“Wild camping?” said Mark.
“As opposed to programmed activity camping.” The ranger ushered them over to another counter where there were assembled tiny scale models of tents. “Now, let's choose your tents. Two of them, I assume."
Mark nodded.
The ranger picked up one of the models and handed it to Mark. “Your boys might like the Star Hunter tent. It has a clear window on the top so they can look out at the stars at night. It has zippable shade of course.” He picked up another little tent. “Or the Black Cat. All black. Like being in a cave. Kids like it—when there's more than one kid, that is.” He picked up another model, “The Woodsman,” and handed it to Kevin. Both boys pawed over it, zipping the door flaps, peering through the side window, snapping the elastic cords holding on the tent-fly.
“This is a nice tent,” the ranger went on. “You can stand up in it. Makes it a little hard to attach the tent-fly.” He raised a forefinger, as if he'd just thought of something. “But you won't need the fly. No rain tonight. Don't know why."
Mark furrowed his brow.
“There's a meteor shower tonight,” said Kevin.
“Oh,” said the ranger. “So that's why the overnight rain and morning fog were canceled."
“We'd like the Woodsman,” said Kevin.
“And the same for me,” said Mark.
“Excellent.” The ranger filled out a slip. “Do you want us to set up your tents?"
“No,” said Mark. “We can manage that, I think."
“Good decision. Woodsman tents have Auto Setup. It's fun—like watching a spider being born.” He ushered them toward the end of the long counter. “Just one more item. If you intend to watch a movie, you'll need to rent a speaker. You do intend to, yes?"
The boys indicated yes.
“You have two tents. I'd suggest two speakers."
“Just one,” said Mark. “I'll give the movie a pass.” He handed over a credit card and his campsite receipt.
The ranger looked at the receipt and smiled. “Werewolf Park is your movie. Yes. One speaker is probably right. We'll drop all this at your site."
Mark thanked the man and then led the boys toward the door. As they started away, the ranger called after. “The speaker is wireless. But don't take it away from your campsite. It'll make a big racket if you do."
Mark chuckled. “We'll be good,” he called back. As they walked out into the open greenery, a near perfect emulation of a rural campground, Adrian said, “It sounds like fun—lying flat on your stomach, looking out of your tent and watching a movie."
Mark laughed. “You know,” he said, “my grandfather told me that when he was a kid, they had outdoor movie theaters you drove your cars into. You watched movies through your car's windshield."
“Really!” said Adrian, his voice squeaky with enthusiasm. “That sounds wizard. Why don't they have them anymore?"
“I don't know."
* * * *
They went swimming that afternoon and Mark could not fault the lake. It was a lake: grassy banks, the occasional fish, and the bottom was dirt—not concrete. He was even having second thoughts, charitable thoughts, about the domed campground; there was something to be said for being clad only in swim trunks and not having to be slathered with sunscreen. Although the nature sounds were recorded—probably recorded, he couldn't tell—the rabbits were real and of several exotic breeds. He himself was looking forward to feeding them.
After the lake, they meandered over to the activity center, Mark to enjoy an espresso latte, and the boys to check out the latest arcade games.
After the sunny brightness of the lake, the activity center seemed dark—especially so in the cobalt-blue confines of the arcade where a flurry of colored lights from game consoles substituted for the brilliance of the sun. Also in the arcade, a snub-nosed marquee invited campers into the free “Camp Shorts Cartoon Theater.” An assortment of vending machines, taking not money but Yummy-tokens, flanked the theater entrance.
Standing with coffee cup in hand at a respectful distance from an imposing two-person console, Mark watched as the boys played. He realized first that the boys were good. The kids seemed thrilled by the games, and it was clear they were having the adventures of their lives. Mark analyzed that last thought. Kevin wasn't lacking in adventurousness; he just preferred to get his excitement in a virtual world. I guess with simulations, you're always, in some manner, in control. Real adventure without any real danger. Mark disdained the notion, but then reconsidered; as a kid in Scouts, it was the same thing—doing things that seemed dangerous, but deep down, knowing they weren't. The scout leaders wouldn't have allowed anything truly risky. Still, Scouts was real. Mark held both hands around his warm coffee cup and thought.
