The Virtual Dead

by E. R. Mason

  Chapter 19

 

  They met halfway, in the center of the oval chamber. The skeleton tilted its head in a curious way as though an opponent unafraid was quite an unusual thing. It paused, swinging its bone-club to and fro, with its empty rib cage only inches from Markman's beating heart.

  The standoff was brief. The skeleton swung its weapon high with machine-like speed and brought it to bear. So fast was the motion, that Markman barely got his blade up in time to block. He had to step quickly back to set up for the next exchange. The skeleton swung its weapon once more and they became locked in a standoff that seemed to last forever. Then, with a flash of blurred motion, the skeleton let loose its fury.

  The battery of cuts and slashes that followed came at a superhuman pace. The echoing clang of metal against bone was loud enough to make Markman's ears ring. No strength was required to contain the strikes, but the pace necessary to check and sidestep them became fierce. Markman's mind instinctively became the empty vessel of a Tao Chane master. In his eyes, there was a calm resolve. The bizarre creature attacked mercilessly, seeming almost frustrated with its inability to cause harm. Its body jerked and bent. The weapons clashed like bolts of chain lightning. It went on and on with Markman slowly losing ground, first by inches, then feet. For a split second he found himself within the sparkling curtain of light and then backed into the vault of snakes.

  The skeleton persisted. It did not tire. Markman made a move to hamper its advance and took a powerful blow to the left upper arm. It hunched him sideways for a second and forced him back even further, and before he could recover to intercept the next strike, it came down hard on his left shoulder. Pain surged so badly it was dizzying. He tried to step back once more, but stumbled. As he planted his right foot, the heel caught on something. He pitched over backward, barely avoiding a horizontal swipe from the unrelenting skeleton. He spun sideways in midair, keeping the sword raised with his right hand, hoping to break his fall with the left. He looked for the floor. It was not there.

  Snakes. He had tripped on the edge of the pit. They were coiled in a pile and waiting. It would be a soft-cushioned landing into a bed of repeated stings. Markman's mind switched on. In midair, he slapped madly for the blue triangle that he knew was somewhere on his chest. A burst of white light flooded his vision. He crashed hard into the floor. A familiar, melodic voice spoke with earnest dismay.

  "The prophets forbid, Mr. Baker. You've aborted from the level one. Oh, dear me!"

  Markman was sprawled on the pristine floor within the golden pyramid. Trill stood over him, a distraught look drawn into the simple lines of his face.

  "Sir, you were doing so well...."

  Markman pushed himself to his feet and inspected his computer body for damage. His left arm and shoulder ached, but there were no visible signs of injury. He looked at his worried protégé and grimaced. "What?"

  "Sir, you should not have required use of the abort on the level one. You had nearly reached level two, where it is even more likely such an escape will be needed. You have lost your page, you did not retain the sword, and you were in part responsible for the death of the gatekeeper. It should not have been necessary. It will cost you."

  "What is this, some kind of bad dream?" Markman rubbed his sore shoulder. "What are you talking about? The stupid gate guy tried to kill me. How else could I have tried to get the damned sword?"

  "Sir, he would have simply given it to you had you asked. There is a one-hundred-thousand-credit penalty for his demise and another one-hundred-thousand for the loss of your page. You have expended one-fourth of your fortune on only the level one. Sir, you must be more careful."

  "Hey, the damn page took off, and the gatekeeper tried to kill me. What the hell could I do?"

  The disappointed protégé paused and shook his head. "Sir, at the next opening of the main gate we will better prepare you."

  "Fine, just fine!"

  "Sir, would you please step into the tube for suit disengagement."

  Escaping the insane world of alien virtual reality was Markman's premier wish. Exhausted, he took his place in the transparent vertical shaft. Trill stood by the control arch and, without further discussion, waved his sleeved hand over the crystalline control. There was again a short burst of white light, and in the blink of an eye, Markman's vision became one of absolute darkness. An ominous clicking and hissing sound came from the suit collar as the featherweight helmet detached itself. Stale air from the outside room seeped into the helmet.

  Completely drained, he pushed the black hood up and off his head. He was standing in the center of the abandoned hall of the factory. The land of the virtual had contained such depth, seemed so real, that adjusting to the transition to reality was difficult to accept. He looked around the unswept, windowless work area and discovered the impressions of his own footprints, hundreds of them, weaving bizarre patterns in the dust on the floor. Some cast jumping steps, others ninety-degree running cuts, and in several spots, it was disturbed in large irregular circles and lines as though something violent had been recorded from the game. He looked down at the heavily-inlaid suit that covered his tired, sweating body. It seemed immaculately clean. The seam on the left side lay open. He placed the helmet on the floor and quickly peeled off the second skin--happy to be free of it. He stood naked and stunned by the harsh contrast of dingy real life compared to the effervescence of the virtual.

