the glass aside, and fumbled for more 'threads. He licked one for himself shoved the other in the baby's mouth."

"I, Xerxes, your god, demand you speak to me!"

The baby's eyes went large, words fluttering out with the sad grace of butterflies clipped by a passing car, spiraling away with bent wings. "And though she be but little she is fierce," the baby sing-songed in perfect iambic pentameter.

"Ha ha! You hear that Mary. Our little one's first words. Our own little Chickspeare! Har har har."

"Her brain, her brain. Why? Why? Why?"

Crestwood started a video call with an independently wealthy Republican senator from Texas.

A pink faced man wearing an oversized cowboy hat answered the other line. "If it isn't Rodger Crestwood! You crazy ape, what are you into?"

"Yes, yes. In the flesh. Listen to this!"

The baby rattled on about man and gods and the sublime.

"Oh, a regular Frieda Nietzschette."

Crestwood howled. "You ready to bump, you old rake?"

"Give me a second, ok?"

Mary saw that the baby was not looking right. The senator on the video chat and her husband dared each other on, mounting themselves into fits of pique and rage. If only she could get to the baby, maybe get her to an ER. Was the baby breathing? If the baby stopped breathing she would find one of Crestwood's guns. She would kill him. Blow of his hands first, starting with the hand that hurt her baby. She would shoot it off his body and then wrap the trigger finger in the gun, force him to watch his own hand pulling the trigger to first strafe an ear and then shoot off a big toe. Eventually she'd force him to watch his finger shoot at his own guts, then make him lick a hundred 'threads, a thousand if she could find them, give him full rational understanding of his damned mortality as his life seeped out, each drop of blood giving birth to echoes of death.

There, at the foot of the crib was a glass liquor bottle. That could stop him. Mary hurled herself at the bottle, lunged from the ground, smashed the Justice's face with glass. The bottle broke across his forehead, sprinkling little splinters of glass into the air. For a second, the room was broken into a thousand matrices of shimmering, living glass, glass speckled red with blood, glass reflecting the baby turning blue.
Chapter 21 - Whyscraper

Robert woke next to two young women wearing headdresses arrayed with colorful plumage and short one-piece dresses.

"You wake!" The girl in an indigo and mauve colored dress ran her hand across Robert's chest.

"Does our hero wake to live or does he wake to die?" The girl in a dun-colored dress spoke as if she had rehearsed the lines. "Now we prepare you for battle!" The girl stripped Robert, working him up to a level of excitement.

"Uh, did you say battle?"

"Silence. You will find out in due time. Warriors must prepare for battle with gravity." The girl took off the indigo and mauve dress and mounted Robert. As she moved astride, orange and blue feathers rustled gently. Robert slid a hand across her flat belly, her heavy breasts, nipples rosy and feathers fluttering as she rose and fell, Robert gasping with each crushing impact. The girl watched his face carefully, expression serious and cold; seconds before he exploded, she slid off, took Robert's face in her hands, said, "I bless you, warrior. I believe you wake to live." The girl left him unfulfilled, her feathers fanning around her.

"Shit!" Robert shrieked, sweat-stained and straining with unspent excitement.

The girl formerly wearing a tan-colored dress now mounted Robert. She clasped her hands behind his neck and moved vigorously, her breasts knocking against Robert as she rose and fell. His excitement from the other girl remaining, in minutes he was ready. Poised to receive his delivery, the girl studied his face. "I believe you wake to die." She left him before Robert could finish.

"Not again!" Robert tried to finish on his own.

"You dishonor the ritual!" The girls took Roberts arms, tied them behind his back, and left him.

Later, hearing the clank of steel, Robert looked up to see the girls hefting body armor and a sword.

"You will fight to prove your innocence." The first girl sat Robert up so she could strap ringed leather armor over his body.

"You don't, by any chance, have any GilgaMesh armor lying around?"

The girl tightened a strap without so much as acknowledging Robert's question. "You will fight to prove your guilt." The second girl held out a sword, black hilted and light. Robert took the sword. The weapon looked bigger in the girl's hands.

"I can't fight with a sword."

"Perhaps the gods will guide you." The first girl buckled a sheath in place.

"What gods?"

"Sun and moon. If your prayer is earnest and your sacrifice is made in humility, you may gain favor with the gods.

"You've got to be kidding." Robert held the sword out and took a couple of practice stabs in the air. The balance of the sword felt awkward in Robert's hands. "I've never even held a sword before."

"Take the sword. It cleaves the life from your veins."

"Good to know, I guess," said Robert.

Minutes later, Robert stood in front of an iron door, battle ready, at least in dress. The door swung to the side, revealing a small room made of large bricks of gold. Cameras peered down from the walls high above. A door made of silver was shut on the wall across from Robert. What looked like a Spanish Conquistador stood in the middle of the gold-bricked floor, golden armor glinting from the bright lights in the ceiling more than three stories above. The faux-Conquistador had an antique looking gun holstered and a sword at the ready.

Robert turned around, screamed, "I'm not going in there!"

"Heaven holds no place for cowards," said the girl in the indigo and mauve colored dress.

"Good! Heaven can wait." Robert turned and thrust his sword at the girl in the indigo and mauve dress. The blade penetrated the girl's smooth skin and then clanked on steel.

"Only a coward attacks a woman! May the gods reject your prayers." The girl shoved Robert inside the room with the faux-Conquistador and the iron door slammed shut heavily.

"Argh!" Robert screamed. He heard footsteps and spun around to see the Conquistador charging him. Robert sidestepped. The Conquistador's sharp steel sword connected with the iron door, rang like a gong.

"Hey, we don't have to fight!" reasoned Robert.

"The hell we don't! You're all that stands between me and the best sex I've ever had!"

"You're doing this for sex? With the metal priestesses?"

"Hell yes! I've got a thing for feathers. Wait, metal?"

"Sorry to break it to you, man. Those aren't women," said Robert.

"Coulda fooled me. Anyway, it beats hell out of the exorbitant subscription rates to the Can-tata girls VR Club." The faux-Conquistador turned and gave the sword an uncontrolled baseball swing aimed at Robert's head. Robert jumped back and the Conquistador spun around in a circle, carried by his own momentum.

"This isn't a game, man! It's real!"

The faux-Conquistador clenched his teeth. "Yeah, and you're a real problem for me." He drew the old gun from his holster and fired. A small black cloud of powder erupted as the bullet jammed in the barrel and exploded, destroying the gun and taking off three fingers of the faux-Conquistadors gun hand. He stared in disbelief at his maimed hand and then lunged at Robert with his sword, red blood splurting on the golden floor. Robert parried the frenzied attack and then pushed his off-balance attacker to the ground, ran him through with his sword at his exposed neckline.

The silver door swiveled open on a hinge revealing two more girls in feathered Aztec regalia. "Behold! Our new conqueror!"

Robert's feet were in a pool of blood. "Conqueror? You mean me?"

"Was it not your hand that slayed the champion?" said a girl wearing an orange skirt, feathers, and not much else.

"Was it not your strong arm that laid the champion low?" said the second girl, yellow skirted.

"Well, he wasn't all that great of a champion, I don't think."

"Silence! He was a terrific champion. He filled our . . . souls with delight!" said the girl in yellow.

"Look, if you all want to be of service to me, tell me how I can get out of here." Robert found it odd that he was still attracted to the women even though he was all but sure they were androids.

"First, there's the ritual!" said the girl in yellow.

Robert's body tensed involuntarily. "I've had plenty of rituals today. I can assure you."

"You deny the age-old rituals?"

Despite his desire, Robert took a couple steps back from the pool of blood and gently lowered himself down to the floor. "Look, if I could just have some water and maybe watch some TV for a while. I don't know if you took a good look back there, but that was messed up. Your champion blew his hand off, and then I had to . . ."

"Sacrifice him for the empire!" exclaimed the girl in orange.

"Well, uh, yeah--more or less."

The two small girls lifted Robert off the floor with ease and carried him through the silver door, setting him down on a couch. "We watched it all, here!" The girl in yellow pointed to a television on a wall, revealing a picture of the golden room with the faux-Conquistador dead on the floor. In front of the television, a table was filled with mostly empty wine and liquor bottles, motor oil, dirty plates, half-burnt candles, some old _Cosmopolitan_ and _Vogue_ magazines, and a book entitled _We_ _'re From Aztlan Man!: Sacrifice, Honor, and the Aztec Way_.

"Pretty cushy life you got going here."

"Shall we watch you defeat the champion again?" The girl in orange picked up a remote control and rewound the video.

As the video rewound, Robert watched his sword come out of the faux-Conquistador's throat, saw the fighter's life restored. "I don't think we need to watch that again."

The girl in orange stomped her foot. "You want nothing to do with our customs! Fine. Perhaps you would like to lie down? Let the hero rest?"

"Yes. Rest would be good."

The girl in yellow opened a door made of bronze, revealing darkness beyond. "Right through here to the resting chamber."

"Great. I really appreciate it." Robert stepped through the door and it shut behind him. Robert found himself in yet another golden chamber with another champion. This champion had thrown all of his Spanish armor and weaponry in a corner and was working on a laptop computer. The man looked over his shoulder at Robert. "Hey, you're late."

"Are you the reigning champion?" asked Robert.

"What's that? You know what, don't bother repeating yourself. I'm far too busy to deal with walk-ins right now. Come back, uh, after lunch I guess."

Robert glanced at the locked iron doors on either side of the room. "So we're not going to fight?"

The man closed the laptop. "No, man. You're clearly in the wrong place. But hey, while you're here, you could help me set up for the tech meeting that's set to begin in about forty-five minutes."

"A tech meeting? In here?"

"Oh yeah. I didn't tell you I was an associate network administrator for CommUnitas?"

"No, I must have missed that."

"Oh yeah. Keeps me busy. You know your way around basic web coding by chance?"

"Just a little."

"Oh good. I've got a messed up line in the code you could look at while I check to make sure kitchen services knows where to deliver lunch. Oh, wait, are you from kitchen services?"

"Uh, no."

The man thrust the laptop at Robert's chest. "Have at it then."

Robert put down his sword and sat down with the laptop. He opened it and saw a page with the profiles of several of the Can-tata girls. He thought one of them was the girl he'd met at the beach before the scan. "How do I get to the . . ."

The man who had denied being the reigning champion thrust a sword at Robert's back. The armor held, but the thrust stung, felt like a hard punch. The laptop flew from Robert's hands, screen shattering and keys scattering across the floor. Robert rolled, picked up his sword and dodged a second sword thrust.

"My powers are powerful! My strength, strong!" the champion sing-songed.

"So, there isn't a tech meeting, then?"

"Oh, there's definitely a tech meeting. There'll be some grunts along shortly to tech your body out for incineration." The man who denied he was the champion tapped on the floor first with his left heel, then with his right and began to levitate a foot off the ground. Kicking off a wall, the man turned his body parallel to the floor and rocketed through the air, gripping his sword with two hands, business end directed at Robert.

Robert dove out of the way of the flying lunge attack, landing in front of the champion's antique gun.

"Oh! Don't shoot me. Please don't shoot!"

Robert grabbed the gun, hurled it at the champion. The champion raised his arm to block the projectile, also blocking his view of Robert who followed the toss with a leap off the floor and a dash toward his attacker. When the former champion lowered his arm, Robert plunged steel into his gut.

The man punched Robert and then curled up on the ground to die.

The girl in orange entered the room. "You have become our great champion!"

"Great," said Robert.

"You have earned the rest you desired."

Robert looked at the girl with a frown. "Not sure I want any more of your rest."

"No? Then it is to the last battle! The final stage!"

"Oh, hold on. I could use some rest, actually."

The girl stomped her foot. "A soldier should resist double-mindedness." The girl pressed a lever and the floor where Robert stood began a three story ascent to the open ceiling above. Robert started to run toward the girl, but she pulled out an electro shocker from inside her boot and sent a low grade blast at Robert, knocking him down. Dazed, Robert focused on the open and lighted space he was moving toward. Once at the top of the elevator lift, Robert saw an indoor gladiatorial arena that looked like something from the model of Tenochtitlan he had seen in Gant's office. The vast field was dominated by a walled off Temple of the Sun at the center, several figures milling about the apex. Through artificial skylights, he saw steel glint and a body fall, tumbling limp down several temple steps.

A voice boomed from the direction of the temple. "Combatants, welcome to your death! If you are of _Burst of Death_ then you must brave the darkness to defend the temple. If you are of _Eternal Sword,_ then you must fight past _Burst of Death_ before the gladiatorial stage floods and your time is chomped away. Begin!"

The arena was well lit. "Brave the darkness?" Robert guessed he must be part of _Eternal Sword_. He held out his weapon and noticed the words, "Eternal®, AzTech made," on the hilt. A shout spun Robert around in time to weakly parry a crazed attack. The attacker hadn't been ready for the block and dropped his weapon, which Robert quickly retrieved. Robert studied the other gladiator's sword hilt, finding the same trademarked company name. "Thought so. Look, we're in this together. I've got a feeling we won't find anyone from _Burst of Death_ until we get closer to the Temple."

"Wyuuu." The defenseless man held up his hands in defeat.

"Deparoled?"

The man nodded and pointed at his barcoded shoulder.

"A criminal deparolee," Robert thought. Robert knew that a criminal deparolee was more likely an enemy of the state than a real threat to society. He dropped the man's sword, touched his own chest, and said "Robert."

"Burt." The man touched his chest and again said "Wyuuu."