He decided that after the games, he'd tell Adrian that he was borrowing Kevin for a while—to take him on the nature hike. He had some talking points, now. Perhaps he could make Kevin see the value of real life over the electronic substitute. As for Adrian, he could deposit the kid into the Camp Shorts Theater for a half-hour and supply him with some Yummy-tokens for popcorn and lemonade.
* * * *
Except for the rabbits, Mark and Kevin had the Nature Walk to themselves. They walked in silence and the lack of conversation seemed to make Kevin nervous. He fidgeted, starting at any sound, any rustling of the leaves, any appearance of a rabbit popping out of the undergrowth. Mark couldn't tell if it was nervousness or boredom. Mark himself felt nervous; without Adrian around, he needed to step in and be a parent—and he no longer knew how.
Suddenly, a very large, fuzzy, tufted eared rabbit hopped onto the path. Kevin and his father froze.
“It's a Giant Angora,” said Kevin.
Mark smiled, remembering how the boy used to be a nut on animals. Seizing the opportunity, Mark slowly sank to his knees and the rabbit came up to him. Mark, amazed at how friendly the campground fauna appeared, stroked the rabbit's soft white fur. A few moments later, Kevin knelt and did the same.
“This is certainly better than a simulated rabbit,” said Mark.
“What?"
“I mean, a virtual-reality rabbit."
Kevin favored his dad with a look. Mark recognized it as the “my dad has really lost it” look. But, having gotten a response, he pressed on. “It's natural for a boy to want to slay dragons, to want to do great things and have fabulous adventures, but these video games—"
“What's wrong with video games? Video games are great!"
“But they're not real."
“They're real enough.” Kevin clenched his fists. “They're better than real.” He glowered at his father, but without making eye contact.
“Look. Kevin. Real adventures are—"
“What good is it going on adventures if you ... if you have to lose stuff ?"
“Lose stuff ?” Mark tried to puzzle it out. “Do you ... do you mean my going on the Moon expedition?"
“Why did you go away?” Kevin shouted, his voice anguished, his face contorted and his eyes beginning to gleam with moisture. “Why did you leave me?"
“Leave you? I'd never leave you.” Then Mark realized that he'd done exactly that—at least from a young boy's point of view. Yes, they'd talked every day, but ... “I'm sorry, Kevvy. I just didn't—"
“Don't call me that!"
Mark winced. He'd slipped and called his son by his baby nickname. He looked at his son's tearstained face and understood that there was nothing he could say to explain his leaving. Maybe in five years or so, when he's reached the age of wanting exploration—maybe then, he'll understand. “Kevin. I had to go to the Moon. It was my job.” Mark realized he was being disingenuous—he had to be honest with his son. “And it was important to me."
“Wasn't I important to you?” said Kevin, his voice beginning to break.
“Nothing's more important to me than you.” As he said it, Mark realized he meant it; he'd never willingly leave his family again.
Not knowing what else to do or say, M
ark reached out with both arms and pulled the boy to his chest, enfolding him, hugging him. At first, Kevin pulled away. But then he leaned his head against his father's shirt and sobbed.
“I'm so sorry,” said Mark, gently. “Why didn't you tell me?"
Kevin said nothing and for the next few minutes, neither of them moved nor spoke.
There came a rustling sound, and Kevin, obviously acutely embarrassed, drew back and rubbed his eyes dry with his fists. Quickly, Mark stood.
Jogging down the path, Adrian came into view. “Are you finished with your nature walk yet?” he said, breathing heavily. “It's almost teatime. And I'm a bit hungry."
