by A W Wang
“The Ten Sigma Program is supposed to stop this?”
“No, the tipping point has passed. The program is meant to help pick up the pieces.”
I frown, resisting the prognostication. “I still don’t understand why I’m so special that you’re sitting in my bedroom in the middle of the night.”
He smirks. “I’m here sitting in your bedroom in the middle of the night to offer you an escape from this existence.”
Despite the discomfort, I lean forward.
“We can remove your consciousness from your body and place it into a virtual world that will seem as real as this room. There, you will never go hungry, never be thirsty, never be sick. Never even have to go to the bathroom if you don’t want to.” He chuckles at the last perk.
The technology is past the cutting edge of science fiction, yet I see no reason to doubt him. “I have mixed feelings from my one computer programming class.”
“You will only be required to function within the world.”
“Given the problems you just mentioned, you need some sort of master magician. Aside from doing well in math, I’m not sure how I qualify as special.”
He pinches his chin, saying, “Your life is rather unremarkable—”
“That’s very kind.”
“Let me finish,” he says, raising his hand. “While you live a nondescript existence, your test scores are very interesting.”
“Test scores?” Before he can answer, I put it together. “You mean the unnecessary body and brain scan that we spent our remaining healthcare ration on?”
He flicks his fingers, diminishing the importance of my question. “Yes, yes. The very same. They indicate you have exceptional situational awareness which is a highly desirable trait for our program.”
“That tells me nothing.”
“Do you enjoy driving?”
“Nobody drives.”
His fingers repeat the same grating movements. “Of course, but when the self-driver program on your car malfunctioned and tried to careen through a guardrail, you saved the car. And your sister Emily.”
“That was when I was eleven. Everyone would have done that.”
“Everyone would have tried, but you succeeded.”
“My leg still got mangled in the accident.”
His eyes bore into me. “You survived and that makes you special, because under times of stress, almost all people become myopic, while you expand your field of attention. In the worst predicaments, time slows down for you. And we know of three other cases where this exceptional trait of yours came into play. This type of intuition cannot be taught.”
I think of the tingling sensations that run over my nape whenever something isn’t right. “I can’t even eat without making a mess.”
“Poor table manners are irrelevant. We’re not producing English aristocrats.”
The joke on top of the flattery almost makes me laugh. Almost.
“I’m a glorified accountant with a gimpy leg and nothing more.”
“Please don’t be so hasty. For your potential, the compensation would be quite generous. All of your external medical debts nullified and two years of standard salary for your husband. We’ve only made this offer in one other case.”
“What would I have to do?”
“The exact details are only available in the virtual universe. However, to make an over-generalization, you would give us your soul.”
“Will I see my family again?”
“That is not the purpose of the program.”
“Then, no.”
He frowns. “We are maximizing the potential of people who can change the world. But you want to waste your talents. You allowed one physical injury to turn you into a stay-at-home bookworm.”
This lecture seems to be coming from my father. “Did your stalking include learning precisely how to get under my skin?”
“Forgive my bluntness. My passion for this program sometimes gets the better of my temperament. Please think of this offer as a second chance to realize your potential. Your situation is terminal.”
“This is 2040 and cancer has been curable for years.”
“Most forms are. But yours is a newly discovered type. It’s a cancer that produces other forms of cancer.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Research papers will be released in the coming months, and there aren’t any cures. Any treatments work only temporarily, then the hostile cells send out a mutated pathogen to produce a different form of cancer. The current remedies only handle the symptoms, not the actual cause.
“You can spend money you don’t have on one of the clinics that have sprouted up in the hinterlands. But, they’ll only prolong your agony and each cycle will weaken your body until one of them finally kills you.”
I take a few deep breaths, not knowing what to believe. Then my dislike for the government and love for my family makes the decision for me.
“While the offer is interesting, I’ll get through this with my support group. You’ll have to find another perfect person.”
“As a person, you are certainly not perfect. Far from it. At best, you’re an incomplete human being, using your family and friends to cover up for all of your shortcomings instead of growing by facing your insecurities.”
My anger rises. “You’ve never had a family.”
“No,” he admits. “I’ve never been coddled and allowed my potential to be stifled.”
“Well, the answer is still no.”
He pretends not to hear. “Your poor husband does love you.”
“Did you figure this out by yourself?”
“No, the profiler did. He concluded that your husband will destroy himself to save you. Is this what you want?”
“We will beat this,” I say, chewing a nail.
When he scowls at my nervous habit, I feel better. A little petty but definitely better.
“The poor man will kill himself before allowing you to die because he truly loves you. Will you allow that to happen? And destroy the rest of your family in a pointless endeavor?”
I don’t have an answer, but I’ve had enough of my midnight visitor. “This is my home, and it’s time for you to leave.”
“You’re an unusual case. You follow the rules but hate authority.”
“Did your profiler tell you that?”
“No, your unruly attitude did.”