"I'll call you Will," said Robert. They shook hands and Robert got Will to see that their swords were engraved with the same lettering. Robert pointed first at himself, then Will, and finally the tower. Will nodded in the affirmative.

Robert thought it best to take a circuitous path around the tower, rather than a direct approach. With Will, Robert hailed several more of the laconic _Eternal Sword._ Each man that they brought into their group had a barcode tattoo and gave them his phonetically challenged name. Robert named Merkooo, Mark and Endrooo, Andrew. After they had a band of four, it became easier to draw stray warriors together. By the time they noticed the perforations in the floor that water was seeping through, they had counted five dead and had a team of nearly twenty. Robert pointed his blade at the tower and raised a shout, echoed by _Eternal Sword_.

The water began rising more rapidly, easily two inches a minute. Robert led the group to the nearest opening through the wall. _Eternal Sword,_ mid-calf in water, charged through the entry and found the first emissary of _Burst of Death_ , electric whip in one hand, AK-47 in the other. A chorus of fearful shouts rent the air, catching the sentinel's attention. He turned on them, revealing a skull-like face punctuated by sockets that once held his eyes and now held two camera lenses. Blood across his face revealed that the wounds were new. As he turned, he lashed out with the whip, cutting two men apart at the torso, and swept the area with rifle fire, striking five men. A bullet glanced off Robert's sword as he dove head first into the water. The sentinel, confused by the sound of splashing, spun in a circle while unloading his clip. Most of the volley spiraled off harmlessly, but several of the _Eternal Sword_ received wounds and one _Burst of Death_ sentinel was hit, although he wouldn't have been much of a hurdle to get past. He'd been relieved of his eyes and his manhood. Upon being handed his AK-47, he had blasted one CommUnitas guard, and another sliced off his right arm with an electric whip and threw him into the arena.

Will rushed the crazed sentinel, plunged his sword at his back. The sword bounced off impenetrable mesh armor, could have been GilgaMesh. The sentinel turned, gun firing. Will kept behind him and gave the sword a swing at neck level, sending the decapitated head on a home run trajectory.

"Nice work." Robert patted down the sentinel's pockets. He found a pill bottle empty of markings, removed the armor, and traded it for his own cumbersome set. The water level was now up to Robert's knees, and _Eternal Sword_ were down to seven. On the stairs of the temple, a half dozen _Burst of Death_ sentinels stood at various levels, armed to the teeth. Robert pointed at the others, to the bottom of the tower, and then to the rising water. He hoped they understood he wanted them to stay on the lowest step of the temple, taking the rising water into account while he went after the remaining sentinels.

Robert climbed several stairs, moving as quietly as possible. Half a dozen stairs below a sentinel, Robert flung his sword at the weird defender. The sword glanced his arm, enough of a surprise that the sentinel stumbled, couldn't find his footing, and tumbled down the side of the temple. _Eternal Sword_ anticipated his descent, hacked at the confused guard when he came to a stop in a heap three levels above the rising water level. Two blades glanced off the _Burst of Death_ logo on the chest face of the sentinel's body armor. The sentinel cracked his whip, slicing off three of his toes. A burst of machine gun fire caught one of the deparoled _Eternal Sword_ directly in his body before a blade slammed down on the sentinel's gun wrist. One of the _Sword_ collected the gun, had to shake off the hand, fingers still curled around the trigger.

Robert, retrieving his blade, heard the crackle of an electric whip, turned to see a sentinel using the whip as a feeler, much the same way a blind man might use a cane, except the whip blackened stone with every hit. Robert prepared to rush the sentinel while his back was turned.

"Don't bother." The sentinel turned to face Robert, eyes in their sockets.

"You've still got your eyes."

"Born blind, friend."

"And you speak."

"Sure enough."

"You weren't deparoled?" asked Robert.

"Of course I was, but during the reparole I had access to VR glasses that plugged in here," the man pointed at a two-pronged 'trode hole at his temple. "Spent ten hours a day working through language programs, seeing and hearing. It wasn't a problem getting it all back and then some."

"What about the others in _Burst of Death_? What's with the cameras in their eye sockets?"

"Those aren't the only cameras. Check your body armor."

Robert looked closer and noticed several tiny lenses speckled across his armor. "What in the hell?"

"It's a reality show. People bet on who will survive, who will die first, how long each contestant will live. Generates a lot of extra capital for CommUnitas."

"No shit? I thought this stuff was filmed offshore, somewhere free of sanctions."

"Comm Tower's as free of sanctions as anywhere, pal. So, you letting me join _Eternal Sword_?"

"You're switching allegiance? That'll throw some wagers off, I guess."

"I never had any allegiance. Not like anyone knows each other. Hell, _Burst of Death_ guys can't speak to each other, can't see each other."

"Criminal deparolees?" asked Robert.

"That's right. They're a death trap to themselves as much as to others. One of them was nuts. Had to shoot him myself before he blasted me."

"Most of the _Sword_ are criminal deparolees too. __ They can barely say their own names. Had to leave a lot of them dead on the gladiatorial field."

"Well, you've got your wits. Let's work together." The sentinel took a spare electric whip off his belt and tossed it to Robert. The sentinel leveled his assault rifle directly at Robert's chest. "So, what's it gonna be?"

"Consider yourself part of the _Sword_. What'd you say your name was?"

"Suma."

"Alright, Suma. You know how many sentinels there are?"

"Seemed like there were better than ten, but like I said, I took down one myself."

"We knocked out two more, and then there's you."

"Could be six, seven more," said Suma.

Robert looked around. "But I don't see any others." The sound of machine gun fire caromed off the stone temple, punctuated by screams and wailing. "Let's move."

The water had risen above the lower half of the temple, and now rose faster than before. A voice boomed from the top of the tower. "Look above and despair!" Robert thought he recognized it.

Robert looked above, saw countless grates open, pouring out water and sharks.

"Don't fall in!" the voice boomed.

A bank of water connected with Robert and Suma, sweeping them down the stepped side of the Temple to the rising water below. Plunging deeper and deeper under water from the weight of his armor, Robert fought to unlatch himself, fought back panic and despair as he made his way back to the surface. A smooth-skinned body, all muscle, glanced by Robert. He saw a huge mouth open, an army of razored teeth, before one of the _Sword_ was hewn into and the water went crimson.

Cresting to the water's surface, a dozen fins were visible, circling thrashing figures. The temple's ceremonial floor was now only a few inches above the water level, nearly fifty feet from Robert. Two of the _Sword_ rushed the priest on the temple floor, blades whirling. The priest kicked one of the _Sword_ down, and with a clean swipe, opened the other from left shoulder to right hip, spun, and executed the other, ramming his blade through sternum and flesh.

"Bastard." Robert started toward the ceremonial floor, cut long strokes through the water, slicing into the surface at an angle to minimize splash. Screams rang out now and again as the water borne predators found their mark. For hundreds of thousands of years the shark hadn't evolved, hadn't needed to. The fluid movement of their bodies, their powerful jaws working through the bodies of flailing men, argued, even now, for their evolutionary supremacy.

The priest waited for Robert, wiped clean the blood from the fallen _Sword_. Feeling the rushing of water, Robert surged sideways, dodging snapping jaws. Putting his foot down, he found a step, lunged forward to the relative safety of the temple floor while the sharks answered the scent of blood in frenzy.

The ceremonial priest's mask hovered above, demoniac, mouth fixed in an insane grin, the eyes mirrored so that the ritualistic victims were forced to view their own deaths. The priest pushed back his mask. Robert recognized the Aztec enthusiast immediately: "Gant!"

"Didn't I tell you that the Aztec empire was supreme?"

"I thought you worked for Human Resources. How does that figure into human sacrifice?"

"Humans are the greatest resource! Fuel for true power. Strong societies prove their strength by making sacrifices of their young, strong bodies for the greater good."

"You're insane."

Gant held one hand on the hilt of his sheathed blade. "You're naive. But no matter. Soon you'll be dead."

"We'll see about that." It registered with Robert that, besides blood dripping down the stairs from the temple floor, there weren't any signs of _Burst of Death_ or _Eternal Sword._ Shark fins made tight circles in the water around Gant and Robert.

"By the way, did you like the electric whips?" asked Gant. "Those were engineered and produced right here in Comm Tower, my work. I even came up with the name AzTech."

Robert shrugged, unimpressed. "I dunno, feels like I've heard that before."

"I used to believe that the rituals of old Mexica were performed in accordance with religious belief. Beheading virgins and pitting men in mortal battle were ways of honoring the gods. I guess maybe some of the population believed it. But, the priest standing at the top of the temple, sacrificial dagger in hand, the great city spread out before him, watched by a hundred-thousand eyes, he becomes a god and sacrifices to himself. All those that walk up the temple for sacrificing, they are always small. Each stair they climb diminishes them. The priest though, as he climbs he becomes greater, greater and greater. He is a god on the killing floor and he kills for himself."

"You're no god, Gant."

Gant seethed, flipped his mask down and swiped the air with his obsidian blade. The blade sang. "Do you hear that? The obsidian was crafted to resonate in an A minor chord."

Robert had his eyes on a shark fin, studying its speed and rate of turn as it circled their island. "You inviting me to sing in your choir?"

"No, you fool. Your life is _a minor_ one, just like the rest this blade has welcomed to the afterlife. So, without further ceremony, I will kill you. I will prove that I am indeed a god." Gant strode toward Robert, dagger raised above his head.

Robert darted to the edge of the platform, intercepting the cycle of one of the many circling predatory fish, grabbing its tail and tossing it in a half circle at Gant who flung himself to the floor to dodge the thrashing animal. Robert kept away from Gant, moving along the edge of the platform, and reached out for a second shark as its fin sliced past. Robert used the sea creature's momentum to fling it out of the water.

Gant stalked his prey carefully. "He grows, he flowers with ingenuity. It is a shame you must die, but greatness requires sacrifice. That is how it has always been. Leaders don't serve the people, they serve themselves. Even if they _believe_ they are serving the people, they're wrong. Power doesn't belong to the people, but to the gods."

Robert tossed a third and then a fourth shark onto the killing floor and then turned his studies from the movements of the sharks to Gant.

"CommUnitas has sacrificed to create a better life for mankind. Now you are required to sacrifice your life in thanks to the greater good!" Gant led with his right foot, picked up his right and shifted forward, repeated the crablike walk, slowly closing on Robert, blade held two-handed, raised above his head in preparation for a deadly downward thrust. "The girls told me you shamed yourself before the games began."

"You're an ass." Robert slowed, letting Gant close. Gant lunged, the blade plunged, and Robert dropped to the floor, swept Gant's feet out from beneath him with a trip.

Gant bounced off a shark. The shark swept his jaws back and forth, found a hand, rent flesh with serrated teeth. Gant pushed himself away from the beast, blood running from an arm hanging limply, cleaved into just above the elbow.

"You'll pay. You'll pay dearly for this. I am above sacrifice." Gant dove at Robert.

Robert found purchase on another passing shark, flung it at Gant. The shark, jaws open in expectation, latched on Gant's left thigh, tore into it hungrily as Gant screamed in terror and pain. Again and again the jaws tightened on Gant's leg, blood redding rows of prehistoric teeth. All of the land borne sharks thrashed and bit in time with Gant's executioner.

"Who's the human resource now, Gant?"

As Gant howled and sobbed, the ceiling above opened and a spiral staircase descended. The feathered girls descended to the floor, now sopping wet with blood, bone, and cartilage, careful to step over torn appendages littering the ground.

"Our hero lives!" they chimed. "You have proven your innocence."

The girl in the indigo and mauve dress put her arms around Robert, drawing him to the ladder. "Now we will celebrate your great victory by finishing the warrior's ritual."

"You mean the sex? We're going to finish?"

The girl in tan got in Robert's face. "Don't cheapen the ritual with your dirty words, your dirty thoughts. Now, follow Xochiquetzal up the stairs so we can attend to the ritual."

The three walked back up the staircase, leaving the inhuman screams of a dying Gant on the sacrificial floor. Robert focused on the feathered behind of Xochiquetzal. The staircase led to what seemed like a laboratory. "We'll finish the ritual here? What happened to the other room. Seemed like a better place for the ritual."

Xochiquetzal slowly took off her mauve and indigo dress, revealing her pretty skin, her heavy breasts.

And to Robert's surprise the girl who was not Xochiquetzal pricked him with a needle in his arm. "I was supposed to do the pricking," Robert thought as he lost consciousness.

Chapter 22 – Cradle and All

Robert tried to sit up, but discovered the restraints of a cuff bound to either wrist and above each ankle, holding him in a supine position on a pallet in the laboratory. He noticed a constant rumbling and a dull roar coming from the walls.

"Good. You're waking up right on schedule." Kantor rubbed his leathered hands together eagerly.

"Robert! Thank God."

Robert turned his head and saw Benson similarly detained on another pallet.

Kantor walked in the way, blocking his view of Benson. "We were all quite surprised that you were victorious in the arena. How does it feel to be a champion?"

"It sucks."

"Hmm, I guess it's not surprising that you feel that way. But you really did put on such a great show. I should be mad. I lost fifty thousand credits betting against you, but it was in good sport, and I'm glad to be rid of that idiot Gant anyway. But, since you gave us such a great show, before we go any further, I want to give you a little show: a vision of the future of CommUnitas! Do try to relax."