  A feminine voice called from somewhere behind him. "So, a real live Dragon Master. I'm impressed."

  He turned, still in a daze, forgetting to cover himself, and saw Rogers leaning against the open door of the rusty elevator. She appraised him in a less than professional manner and made no effort to conceal that fact. Too tired to blush, he turned and went to his clothing that still lay in the shadowy corner of the room. He dropped the crumpled-up Sensesuit into its case and hurriedly squeezed himself back into his jeans. When he had finished dressing, he gathered everything up and joined her at the elevator.

  "Why are you here? You'll give us away."

  Rogers smiled affectionately. "If they didn't see you beat up Baker and tie him up with his own shoe laces, they sure as hell won't notice me."

  "I didn't beat him up, and how is he by the way? He saved my ass."

  "Mr. Baker is just fine. He's indisposed at the moment and will be for some time. For all goods and purposes, you are now Mr. Baker. We've called your replacement back. You're now officially on leave of absence. Your double didn't want to come back. Said he had a case he was working on that could be something big. We had to insist."

  Markman plunked the dull silver Sensesuit case down onto the elevator floor, as the heavy doors banged shut. The car started down.

  "The taxi you called will be waiting in the street by the basement entrance. Give the case to the driver. The lab guys will spend tonight and tomorrow studying what's in it. They'll have it back to us in time for midnight in case we decide to use it again."

  "I never called a taxi...."

  "Of course you did, Mr. Baker. It'll take you to my apartment. It's the safest place for you now, a secured building. You've been checked out of your hotel. Your bags will be delivered tomorrow. Your job, for now, is to sleep and rest. I'd say you need it." Rogers held out a fat white bag from a fast food restaurant. Markman frowned and accepted it.

  "If I told you I was beyond exhaustion, would you believe me?"

  "I'd believe you if you said you were near death. Tomorrow at nine we meet with the rest of my group. Quite a bit is suddenly happening. In the morning you'll dictate a report of what went on inside the suit. I can't wait to hear that."

  "That's something you may not believe."

  The elevator suddenly jerked to a stop at the first floor. The big doors opened grudgingly, and Rogers stepped out.

  "You're right; I probably won't."

  Markman existed in a foggy stupor as he made his way to the cab. The intense, colored emissions from the powerful twin screens within the S
ensesuit helmet had left the late-night world of New York looking bland, even in its prided neon. The vague figures that roamed the early morning streets had more life in them than the make-believe cartoon characters that lived inside the Sensesuit, but the artificial lighting robbed them of the fine detail that would have helped validate their existence. The thought of ever returning to Virtual World taxed Markman and sent an unfamiliar trickle of fear through his spine. He put the thought aside.

  Rogers's apartment was in a glass-enclosed high-rise in the center of the sleepless city. It did not look like a place someone would willingly choose to live in. There was a stark sort of barrenness about it like the cold, impassioned glare financial institutions tended to possess. Three security guards stationed behind an elaborate console in the small lobby required an electronic palm print of Markman's right hand. They nodded in agreement and rewarded him by clipping a badge to his jacket collar, then provided directions to the elevators.

  Rogers's temporary home was on the eighteenth floor. She met him at the door like a marathon coach receiving her charge after the first round of the big race had just been won. She handed him a healthy shot of bourbon in a short glass brimming with ice. A hot shower was already running, steaming the bath windows. The apartment was ultra modern. Almost the entire washroom was covered by mirrored glass with closet space and cabinets hidden behind it, leaving Markman to search like a tired thief for a towel and washcloth. Somehow in the blur of it all, he finally found himself finishing off the icy-hot drink as it became diluted by the hot water streaming down his face.

  He emerged from the merciful relaxation of the shower and found his soiled clothes had disappeared. Wrapped only in a towel, he found his way to the nearest bed and took his final fall of the day into it. The lights went out quickly.

  Markman awoke in total darkness, completely lost to any sense of time. He flinched at the memory of the Sensesuit, then gratefully realized he was not in one. His naked body had been carefully covered with a soft blanket. The darkness was so complete he could not even see the watch still strapped to his wrist. It was difficult to tell what had awakened him from such a deep sleep, and his battered body, particularly the bruised left shoulder, refused commands to roll up onto one arm. When it finally did, he realized he could not even see his hand in front of his face.