* * * *
After a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, commonplace fare made exotic by cooking it over wood-scented charcoal, Mark tried to convince the boys to take a nap; they'd have a very late night ahead of them since the meteor shower would peak after two in the morning. But the boys would have none of that. Instead, the three went to the nightly, gas-powered, communal campfire. Lots of songs, hokey skits, forced fellowship, the smell of burning wood, blowing embers but with no smoke. Then, as the flames dimmed, it grew dark. Almost by instinct, Mark looked skyward. But there were no stars. After an instant of panic where he thought the sky had clouded over, he realized it was the dome that blocked the starlight. As he watched, it slowly became totally opaque. Then, from the tree-mounted all-camp speakers, Mark heard a soft voice. It seemed to come from everywhere. “The movies will begin in ten minutes."
Mark and the boys hurried back to their campsite. Although Mark knew the boys should be napping, that would be asking too much. He settled for them getting into their sleeping bags and peering out the tent door, watching the movie.
In his tent, and even without a speaker, Mark could tell that WerewolfPark was truly dreadful. And in any case, Mark knew he'd enjoy listening to the kids discussing the film far more than he could possibly enjoy the film itself.
In his sleeping bag, listening to the chatter, Mark smiled. There was something timeless about kids camping in a tent. He heard the boys giggling at the movie and wondered if, when he was a kid, he laughed at horror movies. He thought not. He remembered being wonderfully scared by them. But when he was a boy, there were real dangers, not like now when danger was systematically eliminated from all things. And the boys knew it. Without the possibility of danger, could scary stories evoke fright anymore? If not, something important has been lost.
Mark listened as the boys discussed werewolves.
“I wonder,” said Kevin. “Could a werewolf change under the full moon in a planetarium?"
“I don't think so,” said Adrian. “I think he'd need the real moon."
“But what if it was cloudy outside. Doesn't a werewolf have to see the moon to change?"
“Probably."
“Well,” said Kevin, “what if there was a full moon and it was cloudy and the werewolf went to a planetarium to see the moon. Do you think that would work?"
Adrian giggled.
Mark shook his head, sounding a gentle whir as his cheek rubbed the fabric of his sleeping bag. When he was a boy, they didn't see movies on campouts; they told scary stories to each other. Is there even such a thing as a scary story anymore? He remembered back to when he'd snuggle all the way into his sleeping bag and read a spooky book by flashlight. He didn't think that Kevin even owned such a book. But maybe kids these days sneak their laptops under the covers and surf the Net when they should be sleeping.
He heard the kids joke about smuggling a swarm of bees into the campground and releasing it. Both boys seemed to think it a great idea.
In his sleeping bag, Mark thought so as well. It was good to know that the boys did have those renegade tendencies. He almost laughed, this time at himself. He wondered if, as a parent, he'd reached the “vicarious age,” that age where he borrowed some enjoyment from his child's boyhood.
* * * *
The annoying chirp from the engines. And the flashing lights from the lunar rover grew bright as it came to ferry him and the last of the expedition to the launch vehicle. Mark, sweating, opened his eyes, waking from his dream—but the chirp and flashing lights persisted. Momentarily disoriented from a rough awakening in an unfamiliar place, he sat bolt upright. Then, his brain following his body into wakefulness, he unzipped his sleeping bag and checked his wristphone. One-thirty A.M.—digits clearly visible in the sparkling light. He silenced the alarm and scrambled out of the bag, fully clothed save for his shoes; when he'd gone to bed, he'd had a notion he'd be in a hurry when he woke.
He slipped on his sandals, crawled out the tent door, then stood and gazed at the sky. Brilliant points of light streaked across the sky, leaving thin, straight, white lines in their wake. Tens, hundreds of streaks, bright enough to read by, seemed to cut the heavens. The meteors came from one part of the sky and their streaking made Mark feel as if he were racing into a tunnel of fireflies. The radiant, the region from which the meteors seemed to originate, was the constellation Leo: stars forming a triangle next to an inverted question mark with the navigation star Regulus shining bright at its base. Except now Regulus, the heart of the lion, could scarcely be seen against the dizzying white kaleidoscope of rocks from space burning up in the atmosphere.