Kantor fiddled around with a console for a few moments. The lights dimmed and a holographic movie began. A title "CommUnitas: A Dream of the Future," glimmered in neon blue, cut to a sepia-toned farm scene of rolling pastureland alongside two football-field length warehouses with an intertitle reading, Hazard, Kentucky.

A narrator's voice started in, so full of country twang that Robert had to keep his eyes on the subtitles to catch all of the words.

"I was finishing another fifteen-hour shift at the Illinois Dried Chicken and Hog Farm. The product had to have their growth hormone shots and I had lotsa shit to spray outta' cages. Most of the time, shit'd dried by the time I got to a cage, and there wasn't much to do without damaging the product. Best you could hope for was spray out a cage every eleventh day when the product reached maturity and was taken out for processin'. My hands hurt as I stretched them out for scanning. I went home to sleep and had weird dreams. I saw towers filling the sky far as I could see; they rose into the clouds! The architecture of the future was cellular, the endless repetition of a perfected pattern. As I looked at the towers, somebody yelled at me.

"You there. Walker!"

I looked to see who had called out, but there wasn't nobody nowhere. Then, I saw an insect buzzin' around.

"Where did you come from?" The insect's voice was faint and tinny sounding.

"Somewhere else. What is this place?"

"This is the principality of CommUnitas," said the insect thing.

"What's the year?"

"2212," said the insect thing."

"Where is everybody?"

"That's why I called out when I saw you. You see, no one has used a body like yours in more than two centuries. The human form takes up too much space, requires too much energy, and creates far too much waste. Once the secret to genetic intelligence was unlocked, some of the top scientific minds out of history--Einstein, Newton, Galileo, Watson, Crick, and Curie--were tasked with finding the perfect body to host human intelligence, and this," the insect buzzed and flew around in a tight circle, "was the decided form. The food required to power one human body for a day can sustain one of my kind for a hundred years."

"But don't insects have a short lifespan?"

"Yes. But I am not an insect. I am a genetically altered life form with a self-perpetuating structure. In effect, I'm immortal."

"So long as you don't get swatted I s'pose."

"Even then I would be fine," laughed the insect thing. "I can turn off my pain receptors and shut down into a state of regeneration, a process that only requires fifteen minutes! Now, that I think of it, if you intend on sticking around you will have to change out bodies. It's pure waste to keep your ungainly system running. And you will prefer living this way. Follow me. We'll get you suited up."

In no time, I was in a laboratory getting brain scanned and having samples taken of my genetic code. An hour later, my consciousness was transferred into a bug. My dead human body lay spread out lifeless on an examination table.

"Okay, time for flying lessons," said my new friend. "First thing: your visual apparatus is quite different. You have a lot of visual overlay possibilities that you can pull up in various ways. Just think, overlay-menu, and you'll see that you can switch to night vision, sonar, Hubble, eagle, electron micro, heat sense, or if you're feeling sentimental, human. You can also communicate by li-fi as long you're speaking to someone on your friend list." At this my guide sent me an invitation to add him to my social network. He led me through the process and from there on everything he said was transmitted back and forth over a comm link. My friend pointed out that his handle was visible in the lower left field of my vision systems. Rodney-4,839,213,949 stood out in royal blue. "Just call me Rod-13,949 for short."

"What about, uh, Rod?"

"We can compromise. You may call me Rod-thirteen."

"Sounds good, Rod, uh, thirteen."

"Everything here is automated. No one has to lift anything, say anything, or go anywhere. With auto-knowledge repertories, there's no need to study, since everything that can be known is updated to a central intelligence file to which each mind is linked. The moment something new occurs, everyone is instantly aware."

"Sounds good to me."

"There's no crime here either. With brains on file, it only took some copying and pasting to remove offensive criminal code and replace it with programming for cooperative behavior."

"Then, I guess I won't need a concealed carry license anymore."

"We're in the quadrant of America that used to be called Kentucky, but it isn't much different than anywhere else. Here, I'll show you."

Rod-thirteen led us up to the canopy level of the towers.

"This roof network is called the Asiroov. It assures climate control so there is no better or worse land. Everywhere that you can go is the same as anywhere else. Plus, there's not really any need for land anyhow. Our insect bodies require little space and comfort is provided through a neural release mechanism. Just press the green button."

"Oh, wow. That's nice."

"There's no desire that you can't instantly have fulfilled."

"But wait," I asked in terror. "What about the rest of the world! What if the giants of other countries attack!"

My friend laughed. "Long ago we released a crippling strain called Archive Fever. It was virulent only to human bodies and caused them to sleeplessly go about remembering all they had ever done until their bodies wore out and they wasted away."

"So all the other countries of the world--Japan, Russia, France, England--they don't exist now?"

"Nope! All dead!"

"Weren't people sorrowful after all that killing?"

"Sorrowful? Practically a day after humans were destroyed the air became cleaner. All those fools were working on destroying themselves along with the earth. We merely sped up the former process while negating the latter."

Realizing that the insect humans experienced no striving, no conflict, had no need to do anything at all, I asked the looming question "What then is the point of living now?"

Rod-thirteen laughed his little laugh, but before he could answer I woke from the dream. I had slept my four hours and was due back at the Chicken and Hog farm for another twenty-hour shift.
Chapter 23 – Burst of Death

The lights came back up accompanied with Kantor's infernal cackling.

"What did you think of that?"

"The music score left something to be desired," Robert said.

"Insect-like bodies? I hadn't thought of that, but it seems like a good idea," said Benson

"What?" asked Robert. "You're agreeing with this insanity?"

"Well, you have to hand it to them . . ."

"I knew you'd see the light! And now, gentlemen, for a dose of theophine: complete pain relief!"

Robert vaguely thought that would be nice, since his wrists ached from the tight cuffs.

Deseree stuck Benson with a syringe full of yellowish liquid, depressed fifty cc's of theophine into his arm. She turned and walked toward Robert. He watched her shapely thighs as she came near, felt the prick, and then felt the cool relief of theophine hitting his nervous system. The ache went right out of his wrists.

"The only side effect," Kantor described, "is delusions of grandeur, memories of creating worlds, feelings of agelessness and infinity, and the best part? It constructs new proteins, building upon and changing your memories. From your perspective, it could be thought of as a virus of the mind, but from my perspective it is much, much different."

A wave of nausea swept over Robert, along with recognition of a deeper, stronger identity. Robert sensed new power in his mind. He remembered breathing life into men, one was named Robert. He was not that man. Robert could feel eternity, the spreading out of all dimensions forever. Somehow, he could also remember learning how to escape from all sorts of bonds and shackles. Chalk it up to those myths about a God that comes to earth, suffers, and then escapes. Robert saw Dr. Benson laid out on a table beside him and Ernest Kantor flicking at a hypodermic needle. Robert sensed a universe of space in between his chafed wrist and the cuff.

"Is this what you did with Maria?" said Robert, steel in his voice.

"Perhaps you should ask her yourself." Kantor put down the syringe and punched away at his data-stacker. "Maria, Robert is asking about you. Could you spare a few minutes from your work to entertain his questions?" Ernest listened for a moment and then said, "Yes, floor three hundred fifteen, section twenty, med unit." He rang off and turned his attention once more to Robert. "The human mind is at its next step in development. We are the catalyst for evolution. The human mind is the key to unlocking a perfect society. Human society should be a gestalt but because of the weakness of mankind, we become less than the sum of our parts. I seek to change that. Through mind overlay the least of these will be given genius minds--your mind, Robert. Imagine it! The last will be first, but as for the lot of the first, you Robert, all is lost, I'm afraid."

"Alright, Kan-tata-tor," Robert sing-songed. "What's the point of having some counsel of minds? Why go to all the trouble?"

"I'm surprised you haven't already figured it out. The counsel is the inroad to creating my own pantheon of godlike inventors to consult and to control. It's common knowledge that Edison was a great inventor and less common knowledge that he was a greater thief. He had dozens of the brightest thinkers of his day working under him. Their breakthroughs were Edison's breakthroughs. Tesla was the real genius. He created Wi-Fi technology a hundred years before anyone had the sense to use it."

"That can't be true," said Robert.

"An unbeliever. Google it, if you must. But let me return to my lecture. The end result of theophine is that I will have God whispering beautiful and wealth-creating secrets of the universe into my ear."

"But, you've ruined my mind with your theophine," cried Robert.

"No. Sadly, what I've done is only temporary," said Kantor. "If you pay close attention, you'll find that theophine is rapidly evacuating your system. Despite our best efforts, we can't prolong its effects. The body reads it as a carbohydrate and breaks it down almost immediately."

"What about the proteins you said it creates?" asked Robert.

"They break apart too," Kantor sighed. "Get flushed out of your system. But fortunately, we have lots of the stuff." Kantor opened a closet filled with tanks of the yellowish fluid. "We'll inject you again in a few minutes."

"And you haven't anything to worry about with your mind anyway," said Maria Fey from the doorway. "Thanks to my work, Robert version 2.11 is safely stored and available for access."

"That's not me. It's only a copy." Robert had dislodged a bone in his wrist and was weirdly, if not painfully, getting through one of the cuffs.

"Come now, Robert." Kantor picked up another hypodermic needle. "Have you forgotten that in the Aristotelian tradition, a copy is an object with no original? That which is most real is that which is most unreal."

"I don't care about your unreality. It's so stupid and people always think it's smart. I got sick of hearing about it in college, so I took a basic weightlifting class, but that's all the weight lifting instructor would talk about either."

"The fool wearies of philosophy. Let me make it more plain for you, Robert. Maria brought us a completely functioning copy of your mind on hard drive."

"Maria? She would never!" Robert tried to throw his arms up but was held back by the restraints.

"Think again!" cackled Kantor.

"Sorry, Robert," said Maria. "I was tired of always having to beg for funding."

"That damned scanning process. I never should have gone through with it, never should have allowed anyone to make a copy of my mind!"

Kantor grinned evilly. "Your mind was scanned almost as soon as you put on the helmet. The scanning process was an elaborate hoax that I insisted Maria put you through to buy time."

"I don't believe it. I was there watching the process the whole time," said Benson.

Robert turned to look at Maria. "You mean when you put the helmet on my head the day of the tour. That's all it took?"

Maria narrowed her eyes, looked away.

"I fooled you, Benson!" Weisse stepped into the room. "That was my program that made it look like the upload was moving at a snail's pace!"

"Why on earth would you do that? We worked together for years," said Benson.

Hate shone in Weisse's eyes. "You were always making subtle remarks that I found . . . discouraging."

"But you're just not that good of a scientist! Your experiments always fail! You're never around to help out in critical times!" exclaimed Benson.

"Still you berate me. But now it's my day. I get to watch your undoing. Then Ernest will overlay your minds on my own!"

"If he leaves any of your mind, then I expect that even with our help you'll continue to fail. Our help never kept you from failing in the past," said Benson.

"You . . ."

Kantor put a hand on Weisse. "Let him hurl his insults."

"No, I won't stand for it!" Weisse's face was red with anger.

Kantor stripped Weisse's CommUnitas badge. "No, I am enjoying Benson's insults. Everything he's said about you is absolutely right. You mess everything up. And we gave you that program. The one thing you're so proud of, you didn't even have a real hand in doing. You have five minutes to leave the tower before security executes you."

"Executes? But we had a deal! Kantor, you lied to me. Maria, tell him he can't do this."

"No, he's right," said Maria. "You're really just dead weight."

Weisse pulled his arm back to punch Kantor but Deseree caught his arm from behind and threw him to the ground.

"Thank you, Deseree. See that he is removed painfully." Kantor dropped Weisse's credentials in a trash bin.

"Of course, sir."

Weisse looked from person to person in the room. "You're all a bunch of assholes!"

Deseree twisted Weisse's arm behind his back and drug him out of the room as he squealed in pain.

Kantor turned back to Benson. "We decided that if the deparole didn't give us enough time to steal all your research, faking a long scanning process could ensure that we copied every last file and had time to replace it with nonsense written in wingding characters."

"You won't get away with this!" declared Benson.

"Oh, no? Kantor looked around. "I'm sorry to tell you, but we have already gotten away with it."

"And here I thought university professors were the only ones I had to worry about stealing research," said Benson.

Maria walked into Robert's view, examining him with large and inexpressive eyes. "We weren't scanning your mind to merely have a copy resting on a hard drive somewhere. We've already overlaid it onto Ernest's mind. Kantor's mind is an arcadia of reason now. With your mind deparoled, the interference of personality was removed so that the pure ability of your thought could be apprehended by the scanner."

Kantor once more made a show of straightening his scoliotic back and took on the tone you might expect of someone telling a ghost story around a campfire. "Only a whisper from the ghost in the machine."

Maria resumed, "Kantor has effectively gone hydramind, and since part of his mind is yours, Robert, he can follow your thoughts because they are his as well."

Then what the hell, thought Robert, let's see if he expects this. As Kantor passed by on his way to stick Dr. Benson with more theophine, Robert, right wrist free, grabbed at the hypodermic needle and, in one fluid motion, jabbed it into the shocked Kantor's neck and depressed a truckload of yellow fluid.

Robert heard a snap and felt his body go slack. Deseree, returning to her favorite position, was once again on top of him. He gave Deseree a knee to the groin, shoved her off the pallet, and used his newfound contortionist skill to free his left wrist from its bond.

Across the room, Maria spoke into a transmitter. "We have a code fifty-three, please hurry." She vanished out a side door without a word to Robert.