  There was a smell. It had brought him to consciousness. A musty dead smell, unpleasantly sweet and extremely strong, like when something has died and can't be located for proper burial. He pulled back the sheets and climbed to his feet. Naked, he felt his way around, remembering nothing of the layout of the borrowed bedroom. His fingers found the cloth-covered surface of a bureau top against a wall. He traced along it until it gave way to the shape of an open door. There was no switch on the wall.

  A faint, light suggested the hallway. He followed along one wall toward the living room and realized that his guide was moonlight that had turned amber through the heavily tinted glass that was the building's exterior. He felt past the open bathroom door and Rogers's bedroom, also open, and realized the sickening smell was getting stronger.

  Near the end of the hall, he saw them; a vision that could have been from a nightmare. The main entrance was being held open by one, while nine or ten others milled around the large expanse of the sunken living area. They seemed to move without volition, swaying to and fro, pacing slowly around the sitting room like large windup toys. The dim light gave only vague detail. Their clothes were torn and ragged, the faces dark and somber. There was no urgency in them. In their seemingly random search, they were gradually growing nearer the hallway.

  Markman backed away. His eyes had adjusted as best they could to the low light. He found his way to the silk sheets where Rogers lay sleeping. With a light touch, he found her mouth and quickly covered it with one hand. She woke with a start and chopped at his hold before realizing who it was. He led her to the hall, pausing just long enough for her to see that the odds seemed too heavily stacked against them. They retreated from the intruders, taking refuge in the bath.

  The door of the concealed mirrored closet made a small click as it was opened. They listened and heard no alarm. They squeezed into the tiny broom closet and clicked the panel quietly shut alongside them.

  They waited and listened.

  In the darkness and intensity of the moment, Markman quickly became aware of a second very awkward distraction. The utter darkness had concealed the fact that Rogers was also wearing nothing. They were now pinned together, face to face, with absolutely nothing between them. His feelings began to flush between presage and embarrassment. His mind repeatedly demanded he push out of the intrusively intimate happenstance, though his instinct for danger kept overriding the impulse. Rogers's body language suggested she was dealing with equally enigmatic emotions. Her right hand clutched fearfully at his upper arm and her left rested on his hip. Her nipples were erect and pressed hard into his chest. The intensity of the moment sent erotic ripples down through his groin where her soft pubic-laced skin meshed with his own. He struggled not to become excited.

  Labored, shuffling footsteps came from just outside the closet door. The sound of toiletries being knocked over, glass clinking against porcelain, came at random. The glass door on the shower stall clicked and oscillated open and then snapped shut. Footsteps stopped outside the closet door. Then quiet. Waiting.

  The potency of the moment, combined with Rogers's warm and rapid breath on his shoulder became too much for Markman. He felt himself losing control. His body rose without consent and pushed between them. Rogers's breathing grew erratic and excited. She clung to him unable to move, and they exchanged each other's breath in a fearful passion, both wondering if at any moment the closet door would burst open, leaving them exposed and vulnerable to the unexplained dangers that lurked just outside.

  When enough silence had marked the time, Markman carefully pushed open the smooth door and dared a look outside. No lights had been turned on. No sounds filtered into the darkened bath. Together they oozed out from the small closet and hastily collected towels to cover their sweaty bodies. In the deserted living room, the front door was still ajar. Rogers cautiously began to light the apartment. Signs of intrusion were everywhere, though the damage was minor and lacked any obvious pattern. A random trail of displaced belongings was found throughout the flat.

  A quick call to the security desk at the building's front entrance proved to be even more disturbing. No intrusions had been detected. No alarms had been triggered. The security staff was completely unaware any violation had occurred. In minutes, a highly argumentative and embarrassed group arrived and began combing the violated apartment. At one point, two of them, wearing distressed expressions, huddled out of the apartment carrying a black briefcase that had been found under Rogers's bed.

  Amid the throngs of confusion, Markman managed to find a long winter overcoat in a hall closet. He pulled it on for added covering and slouched partly sideways on the living room couch. With drooping eyelids and frequent yawns, he watched the erratic parade of disturbed people mill around the apartment. Eventually, he ended up slumped over in an unconscious heap on the soft pillows. No level of confusion was enough to deny him sleep.

  Chapter 20