A dazzling flash as if from a cosmic camera momentarily washed out the trails of the meteors. A bolide, an exploding meteor with fiery fragments shooting off in half a dozen directions—Mark knew that if he were outside the dome, he'd probably have been able to hear it. As his eyes recovered from the flash he became aware that he did hear the whizzes as the meteors streaked across the sky—no doubt his imagination supplying sound effects. With a start, he realized he'd forgotten to take his binoculars, but there was no way he'd return to the tent for them. Then he realized he'd forgotten about the boys as well.
He forced his eyes away from the sky and dashed into their tent, surprised for an instant that the tent door was open and the mosquito screen unzipped. But of course, there were no mosquitoes in Campground-X.
He shook the boys awake and, impatient with their groggy sluggishness, unzipped their sleeping bags. They also had slept in their clothes, but in their case, it was probably not a premeditated decision—they'd likely fallen asleep during the movie.
Sleepily, and under strong prodding, the kids crawled out of their sleeping bags and out of the tent.
They clambered to their feet and stared up at the sky.
“Gosh,” said Kevin in an awed whisper.
Adrian stood open-mouthed, the meteors reflecting in his wide eyes.
They stood close, a silent tableau. Then, after an indeterminate number of minutes, Kevin wrinkled his nose. “What's going on?” he said. “Something's happening."
Slowly, the stars began to fade while at the same time, ghosts of the stars, a few degrees away, became visible and grew in brightness. More meteors than ever crossed the sky, but their brightness and violence faded—and soon their number declined as well. Finally, the ghost stars, shining brightly and not twinkling, entirely supplanted the originals.
“God damn it!” Mark shouted as the realization hit him. “They've blacked out the sky. It's the planetarium. They're projecting a simulation.” He balled a fist in anger and indignation. “Wait here,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Why would they—” Adrian began.
“Just wait here.” Mark turned and set off at a run toward the campground administration building where they'd checked in. It was almost as far away as was possible in Campground-X, not quite a quarter of a mile away.
As he neared the facility, sprinting past the strangely menacing though dormant X-porters, he saw a light peeking through blinds on the second floor. He thought he'd have to beat down the door, but he didn't need to. The activity center lounge on the first floor turned out to be open 24/7. Mark dashed into the building, looked for a staircase and sprinted up to the second floor.
There, he found a number of doors, one of which had the legen
d,
Campground Operations
Authorized Personnel Only
Roughly, he twisted the doorknob; he was quite willing to bash that door down if he had to. But the knob turned and Mark stumbled into a room filled with electronics: control panels, video display screens showing the camping areas, and an audio panel with a desk microphone. A man sat at what was obviously the nerve center—the biggest panel with the most numerous switches and sliders. He stood. “I'm sorry,” he said, “campers aren't allowed up here.” He narrowed his eyes, “Unless there's an emergency.” He took a step forward “Is there an emergency?"
“Damn right, there's an emergency,” Mark said, gasping from his run. Seething, he broke his gaze from the man and glimpsed a desk plaque with the legend, Douglas Cranford, Evening Supervisor. Then he darted to the window and pulled up the blinds. “That, Mr. Cranford,” he said, pointing to the sky. “That is the emergency!"
“The meteors?” The supervisor came over to the window and looked out. He laughed. “Don't worry. It's just a simulation. It's not real. There's no danger. You can go back to sleep."
“I know it's not friggin’ real!” Mark was aware he was shouting. “Turn off this stupid phony sky. I want the real sky."
“Our planetarium sky is the most faithful, the most—"
“Turn it off !"
“I'm sorry, sir. I can't do that."
“Can't!” Mark darted to the control panel and started throwing switches at random while looking out the window to see if the sky had changed. “I'll show you can't."
Mr. Cranford strode to the panel and tried to return the switches and sliders to their previous settings. “Will you stop this!” he said. Four hands played over the panel switching and unswitching. “I can have the police here in five minutes."
Asimov's SF, October-November 2007 Page 19