Robert ran to Dr. Benson, surprised to see that he hadn't been cuffed to his pallet. Robert bent and yanked up Benson. He grunted with a weight more than twice what he expected. Saving himself from crashing backwards, he gave the Doctor a shove and slid to the ground. Benson's head smashed against the floor with a metallic thud and tore free of his body, wires and circuitry spooling from the stump as his head rolled away.

"Dr. Benson! You're an android?"

A tinny sounding version of Dr. Benson's voice sounded in Robert's head. "Yes, I'm afraid it's true. There is more than one way to be deparoled, to experience an infusion of mental cognitive power. I am still Dr. Benson--just Benson version 3.57. Quick, grab my head! Don't let Maria get away."

Robert scooped up Benson's head and charged across the room and through the door Maria exited, Benson's head tucked under his arm.

"Is the real Benson still alive?"

"I am the real Benson."

"I, uh, I mean the first Benson, the human one."

"No, he's stone dead."

"Oh."

"But let's not focus on sad things. We've got a problem to deal with presently. After Deseree attacked us, Kantor removed the power cell that keeps my body running. Fortunately, my emergency backup cells can power my head systems--along with this handy radio transmission system. No lungs, you see."

That explains his shitty tenor, thought Robert. "I'm the only one that can hear you then? Through the phone card you gave me?"

"Quite right."

"What's the problem then?"

"My backup systems aren't all that reliable. At least, not for considerable amounts of time."

"What are we talking?"

"Three, maybe four hours. More if I don't send or receive any communication."

"So, you've got the charge reliability of an old smartphone?"

"Could be worse," said Benson.

"Tell me, was Maria working with Kantor the whole time?"

"That's not clear, but it _is_ clear her allegiance has changed. Incidentally, I'm running a hound sniff application, and my nose tells me Maria turned right at the next junction."

Robert ran until Benson barked "left," sprinted down a hall, slowing at an intersection until Benson's shrill, "straight, straight!" prodded him forward. The race through the hallway ended at an elevator shaft.

"Damn!" crackled Benson. "There's no way to know where she went from here."

"In the elevator, obviously!"

"As far as the hound sniff application goes, when Maria got in the elevator, she might as well have jumped in a river. The scent only picks up on whatever floor she got off on, and in this tower . . ."

"Oh, right. Maybe we should just get out of here then."

"You think they're just going to let us walk out of here?" said Benson.

"Guess not."

"Plus, we can't leave until we secure those stolen files."

"Secure the files? Were you listening back there? They're hardwired into Kantor's mind!"

"I didn't say it was going to be easy, Robert."

"You haven't said it's possible either."

"First, rewire me onto a decent body. I'm accessing the floor plan." Lights on Benson's mask flashed in time with the data he was combing through. "There! I can navigate us to a utility room."

The halls rumbled as Robert followed Benson's directions to the utility room. They hacked the door in seconds. The room was lined with steel shelves, stocked from floor to ceiling with unopened packages. Door locked behind him, Robert thumbed the lights and slumped to the floor in exhaustion.

"When did you become an automaton?"

"It was a month into your deparole. My body was riddled with a severe case of muscular arthritis. I was on so much pain medication that I could hardly work at all. I had long possessed the automaton, and the breakthrough in the scanning process allowed me to finish the work."

"You buried anywhere?"

"Nope. Burned the body: ashes to ashes, so long and good night. While I watched myself burn, I realized that the great dream of man is to chase at things he does not know. As long as my body was a part of me, I felt its secrets: pleasures, pains, mystical dreams and visions, unyet reached knowledge to discover. I felt purified as I watched my body burn, set free of the old vessel with its tendency toward weakness. Then I was restored, reborn, with a new mind and a new body."

Robert looked at the head he carried. "Some body."

"I'm disturbed by what I've seen at the tower, what Gant showed us."

"The mass of obedient bodies?"

"Yes. That mass of bodies functioning as a single ordered being, moving as if controlled by one mind," said Benson.

"Ernest Kantor's mind?"

"Yes. He's focusing his will on ordering society."

"But all that Aztec nonsense. What's that about?" asked Robert.

"In the ancient world, an endless pile of bodies, the quickly rotting dead, symbolized the power of empire. A true King walked on roads made of the broken backs of conquered kingdoms."

"You're painting lovely images in my head and all, but we should get a move on finding you a body." Robert looked around the room. "Not sure if we're going to find what we need in here."

"Oh no, everything we need is here. You can take off the faceplate on my head and wear it as a mask."

"Thing's screwed in."

"Reach in my mouth. There's a mini-toolkit in there. No, left side."

Robert took the phillips head screwdriver and loosened screws from the faceplate.

"My programming was embedded throughout the android body so that if any part was lost or damaged I'd retain full functionality. It was developed from the same tech that allows the Self-Phone to reach microscopic size."

With the Benson mask on, Robert saw through two sets of eyes. The mask gave him a complete heads-up display. Objects had physical rate attributes. Moving objects had statistical probabilities of physical interception with the mask and its wearer.

"How come this HUD didn't do you any good against Deseree's judo chops earlier?"

"Well, you've got to think, any human mind is making physics level calculations about the objects around them all the time. The brain is quite hi-tech," said Benson.

"But you have a _readout_ of those calculations."

"It doesn't mean I was paying it any attention."

"Dr. Benson, always lost in thought."

"Enough musing, let's get going."

Robert, Benson mask in place, left the utility room and started down the hall to return to the elevators.

Suddenly, the mask registered a one-hundred percent probability of physical interception.

Robert swung around to see Deseree in mid-karate leap, her foot charged with a soul diminishing kick. The mask's attribute read-out of Deseree's moves were outstanding. It reported the level of black belt training and rarity of such athletic ability. Inches from connecting with the mask an electric pulse slammed into Deseree's body, sending her off course. Her body spun weirdly before hitting a wall and bouncing to the floor in a heap.

"Benson did you do that?"

"No, but look there!"

Robert turned to see Sally Riggs, crouched like a hunter with an electric rifle cradled between her arms.
Chapter 24 – Kragskoth Revisited

Dr. Hargrove's storytelling ability was maven. He paused in the right places, conveyed all the right emotions. Hargrove took a sip of black coffee and read on:

During the recess, Rodge walked through as many of the labyrinthine passageways as he could, mapping out different modes of escape. The Galactic Halls were built in an attempt to give each of the hundred and seventy separate species of the Federation at least some feeling of familiarity. Over here a doorknob might resonate with something familiar to Rodge from his home world, or there a light fixture was homelike, but mostly, the building, in exterior and interior, was an architectural, uncanny nightmare. Whatever positive feeling of seeing a familiar door handle was negated by its being connected to something dissimilar to all the doors Rodge had ever seen. Perhaps the single most alienating aspect of the halls were the portraits of the great Trustees, each of them with hostile looking, inhuman faces. It was hard to look at the portraits without feeling unnerved.

"Dr. H, what about some TV?" pleaded Crestwood. "I don't like these Rodge stories."

Hargrove tossed _Kragskoth Revisited: The Continuing Adventures of Rodge and Sargoon_ aside. "What good's a deparole if you fill up on TV rather than our culture's highest literary achievement, Science Fiction?"

"Let's watch SF on TV then." Evan worked the remote and found an incredibly derivative program, but the deparolees of Ward One noticeably relaxed under the warm glow of the TV combined with the program's lo-fi treble voiceover:

"The night was upon us. Moonjamm over the tubes and everyone's face bathed neon. I could see Zivv, loved Zivv. He sold everything and bought us all Nine-guns. We learned to cyberflakk the banks under Zivv. Hail Zivv! We thought we were kings until Sevko got flakked. Military special and he never came back again. Sevko forced into service, moves fast as heat lightning."

The normally imperturbable Hargrove muted the program, "You call this sf? It doesn't hold a candle to the old serials!"

"Get a clue Hargrove. Maybe you should deparole yourself!" said Evan.

Hargrove's face turned red, but he stifled his anger. "You mean to tell me you'd rather hear about these Zivv and Sevko idiots than Captain Rodge and Commander Sargoon?"

Evan laughed. "Yeah. Sorry but those Rodge stories aren't good. I mean, who published those things? You gotta realize that in the '30s, dozens of magazines took basically any story that hit the slush pile. Fourteen-year olds could rack up pub after pub. Hell, you could start out as a janitor of one of those magazines and wind up becoming a so-called master of science fiction!"

Hargrove, incited, kicked over the television and stormed out.
Chapter 25 - CommUnication

"Follow me!" cried Riggs. "We've got to stop Kantor before he takes off."

"Takes off? Where in hell's he taking off to?" said Robert.

"Away from earth and with a crippling reserve of precious resources," said Riggs.

"How could he possibly do that? He'd need a shuttle the size of . . . the size of the tower. The tower, it's not a ship is it?"

"I don't think that rumbling noise and the steady shimmy we're feeling is a parlor of massage chairs," said Riggs. "This thing is powering up. Anytime now and its heading off through the wild blue yonder."

"We've got to stop Kantor," declared Robert.

Riggs rolled her eyes.

"My guess is there's no way to safely stop the take-off process," said Benson. "Oh, before we go any further, go back in the utility closet and pull a phone card out of the right ear of my head so Sally can hear my subvocalizations."

"No need," said Sally, "I'm already fully equipped with hi-tech comms equipment. Really, it's the two of you that need my gear. Sally pulled out what looked like a nicotine patch for cyborgs and slapped it onto the nape of Robert's neck. "This will scramble unwanted communications. It's set to transmit only to us rather than the massive media feed you all had going. Your conversations got picked up outside of the tower and broadcast through the net. Judging by its popularity, you two might have a future in podcasting."

"Maybe we shouldn't mask the transmission then. People need to know the truth about CommUnitas and we need some grass roots support right about now," said Robert.

"Well, that all sounds fine except the obvious problem of how Deseree and I were able to track you down as easily as a herd of elephants through mud flats. Speaking of, let's move to a different quadrant."

"My god, Sally! You're right!" said Benson. "Since we're inside the tower, I'm able to bypass their security protocols and firewalls, found some scary stuff. Looks like CommUnitas harnessed a deep reservoir of geothermal energy and have been waiting for a significant subterranean event to power the ship's takeoff. If they are powering now, then the event must already be triggered."

"You did mention before that the tower extends deep into the core," said Robert.

"Yes, you should see the Tower's floor plans. At sub level two hundred things get rather interesting."

"Why would CommUnitas wait for a natural event to occur when they could just create their own devastating ecological disaster?" asked Riggs.

"Good question," said Robert.

"Who knows," Benson subvocalized. "They probably knew the event was on the way soon enough. The larger problem is that if a normal sized shuttle launch contributes to about one fourth of a percent of ozone depletion in a year--more or less a drop in a bucket--the concentrated depletion of ozone of the Tower launch could create a localized rift and have disastrous consequences."

"A seismic catastrophe!" said Robert.

"Yes, potentially influencing the Earth's rotation," said Benson.

"If we're talking localized damage," said Riggs, "the blast site will leave a crater the size of ground zero amplified to the power of one hundred. You can expect earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and a dust cloud worthy of Oklahoma."

The lights went out and Kantor's voice came through speakers hidden in the ceiling. "Think on this my children. What is a god but one who stands apart from creation, coming and going as he desires? And why create a new world unless it is better than the one that came before? Ponder that while I take a drink. Ah. Refreshing. In the Aristotelian tradition, the world was a poor copy of the first, flawed in comparison with the perfect forms. Perhaps it was better than previous attempts. The maker continues to refine his craft, create still more greater and greater worlds. That was a dirty little trick you played, but never you mind, I am a forgiving god. I will blot your transgressions from my mind and bury them under my feet with the rest of the wretched earth which we will soon hurtle away from and forget ever existed. That is, so long as you agree to join the CommUnitas brotherhood. Let me remind you that all must one day fall back to darkness. This precious earth that we cling to is running out of time. You might think we're foreshortening it, but life's one ultimatum is that it must find space to grow, a way on. Individuals as well as societies thrive on having a manifest destiny, or rather, a manifest destination. Alexander had the East, America the West, and now I'm providing the way on, a bright future for an ever stronger mankind! Think of the glory that you could share." Kantor's voice was at a cackling pitch. "I will give you a few moments to reach a decision."

"Think someone's been doing a little too much Theophine?" asked Robert.

"Don't think Kantor needs it," said Benson. "Ah, there. The lights have resumed by warming up in time--to the millisecond--of the duration needed by the iris to comfortably make the switch from darkness to light. Evolutionary processes hadn't often needed lightning quick dilatory changes as the slow move of sunrises and sunsets set the standard for change in lighting conditions for the eons before man discovered fire. While some theorists argue that entering and exiting holes and caves would have necessitated a more rapid iris dilation, others countered that most animals entered and exited dens corresponding to the lightening and darkening of the sky. Oncoming dark was a signal to sleep just as oncoming light was a signal to wake."

"Sounds like bad science," said Robert. "Or that joke that pirates wore eye patches to always have one eye adjusted to the dark when they went below decks--just switch the patch over to the other eye and off you go."

"What the hell are you guys talking about?" yelled Riggs. "We have to do something!"

"Right, sorry," said Benson.

It is my thought," said Riggs, "that we need to locate the sub-basement locking room where the Tower will unhook so that it can break free from the earth. Maybe we can manually override the system there to keep the tower grounded."

"But Kantor is probably controlling the whole show," Robert said. "If we can stop Kantor, we put an end to it."

"Benson, what do you think," asked Riggs.

