by John Moralee
I paused and tipped Father’s ashes to the wind and I uttered the words of another dreamer.
“This is one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.”
Reality Games
A year passed before it was safe to visit Earth.
“I always get nervous,” said the shuttle passenger sitting next to Rick. “That’s why I’m armed to the teeth.”
Rick took his eyes off the blackness of space to look at the traveller. The guy looked like a soldier from Vietnam. He was wearing khaki combat fatigues bulging with grenades, plus a wicked dagger and pump-action shotgun. On his lap, he clutched a mini-Bible New Millennium Edition and a copy of the Koran. Also, a blood-stained encyclopaedia. As if that wasn’t strange enough, his clothes were too big for him.
Rick felt seriously under-dressed. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“Man, you can’t take no chances out there.”
“You’re nervous,” Rick said, “dressed like that?”
“I’d be stupid not to be. Sure, I’ll feel better once we get into the sphere of influence. But right now - I got the jitters.” The man patted the belt of grenades with something like affection. “These babies assure some protection against the more dangerous ideas. The bible and other stuff is to ward off paranormal evil. It’s all psychological, man. Say, this your first time home since The Breakdown?”
Rick nodded. “I was working on Mars, in the mines. I didn’t hear about the disaster until a couple of days ago - they don’t allow communicators. My family’s down there on Earth, trapped.”
The man poked him hard in the chest.
“Hey!”
“Where’s your body armour, eh?”
“I didn’t think I’d need any.”
“Living on the edge, huh? Got to admire your guts, man.”
“Is it really that bad?”
“Yep. And then some.” A smug grin. “Say - we ain’t been introduced. They call me Red on account of my beard.”
“But you’re beard’s not red.”
“It soon will be.”
“Well, I’m glad to meet you, Red.” Rick always sat next to the weirdo on long journeys. “They call me Rick on account of that’s my name.”
“Where you from, Rick?”
“New England.”
“New England, huh? I had a buddy lived in Maine. Dude died in The Breakdown, but that’s bad luck for him, right? Should have been real careful, that’s what I say. Maine’s full of Stephen King’s stories given flesh. Killer clowns, rabid dogs, psychotic cars, vampires … Those writer guys are responsible for a lot of killing.”
“If it’s so bad, what are you going back for?”
“There’s money to be made from dream merchandise, man.”
“Oh,” Rick said, not understanding what Red was talking about. His knowledge of The Breakdown was technical, not practical. He knew there had been a leakage of nanomachines into the air and their quantum computers were the first sentient generation. He also knew that with no set rules for replication the nanomachines had gone wild, absorbing everything. After just a few minutes the whole Earth had become one huge network of nanomachines all competing for dominance. He knew that. And it worried him. Human minds had merged with the machine to form one massive dreamscape. Now any thought could be transformed into a physical reality - with the result that the normal reality had broken down into billions of over-lapping consensus bubbles. But what did that mean in layman’s terms? He didn’t know.
“Last time I was in Thailand I picked up a living effigy of Buddha,” Red said. “No joke. Solid gold. All philosophical, he was. Incredible.”
“Fantastic,” Rick muttered. “Look, Red, I’m not sight-seeing or out to collect treasures. My wife and kids are on Earth, and I want to find them. Can you help?”
“Word of advice, buddy. Hold on to your own thoughts. Don’t let those suckers mess with your mind. Many folks were killed when the consensus reality crashed and burned, but as long as you play by the new rules of the game you should be fine. Say - why don’t you forget the past and find yourself a new girlfriend? Ever wanted Marilyn Monroe or Madonna?”
“No.”
“Man, why settle for one when you could have a harem of dream girls? Think about it.”
“I want my family,” Rick said. He turned and stared out of the window. From lunar distance, the Earth looked normal, the friendly marble he loved. Blue and white and homely. He wondered what it would be like nearer the consensus reality field.
“They’re bound to be dead,” Red said, in a dubious way he was assuring Rick. As though it was a bonus. “My nag-nag wife was wasted in the first hour. Best thing that ever happened to me.”
That didn’t surprise Rick. His family was probably dead, too, like the jerk said.
“WARNING! YOU ARE ENTERING CONSENSUS REALITY BREAKDOWN!”
“Hold on to ...” Red said. The rest of his sentence was lost in the maelstrom of sights and sounds and screams that accompanied the transition. One second there was the reality Rick was used to and the next -
And the next he was sitting next to a young Arnold Schwarzenegger, with a beard. “Ain’t that amazing, man?” Arnie said without a trace of an Austrian accent. He was wearing the same clothes and weapons as Red, but they fit Arnie properly. “Rick, be what you wanna be. Do what you wanna do!”