I slam my palms on the sheets. Unsurprisingly, kowtowing to government flunkies in the middle of the night in my bedroom brings out the worst in me. “You want unruly? Get out. If what you say is true about a coming apocalypse, then what type of person would I be to leave my family?”
He takes a gulp from the inhaler and, grimacing, pushes on the cane. The floor squeaks as he shakily rises. After finding steady footing, he replaces the broad-brimmed hat. “The world is getting worse and now is the time for bold thought and sacrifice. The program needs superior individuals.”
From inside his sleeve, he produces an electronic pad, the size of a business card, and places it on the bed. “This contains the pertinent information for the Ten Sigma Program. It’s coded to your DNA. When you’re ready, just press your thumb in the lower right corner.”
My reply comes in a deliberate tone. “I will not leave my family. And I never want to see you again.”
“I shall honor your wish. You shall never see me again. Please understand that while the coming disaster is inevitable, your mediocrity is not.” With a tip of the broad-brimmed hat, he hobbles past the bed.
After opening the door, he draws another breath from the inhaler. “Remember, this conversation should remain confidential, especially anything regarding any incidental surveillance by the government. Any disclosure will null the terms on the card and open you to charges of espionage.”
Without waiting for a response, he slips out of the room.
As the clomps of the cane fade into the night, my fingers touch the silky surface of the device.
I should smas
h it.
I really should.
Three
Under the last glows of the sun streaming past distant mountains, Nick carefully negotiates the rickety handcart down a rocky ridge. The jostles and hairpin turns of the narrow, winding foot trail—which my healthy self would love—send waves of queasiness into my stomach.
Pushing down a surge of bile, I take a deep breath of the thin spring air and try not to fall from my overly inclined seat.
Mercifully, after a few minutes of nothing worse than pebbles tumbling down the treacherous slope, the creaking wheels roll onto level ground as the last of the sunset surrenders to twilight.
I sigh with relief and appreciate the beauty in the streaks of pink and violet painting the stretched clouds near the horizon.
Ahead of us lies our exit from this sea of desolation, a dusty airfield with a single dirt runway, while behind and beyond the ridge resides a dingy two-bed clinic, another disappointment in our ends of the Earth search for my cure.
The worst part of the fruitless journey is the resignation seeping into my psyche. As predicted, increasing fevers, nausea, and dizziness have accompanied each new treatment cycle. The sickness is going to win. Sometimes, I wish it would just score a decisive victory and end my life before killing everyone around me.
You are terminal. Your husband will destroy himself trying to save you.
True to his promise, the man in the broad-brimmed hat hasn’t returned. But after these months, he never strays far from my thoughts, especially after failures like the last three clinics.
This insanity has to end.
“Stop.”
Nick sets down the handles of the wooden cart and removes his sun hat. As he stuffs the floppy material into his back pocket, his pearly teeth flash in a wide smile. The confident expression only adds to my annoyance.
“Okay, so that didn’t exactly work,” he says.
“That specialist was a quack. And we’re running out of quacks to visit and the money to visit them.”
“At least he pinpointed the cause. That’s something.”
While Nick’s thrilled about the discovery, I place the win squarely under the ledger of the man in the broad-brimmed hat, who correctly predicted the diagnosis.
I squirm under my thick blanket. Despite the chill settling from the coming night, my body is pouring out beads of sweat.
“We can’t keep doing this.”
Nick fiddles with his scruffy hair, considering a delicate response to my despair. Thinking of the last vestiges of hair under my headscarf doesn’t help my mood.
The parched air tickles my throat. I grab the squirt bottle from the sidewall and spill water into my mouth. The warm liquid tastes stale but serves its purpose while giving Nick a chance to complete his thoughts.
After I finish, he takes a deliberate step toward the carriage. Although his smile tightens into a straight line, his eyes twinkle in the gloom.
My mood softens even as I want to frown. “Nick…”
“This is the first step toward a cure.” With gentleness, he kneels before me, grasping my hands much as he did on the night he proposed.
Even in the diminished light, I see he believes every word.
“This is the last one. I’m done,” I reply. Given my terminal prognosis and its costs, his life would have been far better if I had said “No.”
“Now, we know what we’re dealing with and someplace on this green Earth is the cure. We’ll find it.” He brings my hands to his chin. “You think if I let you go quietly, I’ll have enough left so I can pick up the pieces and have a life.”
After eleven years of marriage, he knows my thoughts very well. “That’s what you deserve.”
“Mary, without you, my life is over. So, if you die, I’ll die too.”
While his death would be metaphorical, I get his point because I would do the same for him. “You’ll find someone else.”
He gently squeezes my fingers. “Listen to me. We’re a team. No matter what. You can’t quit. No matter how hard it gets, you don’t stop until you’re whole and healthy.”
“We can’t keep going like this.”
He returns an understanding stare. “This is just a temporary thing. After you’re cured, we’ll have the rest of our lives together. That’s a long time.”