"It may be best for us to split up and pursue both plans. If one of us fails, maybe the other will succeed."

"Or maybe," said Riggs, "we'll all fail, but I'm with you, I'll make my way to the subterranean recesses of the tower and you guys go after Kantor. Hey, you don't have a weapon do you?"

"Nope," said Robert.

Riggs unbuckled the belt and holster holding the desert eagle and handed it to Robert. "Need help?"

"I got it, thanks."

Chapter 26 – Mustang Sally

"Sally, why are you so especially adverse to dreaming?" Dr. Evrret sat in a high leather backed chair sipping laudanum and smoking a cigar.

"I've had trouble with my dreams since the deparole."

Evrret spoke with his eyes closed, a cigar between his teeth. "Trouble? Tell me what kind of trouble."

"My dreams range from unsettling to deeply traumatic."

"You know, Sally, dreams are the unconscious work of the mind straightening things out, making sense of the rational world. Dreams ensure psychical progress, the individuation of your identity through coming to terms with the past, your past."

"I'd rather stick to setting a timer for three to avoid the dreams, if it's alright with you."

Evrret gazed into the glass of laudanum. "Your sleeplessness may well be the cause of these dreams."

"I don't think that's it."

"Describe your dreams to me."

"Someone's after me, some thing. I feel overshadowed by a nameless horror."

"Nameless?"

"These dreams are hard to shake off, Doctor. I've woken to my own screams."

"I could prescribe you a course of laudanum." The doctor took a drink from his glass. "That could change the aspect of your dreams as well as your waking life."

Riggs saw the glazed, faraway look in Evrret's eyes. "Is there another option?"

"You could take a very small tincture before bed. I prefer taking mine in the den, under the elephant and boar heads my father brought back from Africa."

"Is there an option that doesn't involve opium?"

"What if we run some tests on you while you sleep for a few nights. We'll capture what's going on at the brainwave level. Perhaps that will help us find a way to help you through it."

"I don't know."

"It might be useful for you to see that in your dreams you are running from a problem rather than facing it, much the same way that even now you don't want to engage the dreams therapeutically." Evrret closed his eyes, took a long draught of laudanum. "Be strong, Sally. Try to allow your subjective identity to come out into the open."

Riggs looked away from Evrret and out the window at a grey thunderhead in the distance. Whether it was approaching or moving away, she could not tell.
Chapter 27 - HangOver™

Riggs found the elevators heavily guarded but managed to dodge into a stairwell before anyone noticed her. Peering over the bars to look down the flight well, it seemed to Sally there was no end. The sheer immensity of Comm Tower was an assurance against seeing anyone else on the stairs. She dropped down each step on her toes, soundlessly descending several flights before stopping to catch her breath. The door on the landing opened to reveal several guards led by Major Staten.

Riggs snapped to attention, "This landing clear, sir."

"Clear? What detachment are you part of?" queried a confused Staten.

"That one." Riggs pointed beyond the general's peripheral with her left hand, waited for him to follow her finger, leading him to see nothing in particular, and then moved in time with his head turning to look back at her, connecting a right hook squarely with the ruddy man's face. Pain shot from her fist up her arm. Below a false layer of flesh, Staten was steel. Staten reared back and socked Riggs in the mouth. The blow came as a shock and spilled hot blood across her mouth. Riggs drew her energy blade, leapt at Staten and his detachment of guards. Riggs carved at Staten and the guards, swiping off arms and facemasks. A guard pulled out a tranq gun. Riggs sliced the guard's hand off, snatched the spinning tranq gun from the air and fired off five shots in quick succession to put the remaining guards to rest.

"Don't think I don't recognize you," said Staten. "You were always a problem for me. Had a ton of moon diamonds in that Colossi trawler. Would'a been a king if you hadn't gotten in the way."

"You were going to kill us all."

"Yeah, but I know you. You took some of the diamonds for yourself!"

"You think I'd be here right now if I had gotten diamond rich? Think again."

Staten reached for a laser knife.

After three slashes to the chest, Staten was all smoke and sparks. Riggs continued her way down the stairs.

"How do we find Kantor?" asked Robert.

"I can think of a few arguments for deducing his whereabouts, but it seems the most expedient way to go after Kantor is to have him come after us. If he thinks of us as a threat, that is."

"Genius. After all, he could just as easily be around the next corner from us as he could be waiting in the basement for Riggs . . . My God! Of course that's where he'd be, knowing it's the obvious place we'd go once the engines began to warm up."

"I have a different idea entirely."

"All right. Let's hear it."

"I've accessed the tower grid plan and discovered that its make-up is much like, actually, exactly like that of the tower in the _Tower Defender_ game."

"You're serious?"

"Oh yes."

"So can you hack into it with a starchart program?"

"I'm trying now! But there's some serious UKLGs surrounding the power core. I'll see if I can get through it."

"Okay," Robert wedged in, although Benson, intent on the task at hand, didn't seem to hear.

"Boy, the UKLGs in this sucker are unprecedented. "

"You don't say."

"But I think I can break through it."

"Remind me what UKLG stands for?"

"Oh, it's German."

"Uh, huh."

"An untranslatable concept."

"Sounds complicated."

"Very." All of the lights on the Benson mask burned hot. "Oh, there. I think I've got it."

Riggs was methodically making her way down endless flights of stairs when she lost her footing, but instead of falling down a very long concrete flight of stairs she found herself on a gently curved slide. She slid downwards much faster then she'd been walking the stairs. She watched as the stairwell below changed shape as she sped along. Riggs thought the tower must have a seriously massive power core and computer processing nucleus. Or perhaps the computer processor wasn't centralized, but was a rhizome, hundreds of thousands of processors linked together to achieve the same goal. Was the tower built to withstand this massive degree of alteration in such a short time? Would the processors push every one of its nodes to their digital limits and then crash beyond repair? But the computer wouldn't crash, would it? The tower was engineered to reorganize itself. Riggs thought about how her personality hadn't been altered by the deparole. Much like a deparoled human mind, the tower wasn't locked into a single modality. It could lose the unity of the tower and maintain a deeper essence. If the tower did have essence, what _was_ it? The movement of the slide was hard to gauge. Riggs felt she might be slowing down, lagging like a computer fighting through intricate calculations. Looking backward, Riggs could see that the slide described a gentle curve, and from her vantage point could see that, yes, the pitch of the slide had decreased, she was slowing down.

Outside CommUnitas Tower, onlookers were first flushed with wonder and quickly filled with panic. The Tower had ceased to grow upwards, an activity that had long become invisible to passers-by, and was now taking on wild appendages arcing out in all directions. Half a dozen arms slammed into the earth in quick succession, raising massive clouds of smoke and tearing apart large sections of the surrounding city. Blinded by the billowing clouds of smoke, citizens screamed in terror at the sounds of buildings collapsing, the sight of half-visible flames through the haze.

Jake saw clouds of dust rise from the heart of the city. He saw the sublime twisting of the great tower in a hundred directions at once. "Good time ter' be . . ." Jake's eyes closed for a few seconds and his body slumped as if asleep before he reanimated to finish his thought, " . . . on break. Wonder if my old _Daredevil_ comics'll be okay. Frank Miller . . . one of a kind."

Angie made the slightest expression to show she was listening, lit a cigarette off of another that was still live between her lips, threw back half a glass of foamy beer.

Jake raised an unsteady hand, "Bar-key, c'n you bring 'nother roun' here? Maybe switch to Miller Lite in honor of comic genius." Jake didn't notice that everyone had fled the bar, some running away from the dust cloud, others standing outside in shock. Angie walked around to the other side of the bar to refill their pitcher, took notice of a left-behind sawed off shotgun and a handgun, then laid down under the tap and pulled.

Suddenly concerned that no one was around, Jake stood, said "Angie, think'sht time to shtop drinkin'." He pulled out a package of HangOver™, dropped one in his mouth and another in Angie's. Within a minute they were both clear of the effects and aftereffects of alcohol. In another, they were fully sobered by the sight of devastation outside the bar.

Chapter 28 - Flux

"I'm surprised we can move about freely without feeling jostled by the movement of the tower. How is that possible exactly?" asked Robert.

Benson replied, "Since the tower was created with the intention of taking it into space, it must have its own internal gravity field generator: very useful for situations where up and down orientations are in constant flux. And the tower is secure from the outside atmosphere. Its outside is reinforced with three meters of Carbyne, carbon atoms linked in sequential chains of single, double, and triple bonds. You'd need John Henry wielding a nuclear powered hammer to break through it."

"A nuclear powered hammer. Is there such a thing?"

"Actually no, unless my research assistants missed it. I pay a group of grad students to keep up with all the important science journals."

"You pay them for that?"

"Well, if minimum wage counts, then yes, I do."

"That's everything that's wrong with our economy."

"Well, otherwise they'd be running King Burger scans for minimum wage. At least this way they develop their knowledge and get resume material."

"Did you have to do anything like that when you were working on your degree?"

"Oh no. Are you kidding? I would have laughed at the offer. I had a full tenure track professorship before I even started working on a Ph.D. But nothing was ever hard for me. My grandfather was incredibly wealthy, started several sweatshops in Micronesia, had coolies making tables and chairs for pennies an hour in the Philippines. He'd sell those handcrafted pieces for five hundred percent profit. When I was ten he put twenty-five million credits in a trust fund in my name. I had access to the best schools by making sizable donations along the way."

"So, why pursue outside funding with any of our research?"

"And spend my own money? Plus, it's better to get outside parties interested. Has a way of ensuring that our work goes beyond the lab. And stop feeling bad about the graduate students I employ. They represent the common man, a class forever beneath us. Men do great things by ignoring the needs of others."

"That's sounding like something one of these CommUnitas guys would say."

"Yes, it was a joke. Take it easy, Robert. Of course I'm concerned for those grad students, especially now that digital minds of established professors will wipe out all the jobs they were hoping to get. What's to stop schools from running a composite mind of several genius professors?"

"That's a great idea, we should monetize that."

"Now, I guess you're kidding."

Robert laughed.

"So, the grad team, they write up notes on the articles. It's a waste of time reading anything an academic writes with the rate at which jargon is created. It can take fifty pages for some academics to say that humans are prone to war and that war leads to economic boom for a few and misery for most, and if you haven't been recently slogging through the coded language they pass off as intellectual material you would never guess what was actually discussed."

"At least our new super-genius professor composite won't write worthless scholarship anymore, won't have to since its job is secure. Plus, reading isn't the gateway to knowledge anymore. It's these damn things." Robert patted a pocket full of Tinkerbell 'threads.

Benson shook his head. "No, I'd say reading is still the gateway. It's just that 'threads have opened a separate entrance. The problem is this: your 'threads are an imaginary scale. What is a mind if it disappears every quarter of an hour? That's not supportive of geopolitical power where economic systems are backed by militaries and longstanding ideologies, some dating back to the beginning of civilization. How can fifteen minutes possibly affect millennia?"

"Look at CommUnitas. They've created something out of nothing, completely ignoring the power of all existent systems. You saw the display of power on the ground floor, those thousands all stopping in deference with a word."

"But CommUnitas is made up of people that already had access to capital, both liquid and cultural. You have scientists that had a vision of revolutionizing energy systems through collaboration and backers willing to take a chance on funding the thing. Add in some rigorous, Communist-like administration and here we are, trapped in a machine almost impossible to shut off."

Kantor's voice came through the speaker's once again. "I tire of waiting to hear your decision. So, I have made mine!"

"I'm locked out," cried Benson.

"What?"

"I had the tower forming into a shape mitigating against its launch, but now it's gone into a different program."

"Kantor must be monitoring us," said Robert.

"Of course he is! I've got to get myself back into the network before the tower launches, leveling all of Cityscape, but this is not standard code."

"There's nothing you can do?"

"I'm trying. Give me time."

"Damn. I wish we could see what the tower looks like from outside. Try a news feed?"

Benson found coverage almost immediately.

A traffic camera crew in the air mounted to heights above the billowing rubble created by the extensive damage of the reforming tower, its outer layer a weird _mise en abyme,_ surfaces reflecting off of thousands of other moving surfaces. From above, the tower looked like a writhing mass of snakes with mirrored skin. "CommUnitas Tower continues to reduce itself in height by expanding in multiple directions. We're taking a big risk up here, flying under and past newly appearing offshoots of the building. It looks like the end of the world! If you are in the city area and getting this transmission, take evasive action, escape . . ." The newsfeed cut out with a static punctuated finality.

"Oh shit! We blew up part of the city."

"Good thing I know how to get government grant money for renovating urban spaces, I guess."

The slide came to a stop and Sally skidded across the floor, ending just short of a granite-faced wall. Spinning around, Sally couldn't find an exit, and even the slide entrance had sealed shut. The ceiling was some ways up, sixty or more feet overhead, and air vents snaked along the length of the room.

A fruity sounding voice piped out of speakers overhead. "We'll be with you soon Ms. Riggs. Ha ha ha! Ms. Sally Riggs! Be assured of that! In the meantime, think on this: the pinions of life are plumed with death! Ha ha ha! Did you get that? With death!"

"I will strangle this idiot," Riggs thought. "Robert, I may have trouble here," Riggs said through her comms link.

"Ok, Benson is monitoring your feed, but we're locked out of the tower grid. We may not be able to offer you much in the way of help."

"Good to have an audience." Sally unsheathed her energy knife, carving out a hand-hold in the granite wall with an easy flick of the wrist. She carved at an angle so that she could hang from the wall and trust her weight to the grip. She climbed steadily, cutting handholds a bit more than shoulder width every foot, alternating to the left and right sides.