“How did you -” Rick saw the other passengers and stopped talking. Many had changed into people he recognised. Famous people. An Elvis Presley. Three JFKs. A James Bond. Some had altered subtly, say, lost a few pounds or gained a pate of healthy hair. He wondered what he himself looked like. He asked a carbon-copy of Queen Elizabeth II if she had a mirror. She said she had. A jewelled hand passed a gold vanity mirror. Rick studied himself. He looked the same tired self he had seen on Mars this morning. He sighed with relief, took some deep, deep breaths and looked around for further changes in reality.
The shuttle looked normal, but up close there were differences. The emergency sign over his head which nobody ever read had altered into half-formed gibberish in an alphabet that didn’t exist. It was blurred the way he saw things without his contact lenses. He realised it was what he perceived the notice to be, not what should have been. This world was in a state of flux, dependent on the memories of everyone in it for its realism. And his family had been left alone while he had been on Mars. He’d left them to work on a two-year contract, to improve their standard of living, just like oil riggers had done a few centuries ago. The thought that he would never see them again hurt like a blow to the chest.
He felt a blow to the chest.
“Easy, man,” Arnie/Red said, “what did I tell you about rogue thoughts? Concentrate or you’ll kill yourself.”
“Concentrate. Okay, I’m concentrating. I’m concentrating on keeping sane.”
“Keep trying. You might get there.”
*
The New York spaceport terminal was aptly named. Massive queues stretched on to infinity. A guard rail separated the area and the words ‘KEEP OUT: Reality Blackspot’ warned against going too close. Rick could see why. Over the perimeter, the people were queuing in a Stalinist bleakness, cobwebs had collected on their drab clothes. Some people, mostly old people with sad, sad looks, had died in the line and were beginning to rot into skeletons. The rest of the queue seemed not to notice this atrocity.
“What’s wrong with those people?”
He received an answer from the Trans-World Rep. “They were caught in the terminal when the nanomachines escaped. Their expectations of how long a delay they’d have to wait have trapped them forever. Collectively, they are keeping each other in the bubble of consensus. Time, effectively, is as slow as it gets.”
“Those people are dying.”
“Afraid you’re right. But don’t try and help, sir - you’ll get caught in the same depressing reality. Follow me through the green channel and you’ll be okay. There are no delays, unless you feel guilty.”
“If I
feel guilty -”
“You’ll get the worst body cavity search in history, sir.”
“I don’t feel guilty. Honest.”
“Sir, this area is sort of the opposite of over there. The company hires optimists only, now, as a matter of law. No delays. No psychoses. The green channel works on time - it’s what people believe, so it has become true.” The Rep moved him along to collect his luggage. Rick was through the terminal and in the daylight before he had another dark thought. New York in all its brightness exploded. This is a grim world, he thought. Heaven and hell, thrown together by a madman.
There was a gentle shifting of things, the ground, the buildings, the sky, as if somebody were painting a water colour on a roller coaster. When the artist slipped a stroke the break in reality was noticeable in small ways. When consensus reality was under a microscope it was ephemeral as an electron's position. Where mixed memories of the local area combined, reality was fixed and concrete. The Statue of Liberty, engraved on the nation’s consciousness, was unfalteringly solid and crisp. More so than before, he reckoned.
“Hey, man, what you waiting for?” Red said, appearing beside him, pushing him towards the street.
“Huh?”
“Do you know where you’re going?”
“I need to get to Boston. I’ll get a cab.”
A yellow cab streaked out of no where. The taxi driver shoved his head out of the window. He looked like Robert De Niro. “You talking to me? You talking to me?”
“Whoa - easy now,” Red said. “Don’t do that, Rick. In this world all cab drivers are psychos.”
“That’s a stereotype.”
“Stereotypes live here, man. How many times do you see Robert De Niro driving a cab? My advice is get a bus.” Red pointed down the street. “Oh, avoid the subway, too. It’s deadly. Got to go hunting, man.” He grinned. “I’ll be back.” Red readied his shotgun and strolled down the block. Rick heard shots being fired. Red was apparently enjoying himself.
Rick set off into the city.
*
Suddenly -
The street was sucked away and replaced by bright neon strips striding over a fractal landscape. His neurones blended in an infinite data stream.
10101001111111010101010101010010101
“What the hell is this?” Rick was standing on an infinite green PCB board that dwarfed him. Above, towers of electric blue snaked between towers of pulsating data. Computer programs that looked like shiny ice in midday sun shifted at the speed of light. His surprise and confusion spider-webbed from his head as binary numbers and joined the data currents. Far off, huge chips and resistors from a bygone era flickered with golden surfaces, devouring smaller components.
He thought: cyberspace.
No, not cyberspace, I’m in someone’s idea of cyberspace. Jesus. This is insane. This is over the top. He felt cables running down his face like sweat, and the weight of a VR helmet. William Gibson eat your heart out. This is way over the top.
WHO ARE YOU?
The voice hit him violently, reverberating around his head like a gunshot. Rick thought he said his name, but didn’t hear the word. But he did see it, floating like a hologram a thousand miles high.
RICK? WHO’S RICK?