My lips quiver as the big dreamer optimism weakens my resolve. The man in the broad-brimmed hat can’t be right about everything. But even if he is, I’d rather face the coming calamity with my family rather than as part of some stupid program.
Nick pulls out his wallet and flips it open. “I have a new credit line, and this last doctor said a lot of research is happening near the Canadian border. So promise.”
I sigh. Although the other credit lines are fully drawn, I can’t stand in the way of his faith. “I promise,” I whisper.
Satisfied, he rises and grabs the cart handles. The gravel crunches under his boots as he runs us to the tiny airport with a newfound pep in his stride.
As I gnaw on a dirty fingernail to pass the time, a nagging thought pesters my mind.
You’ll wind up killing your husband.
Four
From the middle of the ceiling, a slowly flickering bulb casts a pall over my ratty bed while shadows shroud the rest of the tall cubicle. Beneath the dark panel of a flat screen TV, happy “Get Well” cards stand amongst shriveled arrangements of flowers on a corner table. The spoiled food from my untouched breakfast sits on a plastic tray at my side.
Death, with its chilly touch and sickly stench, lingers everywhere.
The makeshift medical center is located in a failed warehouse and all we can afford. Although the level of care is more than nothing, with only five doctors and thirty staff serving a thousand patients, it’s barely enough.
I force out an angry sigh.
2041 has rolled past with the backdrop of chaos growing larger and the promises of politicians becoming more hollow. Now, with the return of the holiday season, the man in the broad-brimmed hat and his offer occupy most of my thoughts. Too many of his prognostications for the country and my health have come to fruition.
While my mind is still sharp, my frail body, battered from the unrelenting assault of the sickness, rests under a loose smock sandwiched between sheets stinking of dried sweat. With each breath, my lungs labor while every twitch causes my flaming skin to itch from bedsores. I shift my legs, willing the movements to remain silent.
Visiting hours are long past, but my exhausted husband sits just beyond the siderail of the bed with his eyes closed.
Although he still keeps his big dream optimism, I wish he would complain. Something, any tirade about the unfairness of life would be welcome. Instead, he only gives sympathetic understanding. He only wants me to live.
And I only have guilt. I blink back tears of frustration.
While I’m the nerdy one, he’s got the charisma and winning smile. Together, as a team, we’ve conquered everything.
Except for this sickness.
The disease and the medical bills have won. Our wonderful cottage has three mortgages and our twenty-four percent interest credit lines are full. Emily and her husband have given us Darla’s college money. We have no more resources.
But Nick won’t stop trying even if it kills him and destroys everyone we hold dear.
A tear spills down my cheek.
I’m thirty-three and that’s too young to die.
As I come to terms with the lack of options, I listen to the faint chirps of the obsolete EKG machine and watch clear fluid drip into my IV tube.
The dirty sheets rustle when a persistent itch forces me to scratch at my gimpy leg.
Nick’s head pops up. “Are you okay?”
As I nod, the tips of my breathing cannula tickle the hairs inside my nostrils. I wrinkle my nose.
After smiling at the funny expression, he stands and grabs a tissue. As he lovingly wipes the tear from my face, I frown at my inadequacies. I’m supposed to be the steady
one.
When he fumbles with the TV control, I shake my head. The thought of watching National Guardsmen battling food rioters in southern California or what new Draconian measures are being used to quell the disturbances along the East Coast turns my stomach.
“Do you want dinner?”
“No,” I whisper. Speaking is painful. “Go home and rest.”
He removes his glasses and pinches the top of his nose. Under his speckled hair, fine lines of worry etch his forehead while fresh wrinkles crease the sides of his bleary eyes. He wants to stay, but there are more bills to pay and more negotiations to have with collection agents.
After a moment’s deliberation, he plants a goodnight kiss on my cheek.
I force a smile.
He returns to the edge of the bed and gazes at me with the look. It’s the one he had during our first date, after we first made love, and throughout our wedding day. It’s the one that says, “You’re my one and only love.” And on this of all nights, the expression that makes me feel I can do anything is here again.
I will myself not to break down or betray my plans. Instead of meeting his gaze and crying, my eyes wander over my emaciated body.
“Remember your promise to never give up. You don’t quit until you’re whole and healthy again,” he says in a tender voice. Then, his fingers gently tilt my head until he fills my sight.
Although I return a shallow nod, my heart wells with sadness.
“Mary, promise,” he says with urgency.
My lips squeeze together before I whisper, “Promise.”
He holds the stare for an uncomfortable moment then puts on his glasses and grabs his leather bomber jacket. At the doorway, he stops. “There’s another lead in the Andes. This will be the one. So keep your head high and stay strong. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”
While the flickers of light play over his glasses, I bite my lip. Never have I uttered a lie to my husband and I won’t start now. Staying silent, I lift my palm and wiggle my bony fingers in a goodbye wave.
When the door shuts, I reach below the sheets and pull out the electronic card from my midnight visitor. As my thumb hovers over the silky surface, I hesitate. Committing to the decision is harder than I expected.