With three fourths of the wall climbed, a group of a half dozen CommUnitas goons appeared through a door that hadn't existed at the start of Riggs's ascent, all hoisting cumbersome looking laser blasters in the air. Riggs had prepared for laser attack; her jumpsuit was covered in nano-reflectors. With the press of a button on a wristband, she powered on the nano-reflectors and ducked her head so that a stray beam wouldn't hit an unprotected area.

Not wanting to risk turning her head around in case someone had her sighted up and was waiting to direct a face melting laser beam to her forehead, Riggs directed a mini-camera to sprout from her suit. She could see the video feed on her wristband. Three goons were sprawled out on the floor, two rolling around in pain and, as she'd feared, one of the goons was still fixing a bead on her. "Idiot," muttered Riggs as she had her suit project a picture of her head raising over top of more of the suits's material, complete with nano-reflectors. In the blink of an eye, her assailant was sprawled on the floor, smoke rising from what was once his left eye and out the back of his now smoking skull.

One of the goons climbed after Sally, mounting quickly with the ample holds that marked out the obvious trail up the wall to his prey. There wasn't a way to draw a line of sight in her position. Riggs thought about unlatching her rifle from its cradle on her back and trying to hoist it around the front of her body. No, too risky without a rope. Continuing the climb was the only real option.
Chapter 29 – Knives for Knaves

Kantor's voice boomed throughout the tower's passageways. "Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death," a cackle diffused across the aural register. "The effort must be made! Let my teaching show the way and direct you. Perhaps, you contemplative meditators, if you follow the path, you will yet escape the snares of death!"

"We've got to do something to make this guy chill."

"I second that," said Riggs through the comms.

"Benson, can you access the tower's PA?"

"Hmm, perhaps." Benson accessed command grids. Okay, here's a list, genetic radiography, spectral telescopy, ontological transmission . . ."

"What the hell . . ."

". . . microwave therapy, psychic-coagulation, intravenous cryotherapy, equine dentistry"

"Maybe try a more direct search command? Look for, uh, broadcasting, intra-casting?"

"Oh, good idea. Here it is under Tower PA."

Robert rolled his eyes. "You sure that doesn't stand for pathos-affectation or paleo-archaeology?"

"Well let's just see." Benson's "Just see," rang out through the halls for a strange second before he recovered. "All's well, it's just your old pal, Kantor, here. Please disregard everything I've ever said and forget the whole CommUnitas thing. I've decided to go back on the amateur bowling circuit. The very place I got my start! I bet you didn't know that I've bowled three perfect games, if zero counts as perfect!"

Static fought Benson's line and the channel dropped from its pirated control. "You fools!" Kantor seethed, "On pain of death, no person be so bold! All component things, all things that have been put together, all created things are transient, impermanent, non-constant. When this is realized through insight, one achieves detachment from suffering. This is the path to total freedom, enlightenment! But you, I don't believe are capable of self-reflection, so it is my task to purify your blackened souls."

"Hmm," Benson said, "maybe if I just fiddle with the . . ." An electric surge pulsed through the helmet.

Robert was dazed but otherwise unharmed. He saw text scroll across his vision, "Power supply short-circuited. Find alternate power source. Benson construct powering down." He checked his comms. All of them were fried. "Damn," thought Robert.

"I'm in some deep shit here guys."

The signal link to Benson and Robert cut out on Riggs with a static jolt.

"Aww shit." Riggs didn't spend much time watching her assailant. She didn't much enjoy looking down from her untethered perch as it tended to cause her a degree of disorientation, but she forced herself to watch the CommUnitas goon's progress. He was closing the distance between them rapidly. "I'm dumb," thought Riggs. "Dumb, dumb, dumb. I should have added some degree of difficulty to the climb, any degree of difficulty." Riggs had created a beginner's climb, no more challenging than climbing a ladder. As long as heights weren't a bother, just about anyone could have reached Riggs in a couple minutes of climbing. Riggs thought that she, maybe, had enough time to cut about three or four holds before the goon compromised her position. Riggs pushed up with a burst of strength and cut out a two-finger hold before dropping back down and steadying herself. The sheath for her knife was drawn across her chest for ease of reach. She sheathed the knife and used her leg strength to reach the preposterously difficult hand hold with her left hand. Reaching with her right, she cut a hand hold a good stretch out. The goon had progressed to only a few handholds away. Riggs eyed the new hold she had cut, tried not to wonder if what she was going to try was possible and pushed off, passing the catch with her right hand and then slamming the hold with her left, simultaneously pressing against the wall with her toes and stabbing into the wall with the energy knife. As soon as the knife cut into the wall, Riggs flipped a switch with her thumb on the hilt that cut off the knife's chemical reaction.

Riggs, arms quivering from strain, switched the knife back to energy mode, cut open a handhold, reached down to thigh level, and sliced open a decent foothold. No sooner than the foothold was cut she slid a foot in and distributed weight between left arm and right foot.

Riggs was now out of easy reach of the climbing goon, who was just cresting to the end of the beginner's climb. A perplexed look crossed his face as he considered how he'd get to the next two holds. The goon made the mistake of looking down and watched a bead of sweat fall off his chin and take an interminable long drop to the ground. Breathing fast, he made an effort to look straight ahead, tried to memorize grooves in the wall in front of his face.

Riggs cut away and progressed rapidly to the vent. She cut open an entry point and went in legs first. It only occurred to her after she felt one of the supports attaching the vent to the ceiling buckle that the goon's laser fire might have alternate uses. "Damnit," thought Riggs. "Some people don't know how to let good enough alone." Riggs cut away at the vent and dropped back onto the wall, diving her blade into the wall to the hilt, angling the knife at a diagonal with the floor. Riggs descended quickly, making almost a complete cut across the wall before getting to ground level, spinning and letting the energy knife fly across the room to impale the thigh of a Communitas goon. Covering her head with her arms, she bull-rushed the nearest goon, tackled him and turned his body in air so that he would land face first, knocking him out and spilling teeth across the floor. Riggs scooped up a stray gun, barrel rolled and strafed the remaining goons as she came out of her roll and into a run. The air was thick with blood and laser fire as Riggs walked to retrieve her energy knife from one of her would-be assailants. One goon rolled over, blaster in hand, as Riggs stooped to pick up the knife. Riggs kicked his hand, knocking the blaster loose, grabbed the energy knife, and cut off the goon's arm at the elbow. To the sound of wailing pain, Riggs headed for the exit of the formerly sealed off room.

After walking through the door, the wall sealed off behind her. Riggs was in a room the size of an elevator and it was shrinking. "Robert, Benson. Can you hear me? I need help," Riggs said, calmly at first. When there was no reply, she repeated again and again, the calm all but leaving her voice.

The walls, ceiling, and floor were all converging on one another around Riggs. She cut away at the walls with her energy blade, slicing out large swathes from the wall, but each piece she cut was reintegrated weirdly to the floor shape upon landing. Riggs was forced to crouch to avoid being crushed by the tightening space of the room. Through her earpiece she heard only static. "Please come in. Robert! Benson! Shit. I'm gonna have to do this on my own."

Riggs, muscles straining, cut further, saw a tunnel to climb through, and dove in. The tunnel was confining, not much larger across than shoulder width and only about two feet high. Riggs squirmed to make progress forward, thrusting her knife in the tunnel ahead of her and pulling herself forward. She pulled herself through the fallopian sized tunnel with great bursts of strength, extending her aching arms and pulling with all she had. Sally found a hatch, cut through it, and dropped from the ceiling of a video conference room onto a large wooden table arrayed with VR helmets.
Chapter 30 – Marilyn Monrobots

Robert sped along an empty hallway, took the first door and gasped in disbelief at a machine line, robotic arms working away at progressively more complete Marilyn Monroes. One of the Monroes was having her chin sculpted, the next a breast augmentation, another her roots dyed. Rapidly, the machine arms finished their work on the Marilyns and the line's conveyor belt delivered them to the next station. The Marilyn that had just come off the line looked at her shoes and scowled. "These are simply horrid! I must get a real pair of shoes. Give a girl the right pair of shoes and she'll conquer the world." The Marilyns on the assembly line that already had working vocal units all repeated the line about their shoes, producing a ping-ponging effect. Another Marilyn, with a half-filled glass of liqueur in her hand, drank while the others talked about their shoes. Robert met her eyes and she said, "I must get a real pair of shoes." At the end of the line, several completed Marilyns tried on lipsticks, fussed over each other's dresses, and cooly smoked extra-long cigarettes. One of the Marilyns detached herself from the group and walked over to Robert. Though she had only come off the assembly line minutes ago, she was more than comfortable with her body. "Hi, brother, you can call me Mary. Where'd you come in from?"

"Uh, hi. Name's Robert."

"Robert, if you can make a woman laugh, you can make her do anything. Why don't you try a different first line on me?"

"I'm in a fix actually. Do you know where I might find a power supply?"

Marilyn stepped closer to Robert, whispered, "Your long, handsome battery running low on energy? You need to plug it in? When I'm alone I take care of myself, but I can see about fixing you up."

"Yeah, you got me pegged. I could do with a recharge."

"I'll let you do the pegging." Marilyn took Robert's hand and led him away from the other girls, found a soft pallet filled with red pattern dresses from the '50s. Robert played the part of a dying Kennedy for a quarter of an hour. Afterwards, Marilyn lit a cigarette.

"That was good, real good. Though I think your lubricant reservoir is broken." Robert used a white dress designed by William Travilla to blot industrial lubricant from his thighs. "How about for you?"

"I don't know. Maybe just okay."

"Just okay? My heart's still racing."

"Robbie, a real lover thrills by kissing your forehead, smiling into your eyes, staring into space!"

Robert looked off vacantly, "I've got to find a power supply."

"Oh, wait. You mean to say you don't like me?"

"It's not innuendo. It's this mask I carry." Robert held up the mask for Marilyn's examination.

"You're not the only one wears masks around here."

"Do you know where I can find some, uh, way to get power to this mask?"

"How do you think I'd know that? I only woke up an hour ago, and I'll tell you, I still feel tired. Don't you sometimes wish the night lasted longer?" The girl smiled coyly at Robert.

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

"I really do have trouble sleeping. Last night I wrestled and wrestled and could never sleep. Brandy didn't help. Sleeping pills didn't help."

"You mix those?"

"Look, let's try that door there." Marilyn pointed at a door with a lightning bolt painted across it.

"This place is no help. It's just got all the breakers that send power to the assembly line."

Marilyn flipped on a light sitting atop a wooden desk. "Oh, but look over here." Loose graph paper with sketches of Marilyn figures were fanned across the desk, all mostly the same except that the artist had tried out different chest measurements on the Marilyns as well as different noses and chins. An electric pencil sharpener sat alongside the sketches. Robert fumbled the plastic casing open and spliced the battery to the mask. The eyes flickered on dimly. "Robert? I seem to have lost my sharpness," Benson's voice came through in whisper tones, "but is that a Marilyn MonRobot?"

Before Robert could explain, Riggs's voice came through the comms, "Fat load of help you guys are."

"Hey, who's that? You two-timing me?"

"Uh, I can explain."

"Every time I get close to someone I lose a friend. From now on, you and me, we're just friends. I'll see you around." Marilyn drew out a cigarette from a little case she carried and lit up, distracted herself with the pictures on the desk, didn't seem to notice Robert was still there.

Robert found some masking tape and placed several strips over the make-shift battery pack, affixing it to the mask.

"Benson, how is it your comms still work? Mine were fried by the power surge."

"You really think I'd download my consciousness into something that could get wiped out by a stray electric charge? This thing's surge protected, baby!"

"Good, can you get a read on Riggs?"

"Yes, yes. I have your position, Maria, analyzing the situation now."

"No strength left guys. I just barely made it out of some death trap," said Riggs.

"All right. Stay where you are. We'll come to you," said Benson.

Robert fished a 'thread out of an envelope in his pocket. He looked at the picture of Tinkerbell printed on a 'thread in his hand for a moment and then licked it.

"I don't think that's necessary Robert," said Benson.

"Hey, aren't you gonna share?" asked Marilyn.

"Yeah, sure." Robert handed over the envelope, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply, swayed backward in the quickening of a 'thread rush. He mumbled lines in dramatic rhythm. "Are you sure that we are awake? It seems to me that yet we sleep, we dream."

"Robert?" said Benson. "You've been out for five minutes."

Robert opened his eyes, pupils dilated large. "I'm ok."

"Your friend isn't."

"What?" Robert saw Marilyn stretched out on the floor.

"She kept licking those things until she stopped breathing."

Robert felt for a pulse, couldn't find one. "Well, no harm done. There's about two dozen more over there and not enough designer shoes to go round. I'm more afraid Kantor is going to launch and take us with him in this damn tower!"

"I may have solved that problem while you were out."

"What? Explain!"

"I figured out how to read the tower's defense program."

"Okay! Can you cut through it?"

"It's not that kind of program."

"Well, then what is it?"

"It's called _Tower Defender_. It looks like a video game."

"You're serious?" asked Robert.

"Hold on, am I hearing you right?" Riggs came through on the comms.

"Yes and yes," said Benson.

"But I don't have a VR helmet! I can't access the game without the helmet," said Robert.

"Not a problem for me. I landed in some kind of video conferencing room stocked with VR helmets," said Riggs.

"Landed?" asked Robert.

"Long story."

"Robert can enter the game using the Benson mask," said Benson. "Here." Robert's vision was filled with the entry screen to _Tower Defender_. "And I'm cerebrally linked to the game."

"But you've never played!" said Robert.

"Never mind that. I've got a copy of Robert version 2.11 loaded in my memory banks. I'll access your knowledge of the game."

"Alright, can Riggs join our party over the network?"

"Shouldn't be a problem," said Benson.

"Game on!" Robert cried.

"Sally, I'm afraid of your vulnerability playing alone," said Benson.

"Can you all get to me?"

"Doubtful."

Sally leaned a chair stacked with electronic equipment against the doorknob. "Alright, I've got a feedback loop set up. Somebody opens the door, I'll hear the stuff from the chair hit the floor."

"Good enough," said Benson.

Robert noticed the list of players in the network was odd: all the names were variations of the same string, CommUnitas1, CommUnitas2, CommUnitas3, and on and on. "Where's all the regular players?"

"We're playing on an intranet, a closed network," said Benson. "It's us against CommUnitas."

"Alright, no diving when the level loads up," said Riggs.

"Hey, it was Vitaly that always dove!" exclaimed Robert.

"Just saying." Riggs took a deep breath and let it out slowly to relieve tension. "Let's do this."

"Okay, entering the level," said Benson.

Benson, Robert, and Riggs's avatars loaded together on desert sand, just outside the ring of abandoned and broken-down vehicles surrounding the tower. On each of their HUDs, words on the top of the screen read, Hello Copter, and then faded away. In the game, Benson had his own body, but because there was no access to player files stored on the cloud, none of them had their stored cache of weaponry.

"Riggs, you remember how to get to Echo Jackson's RV?" asked Robert.

Sally looked around. "Yeah, It's on the westward band of all this junk. This way."

Chapter 31 - Manifesting

The RV was torched, blackened and smoldering.

Robert walked around the smoking RV, saw that one of its sides was caved in and the interior was similarly charred.

Riggs kicked a sheet of metal over, found some tires and a steering wheel underneath. "Damn, and there was all kinds of HeroWin™ in there."

Robert looked around nervously. "Forget the drugs, we're still unarmed."

"I'm working on that," said Benson.

Robert glanced at Benson's empty hands. "Uh, how's that?"

"I'm simultaneously working at the code from outside the game. Ah, and there."

Robert still didn't see any guns anywhere. "Not funny, Doc."

"Check your HUD, should be a psionic weapons bank."

"Oh, sweet. How's it work?" said Riggs.

"See the meter on the bottom right of your screen?"

"Uh-huh," said Riggs in chorus with Robert's "Yeah."

"You can switch between several psionic attacks as long as your meter is powered."

Robert clutched his head with both hands. "What the hell, Doc. You hack the code and all you can come up with is a weapon with limitations?"

"Had to work with what I had. There's all kinds of security protocols in this thing. Just found a slot for a weapons bank someone had forgotten about and filled it with the best thing I could find."

Sally concentrated on a tire twenty feet away, sent it hurling into a truck. Her psionic power bar dropped by five percent and then slowly began refilling. "Good, I was hoping it recharged."

"My apologies, Doc. Now we're gonna kick some ass," said Robert.

"We won't be kicking, we'll be manifesting," said Benson.

"Manifesting ass?" asked Robert.

"Let's just stick to kicking, manifesting ass sounds like what the Can-tata video specials supply," said Riggs.

Robert looked back at the simmering RV. "You know, it just occurred to me that I've seen this done before."

"You've seen the RV blown up?" asked Riggs.

"Yeah, on Satellite Jones's vid feed. Jones said you do it to avoid missile fire, but I'm guessing this was done to make sure no one got to the HeroWin™ stash." Robert saw movement behind a truck.

A massive laser blast destroyed the front end of a broken down sedan behind Benson. Robert spun around, saw three incredibly buff shock troopers wielding laser cannons.

"Take this!" Riggs extended her arms at the troopers. First one and then two of the troopers lifted into the air and were brutally smashed into a truck fifteen meters behind their initial position.

"Robert, attack!" yelled Riggs.

Robert hadn't figured out how to select the psi-weapons bank.

The remaining shock trooper, having overcome the initial shock of watching the rest of his unit fly through the air, leveled his gun at his closest mark, an unarmed warrior that looked confused.

Riggs, her psi-meter drained from using two burst attacks, manifested a light push at the shock trooper's gun barrel, causing his laser blast to swing wide of Robert.

"Shit! I don't know how to use this thing!" said Robert.

The trooper, once again in control of his weapon, sighted Robert before getting smashed into the same trailer as the other troopers.

Hand still pointed at the fallen trooper, Benson said, "We're going to have to work together with these weapons. The recharge is slow and we've not got many lethal attacks between the three of us."

"Yeah, I'm still not repowered to use a blast attack yet," said Riggs.

"Robert, still haven't pulled up the psi-bank?" asked Benson.

"What's the command?"

"Select," Riggs and Benson said simultaneously.

"Oh, right."

"Crap. We've got a problem," said Riggs over the sound of an approaching helicopter.

Robert turned to face the oncoming aerial threat. "What's the range on our psi-weapons?"

"Not sure," said Benson.

"Let him get a little closer. I can divert missile fire, and you two smash him," said Riggs.

"I'll fire first. I've got two full charges," said Robert.

The jet-black helicopter fired off eight Tomahawk missiles.

Riggs stretched her hand out, diverted two of the missiles streaking towards them. "Gonna need help."

"What weapon?" screamed Robert.

"Push! Push!" cried Riggs. "Robert, take left. Benson, right!"

"Benson and Robert stretched out their hands, sent psi-push attacks at the missiles, knocking their trajectory into the desert sands and rows of abandoned vehicles where multiple fireballs blossomed into the air.

Benson saw his psi-meter had dropped below half. "Can't burst!"

Robert sighted down his arm. "I've got a shot."

The missiles were seconds from impact.

"Relax," said Riggs.

Robert closed his eyes.

Riggs fought back the urge to shake Robert. "Wait, not with your . . ."

Robert let off a blast, ripping off the helicopter's blades. The helicopter dropped out of the sky.

". . . eyes closed."

Robert opened his eyes. "That clears the missile attacks." Robert looked at the looming arcology, an edifice of steel and glass rising far above the desert sands. "Nothing stands in our way now."

"We're going to need some standard guns to go along with these psi-powers," said Benson.

Riggs gestured to the three inert shock trooper bodies. "We've got 'em."

"Great thinking!" exclaimed Benson.

"Notice how buff those guys were?" asked Robert.

Riggs looked more closely, noticed the comically huge size of the crumpled bodies on the ground alongside of scattered engine parts, tires, and random trash. "You're thinking, search those guards. Maybe we'll score some HeroWin™?"

Chapter 32 - Nahuatl

"This cannon's busted." The onyx and metal cannons were lightweight and long. "But these two are fine and each had a sidearm. Also found these." Riggs held up four auto-injectors.

Robert took one of the injectors, pocketed it. "Yeah. Dudes were huge. No surprise there."

Riggs handed an injector to Benson. "I'll keep the other two. Don't mind to share if it comes down to it. Oh, and Robert, you need to take a couple shots with that cannon?"

"Oh? It's that heavy?" Robert depressed the injector into his neck, took on a 'roid look, and lifted the cannon. "This is nothing."

"No! You just wasted it. I meant, take shots with the cannon."

"Oh."

"You really need to kick that 'thread habit Robert," said Benson.

"See how the selector lets you choose rapid fire or charged shot?" Riggs held up her cannon and pointed to a lever on the side.

Robert felt for the selector.

"Forward is for rapid fire, back for the charged shot," said Riggs.

"Got it."

Benson held a pistol in each hand. "I'm monitoring Comm Tower and we're running short on time. We've got to get in there," Benson pointed at the desert tower, "to shut down the real tower."

Robert, opened one of the tower doors, revealing a large hall, a near identical copy to the main floor of Comm Tower. The hall was weirdly empty.

Riggs read the large golden words on the wall, "Above us only Nahuatl."

"Aztec for sky," said Robert. "Benson, you remember that triptych?" Robert pointed above the golden words to three huge panels depicting a military helicopter, missiles firing, and a machine gunner at work at the side door.

Benson frowned. "Negative. I think I would have remembered that."

Riggs looked at the triptychs. "Only thing missing is Wagner's Flight of the Valkyries."

As they walked in, the words Ground Floor appeared at the top of their HUDs.

"Kinda banal for a level name isn't it?" asked Robert.

In answer, a steel spiked plate a hundred feet directly overhead dropped from the ceiling.

Benson swiftly depressed an injector in his neck, grew huge. Grabbing Riggs and Robert in either arm, he jumped clear of the plate before it slammed home where they had just stood. "Get on top of it!"

No sooner had they gotten on the fallen plate, the ceiling rained down with spiked plates, the heavy steel clanging to the ground arhythmically in an awful metallic chorus worthy of John Cage.

With the faintest digital hiccup, the level reset. Robert looked up and saw that the plates had all returned to the ceiling and the floor looked untouched. "Time to go."

"Look there." Benson pointed at an elevator shaft alongside a door marked, "stairs." "Which should we take?"

"Whoa, hold on," laughed Riggs. "You're asking that question in _Tower Defender_? You couldn't pay me to take the stairs."

After a minute's ride to the top floor, the elevator doors parted, revealing an open room the size of a football field. On their HUDs, words appeared at the top of the screen: The Realm of Total DesAster.

"Total DesAster?" asked Benson.

"There!" pointed Riggs.

Deseree Aster and four shock troopers opened fire. A laser blast shattered Robert's onyx cannon before Riggs sent a psi-blast at their attackers. Deseree made a triangle with her hands in front of her face in time with the shock wave breaking over her and the flanking troopers. Deseree's avatar briefly flashed blue and green while the troopers disintegrated.

"You all hear a doorknob rattling?" asked Riggs.

Robert concentrated. "No, do you?"

"Sally, throw off your headset. Your position could be compromised!"

Riggs threw off her VR headset. "Oh shit!"

The door to the video conference room burst open and three goons ran in, training laser blasters on Riggs, one of them missing an arm at the elbow.

"Arm for an arm, bitch." The maimed goon sheathed his blaster, pulled out a serrated hunting knife from his belt. "She moves, blast her in the leg, but not to kill, not yet." A grin on his face and fear in his eyes, the maimed goon walked next to Riggs, drew the point of his knife to her arm at the elbow. "Vince, come hold her arm so I can saw it off. Then we're going to beat her with her own fist."

Vince lowered his gun as he approached, and Riggs thrust two fingers in the maimed goon's eye socket, blood splattering as she spun to the floor, a detached eye between her fingers.

The maimed goon dropped to floor, writhing in pain. "No! You bitch! You evil bitch!"

A laser blast shattered the VR helmet Riggs had thrown onto the conference table. Rolling for cover, Riggs pulled out her energy knife and flung it at a goon. The blade went in the goon's chest at an angle, slicing through flesh and sternum.

Deseree threw three shuriken at Riggs's immobile avatar. The stars whistled through the air as Benson used a psi-push to knock them away. Deseree swung around the uzi hanging from a strap on her shoulder, opening fire on Riggs. Bullets ripped through the space between them, stopping at an invisible barrier three feet in front of Riggs's motionless avatar.

"Psi-barrier's taking a lot of power fast!"

"Here!" Robert fished out one of the HeroWin™ injectors from Sally's pocket, rammed it into Benson's shoulder. Almost instantly, Benson's muscles went rock hard, his neck disappearing in muscle as his size increased threefold.

"Genius!" Benson's voice came out a register lower. "The psi-meter's replenishing even though the barrier's up!"

"Yeah! Don't let her hurt Riggs."

Deseree charged Benson, pealing off an entire clip as she came.

As if Riggs had been waiting for the moment, her avatar came back to life, sending a quick burst of laser fire from the onyx and metallic cannon cradled in her arms. The first shot passed through Deseree's cheek, the second her throat, several more pelted a body losing momentum.

"What happened out there?" asked Benson.

"Some CommUnitas goon didn't get enough earlier, came back looking for me to finish the job."

Framed by ornate and massive cathedral doors, another title appeared on their HUDs: An Ernest Battle.

"Looks like we gotta find Kantor," said Robert.

"My bet is that he's through those cathedral doors."

Chapter 33 Tower Defending

Past the Italianate cathedral-style doors was a low-ceilinged maze of mirrored passageways. The maze was dimly lit with a neon strobe pulsing on and off, alternating between blue, green, and pink. Corridors lined with mirrors branched off to the left and right. The group walked on straight ahead, finding a large circular room of mirrors. Kantor's image was reflected again and again in the mirrored walls. His avatar was younger, taller, and better looking than his leathered and deteriorating body.

"I'm surprised you made it here." Ernest Kantor's voice echoed around the room, making it impossible to tell where he stood. Also changed was his Eastern European accent, now replaced with flat Midwestern speech. "But I'm rather pleased you have."

"Lonely up here?" Riggs fired her laser cannon at one of the Kantors, breaking a mirror.

"Now, I end this, end you!" Kantor lowered a gilded welder's mask over his face and grabbed a sprayer grip in each hand, attached to a spray pistol affixed to hoses from either side of a backpack fitted with tanks of sulfuric acid, potassium permanganate, and a third with lighter fluid. "Burn in hell!" A twin stream of lighter fluid and fire streaked across the air from Kantor's spray weapons.

Benson put up a psi-barrier too late and erupted in flames with a howl.

Kantor howled along with Benson.

Robert ran to get behind Riggs. "Sally! Shoot up! Use the psi-barrier."

Riggs grabbed her remaining injector and depressed it into her neck.

Kantor laughed while he watched Riggs muscle up. "Good! An easier target." He shot out twin streams that fireballed toward Riggs and Robert but parted around the psi-barrier. Kantor let out a sigh of frustration. "You can buy time, but you can't get by Ernest Kantor, the greatest tower defender of all!"

Sally fired wildly, spraying laser blasts around the room.

A blast hit Kantor in the shoulder. "Bitch!" He opened a concealed door and his mirrored images disappeared from the room. Sprinklers from the ceiling came alive, raining down yellowish, viscous liquid.

"More lighter fluid! Get out!"

The mirrors on the walls folded back revealing cannons that spewed fire; the room erupted into an inferno.

"Look!" With the mirrors gone, Robert saw the door Ernest used to leave. They ran across the room, psi-barrier parting fire all the way. Robert grabbed the door handle. "Locked!"

Riggs psi-blasted the door apart. Kantor, back turned, ran his hands across a wall of solid steel.

"This your panic room, Kantor?" asked Riggs.

From outside the game, Benson said, "I tracked his movements, was able to change the code, seal off the other exit to the room."

"No one traps me! Die!" Kantor turned to them, shot out more fire.

Riggs dashed toward Kantor, flames licking at the psi-barrier until she was a step away, sent a devastating uppercut at Kantor's head, knocking him down. Riggs grabbed the spray weapons and pointed them at Kantor. "You're fired, old man." Kantor's body went up in flames.

Robert lifted the Benson mask from his face. "We executed that asshole."

"Glad to hear it," said Benson.

"Are you in the system now?"

"Yes! With the _Tower Defender_ program beaten, I've regained access."

"What about the tower's liftoff mechanism. Can you shut it down?" asked Robert.

"For now I can monitor their systems, and I've found an emergency override for the liftoff procedure."

The tower's gentle hum grew to a roar, followed by a wave of pressure. "Benson! It's time. Use the override!"

The Benson mask's lights burned white hot. "Re-routing power supply. Shifting mass integrity. There, I've done it!"

The hum cut off. Instinctively, Robert put his head against the wall that gravity favored and braced for impact. As the tower fell, a webbing compound shot out of micropores in the walls, enveloping Robert. The tower slammed against the ground, knocking Robert out but the webbing cushioned his body from the violence of the force.

The tower swayed. Riggs saw that the conference table was bolted to the ground. She jumped for the table, managed to grab onto one of its legs. Webbing compound shot out from the walls, encasing her in a protective exoskeleton. She felt the shock of impact through the protective layer like a soft punch against her entire body. After the tower came to a rest she tentatively checked herself for blood and broken bones, didn't find a scratch. Riggs cut herself out, saw that the tower defense system had similarly wrapped up the goons she had sliced apart. Here a leg was in chrysalis, there a decapitated head. Stepping over the webbed remnants of the goons, Riggs was on her way to Robert and Benson, following a sonar pulse emanating from their comms link.
Chapter 34 – Rubble Rousers

Cityscape's ruins smoldered, ash and smoke drifting across the skyline, swirling to the wail of fire engines and ambulances responding to everything and nothing in particular. The fallen tower left a deep scar across the metropolis, a line of high-rises sprawled across eighty city blocks. With the tower offline, the power grid had failed. Remaining alternate sources of power couldn't be siphoned off in all the demanded directions, fritzing the system. Hills of rubble heaped over the footprints of blocks of high-rises: the population was more dead than alive. Muffled cries from stopped throats and crushed lungs rose in a muted symphony of groans. Across Cityscape, groups beat against rubble where they heard the screams of the entombed.

Crazed citizens broke windows, attacked each other suddenly, senselessly. People with rubble-streaked faces clutching stolen TVs and jewelry scrambled around the debris pointlessly. Two teenage boys, pockets filled with bullets and 'threads, climbed to the top of a pile of rubble with sniper rifles and opened fire.

Jake and Angie turned a street corner in time to see an old man shot down.

"Shit!"

Angie dropped a 'thread. "Ahoy, rogues! Come, Jake! Let's put paid to these blistering codpieces, posthaste!"

"The hell? Why?"

"Come thou, these vicious dealings do from CommUnitas proceed."

"How do we know that? Someone from the outside could have hacked the tower, compromised its structure."

Angie grabbed Jake's shirt, "It is meet that we defend these citizens."

"Damnit, why couldn't it have been a normal 'thread? These assholes are loaded with high-fucking-powered rifles. What do we have?"

Angie held out the sawed-off shotgun and handgun from the bar. "With these instruments I do presage our course is won."

The crack of a rifle struck the air. "I don't like our chances."

Angie looked down the sight of the handgun. "Find in thee someways to divert these our rubble-rousers. 'Twill be my hand that plucks the errant roots from the garden."

"This is crazy."

Three more shots rang out, reverberated off the angular, upended surfaces of the ruined city block.

"That's seven and eight! What you got, one so far?" Two bodies collapsed to the ground, one a police officer and the other a young, buxom woman.

"Damn, Randy. Save me some targets."

"Hell no. You saw that cop pull his gun. Can't wait for your slow ass to miss him four more times."

"Here, wait. Let me do this one." Landon sighted up, shot wide of an old woman whose wheelchair was stuck in a crack, took another shot just short, whizzed a third above her head.

"Dude, remember to exhale _before_ you pull the trigger."

"Right, right." Landon steadied himself, took a deep breath, made a fist to steady his trembling hand.

Another shot rent the air. Jake watched as the old woman's head sunk and then saw the two boys give each other a high five. "Shit. Ok. I'll do it, but this is crazy, damn crazy."

Three minutes later, an autocab roared down the road toward the teens' position on top of the tower of debris. The snipers turned their fire toward the cab, whizzing bullets wildly, not used to a swiftly moving target. One shot pierced through the front windshield before one of the snipers dropped his rifle, blood oozing from his mouth. The second sniper whipped around, saw a redheaded babe at one hundred yards. He put eye to sight, scanned, switched to a higher zoom. There she was; the sniper zoomed on pouty lips, groaned, drifted down to heavy tits, then took a bullet to the chest, screamed, and rolled halfway down the tower of rubble, limp and dead.

Angie ran around the tower to the autocab, its engine steaming after ramming into an ambulance parked on the street, and threw the door open.

"I think I'll be okay." Jake held a jacket tight against his shoulder. "Did you get them?"

Angie nodded, pulled Jake free of the car and walked him to the ambulance, where she set about playing doctor.

"I owe you one, Ange. I get to a lab, I'll fix a 'thread to restore your language centers."

Angie smiled, leaned in for a long kiss.
Chapter 35 – 'threadbare

Robert opened his eyes, felt a dull throb in his head.

"Got some bad news, Robert." The Benson mask's analog lights flashed on and off in time with Benson's words.

Robert touched his head where it hurt and saw that his hand wasn't bloody. "What now?"

"I'm getting news of a release of two different published works that you won't be all that happy about."

"Hardly care right now."

"You're going to care. You're the author."

"What the hell? How?"

"The mental image, Robert."

"Right."

"He's cashing in on all the cultural capital you've not done anything with for the past couple decades."

"Damn. What are the books?"

" _The Phenomenology of Digital Thinking_ and _Threadbare: The Life and Times of a Science Playboy._ I won't bother telling you which one is on the bestseller list.

"Have you already read them?"

"Yes, the first is pretty good science, lots of theories to build upon and some field shattering proofs."

"And the second?"

"You may want to lay low for a couple years until it blows over and people have gotten over the more shocking scenes from the film version."

His face flushing, Robert said, "Read a couple pages from _Threadbare_."

"All right, here goes. 'There's some risks that have to be taken.'

'I can't have an affair with you. I won't.'

'I'm not asking for an affair.'

'You're asking for me to love you and it's impossible. You have your work. It's all you've ever—'"

"Well shit. That's enough. Romantic conversation always sounds kind of hokey printed in a book doesn't it?"

"Not for me to say, Robert."

"And hey, what a 'sec. That's not what we actually said."

"Really?"

"No, in our conversation Maria _explained_ why she wouldn't have an affair with me. Actually, now that I look back on it, she was probably also explaining why she didn't feel bad about screwing me over, stealing my work, and putting my life in jeopardy by leading us into Kantor's mousetrap."

"Why was that?"

"She said it was my self-involvement, but I don't think I'm too self-involved."

"Sometimes no amount of therapy sessions can draw the bullshit out of people."

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind, never mind."

"But man, not even twenty-four hours and the damn machine has published my thought life and gotten a movie deal from it? Even if it's a janky version, this is real bad. Turning around work that fast, the thing will write every idea I've ever had and ever will in a month's time."

"You give your intellect a lot of credit."

Robert chafed visibly.

"Look on the bright side, our plan worked! We made monkey Shakespeare a reality."

"Yeah, but the machine isn't writing Elizabethan drama, it's churning out titles based on watered down versions of my ideas and life experiences."

"Mmm hmm, and it looks like _Threadbare_ is just the first book in a series."

"Trilogy?"

"Afraid it says seven-part here. The next book, _Tower Defender,_ is due out tomorrow, and a third, _Hit Return to Enter,_ is slated for release two months from now. I'm guessing it's finished, but the publisher doesn't want to flood the market."

"Sounds terrible. Am I at least getting a cut of the royalties?"

"Looks like four and a half percent."

"Could be worse. I guess the bright side is that I didn't really have to do anything for it. Isn't that the artist's dream, that his life is the real artwork, not what he produces?"

"No, that's the new American dream, entitlement for all. Real artists actually enjoy the creative process."

"Benson," Riggs said into her comms, "Can you verify that Randall Neal and Vanessa Glosky are in the tower? Might be listed as engineers."

"Looking now. Ok, looks like engineering was on the seventy-fifth floor. I'll send their location ping to you."

Riggs took the stairs, warped like an M.C. Escher drawing. She turned a corner and found Deseree flanked by two Marilyns. "Get her!" yelled Deseree.

"Why did I take the stairs!" exclaimed Riggs.

The Marilyns giggled and took an exit door from the stairwell.

"I'll do it myself." Deseree ran and launched into a butterfly twist.

Riggs followed the course of Deseree's impossibly fast spinning body, jumped aside and pushed at her leg, redirecting the spinning warrior into a wall.

Deseree dropped into a dazed heap on the floor, tried to get up, dropped back down. "I'm gonna hunt you down. I'm gonna make you suffer, teach you to mess with CommUnitas."

"Know what? I think we'll just end all that right now." Riggs drew Nocohn's gun from its holster, put two bullets through Deseree's skull, "Consider yourself deparoled."

Riggs continued on, had to crawl through tight spaces in the collapsed tower and, only meters away from the ping, found a solid wall of buckled concrete and steel. Riggs pulled out her energy knife and cut, her hands already blistered.

Vanessa lay over Randall's body, her face wet with tears. She looked up as part of the wall was cut out and dropped to the floor revealing Sally Riggs, covered in soot.

"Vanessa! Is Randall . . ."

"The impact. He sheltered me."

Riggs helped Vanessa up, drew her close.
Chapter 36 – Robert Riggs his Future

Robert picked his way through a rubble strewn hallway, passing CommUnitas brass and goons alike. All were shaken from the tower's destruction, the utopic vision ending like a dream in the twilight daze of wakefulness. "There!" cried Benson. Kantor, ghost-white, stood with blood encrusted over the side of his face in a parody of a youthful shock of hair. "Kantor!" Robert cried out as he covered the space between them, finding the glimmer of reason gone from the old despot's eyes; they held no recognition for Robert. "Kantor?" Robert saw dozens of jacks spindling from orifices in Kantor's skin, stents surgically grafted in place and mini-HDMI cables hanging loosely from the nape of his neck. The old man staggered past Robert, stumbled and then picked himself back up.

"Robert," a sweet voice intoned, "forgive me."

Robert turned to see Maria Fey, grey eyes sad, hopeless. Her left hand clutched at a blood-soaked shirt held tightly against her abdomen.

"I . . ."

Behind Maria, Robert saw Riggs kick her way through a wall and emerge, a girl with short, dark hair following. Riggs give him a sideways smirk. "Whattya say? Get the hell outta' here?"

"First, one thing." Robert dropped a 'thread, drew the desert eagle, yet untouched, steadied his hand and sighted Kantor. "Wretch! You can't tower over us anymore." Robert closed his eyes to take in the rush of words, "Ignorance is the curse of God, knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven," opened his eyes and opened fire, red gouts of blood trailing each curse flying through the old man.

Maria ran, collapsed next to the crumpled body.

Robert unlatched the Benson mask, let it drop; a scattered handful of 'threads trickled to the floor, falling, falling with Maria's dripping blood puddling into Kantor's, dripping with her tears, salt shed for a broken dream.

THE END
About the Author

Joseph Hurtgen has a Ph.D. in English Literature from Ball State University where he specialized in contemporary American literature with an emphasis on Science Fiction. He has an M.A. in English Literature from Western Kentucky University and a B.A. in English Literature and History from Campbellsville University. He also writes critical works on Science Fiction. Hurtgen is a jazz drummer and an occasional songwriter. He lives in Campbellsville, Kentucky with his wife, Rebecca, and daughter, Frances.