Rick moved forward, hoping to find the source of the voice. But everything moved away as he approached, like an unfolding carpet.
Then he saw the dragon. Hard edged, plastic and chrome. Two glass eyes and a mouth filled with steel razors. Body lacquered with metallic plating. It swooped gracefully from the data clouds, black ice bellowing from its lungs. This couldn’t be happening.
YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE
The dragon descended maniacally. The impact would flatten Rick into a pulp. No where to run.
“Forget this,” Rich shouted. He reached up and grabbed either side of the helmet and pulled. He jacked out -
And found himself cowering on the sidewalk. He stood and brushed dust off his clothes. There was a pimply youth sleeping in a doorway with a battered copy of William Gibson’s Neuromancer in his hands. He’d been inside the kid’s dream. The kid was saying “Rick” over and over, petulantly, as if he was angry that Rick had escaped.
This could be a very dangerous place, Rick thought.
*
Rick reached the Greyhound Station after a long trek through several dangerous neighbourhoods. A bag lady, living in an alcoholic stupor, had led him into a squalid city of narrow alleys and nasty people. He broke free of her consensus bubble and nearly broke his nose on a street light. So he was wary and dishevelled when he finally paid the fare to Boston and boarded the bus. The bus was an old-fashioned one - it needed wheels and ran on gas. It was as if his childhood memories had formed it.
It was packed with oddball stereotypes: junkies, pregnant women about to give birth, angry teenagers with spiky hair and attitudes. The kind of people in old television shows. He squeezed down the aisle and found an empty row and stretched out his feet so no one could sit next to him. For once, his tiredness was in his imagination and manifesting itself as genuine muscle aches. He fought the feeling.
Mounted on a retractable Plexiglas screen was a TV. He switched it on, curious to see if it worked. He was surprised that it did. The world could end, but TV was immortal. The multitude of channels showed the usual dross - but some programmes possessed an eerie quality. He watched a TV evangelist shriek at an audience of seven, eight thousand believers. Bobby Lou Jackson of the Fellowship of Christian Worship got some very ill people on the stage and then proceeded to cure them. Rick saw genuine faith healing.
“Praise the Lord! Repent your sins for only 99 dollars!”
A coldness seeped through him. Other faith programmes were similarly miraculous. It was chilling.
Then Rick located a news broadcast. Atrocities in the Middle East: Islamic Fundamentalists executing ‘heathens.’ Atrocities in Eastern Europe: Christian Fundamentalists executing ‘heathens.’ Prime Time shows investigating the increase in Nazis in Berlin - with the Fourth Reich and a Hitler reborn from nightmares. Poltergeists. UFOs. The Loch Ness monster. Real in the minds of some people, now real in the minds of everyone. He didn’t want to see more, so he switched off.
The bus was crossing typical New England scenery. Typical? Stereotypical. He noticed the smoky, sweaty smell vanishing, as if someone had sprayed a giant air-freshener into the bus. Golden brown and scarlet leaves carpeted the small towns he passed through. Towns that looked suspiciously like an amalgam of every small town in America, an America of the 1950s. He watched elms trees shed rose tinted leaves.
It was Autumn in the middle of June.
The gentle caress of the air conditioner lulled him asleep. He woke when his head jerked against the window. The bus was going up a hill covered with lush forest. Now he was the only passenger. A Methodist church emerged out of the oaks, the spire glimmering in the sunlight. In the valley below, the small town of Blackwell clung to the meandering river. Home, he thought. The bus stopped and the driver unpacked his bags. Rick thanked him - and the bus disappeared. Maybe the idea was no longer needed?
Blackwell was an obscure suburb of Boston. He wondered how the driver had known where he lived. Weird, he thought. He walked down tree-lined avenues, breathing the lavender air. He smiled at the red squirrels that popped up from among the leaves, nut collecting, scampering tree to tree. He thought he saw one wink at him.
He was a block from his house when he realised something was missing. It was so obvious he let out a cry. No people!
Nobody. He ran up a driveway where two matching ‘58 Cadillacs were parked. He pressed the bell. He waited, peering through the stained glass at the dark shapes in the hall. There was nobody in. He tried another and another and another and -
His town was empty.
He sprinted home. Outside on the lawn were Tim’s push-bike and Hazel’s dolls. Rick sneezed and realised the grass had been cut. So, it hadn’t been abandoned. He went to the door and fumbled a key card out of
his wallet and unlocked it. Inside, he heard voices.
“Liz? Hazel? Tim?”
He entered the lounge and found it empty. Clean, but empty. Panic filled him. Maybe Red was right, maybe they were dead. But he had heard voices. He searched in vain for the source of the sound. Each room was the same. Empty. Where were they? He couldn’t believe they were dead. He returned to the lounge, slumped on the sofa, and wept.
“They can’t be dead. I’d feel it. I’d know it.”
Rick checked the table next to the phone. He flicked through unpaid bills. A letter from Harvard caught his interest. His wife had worked in the School of Computer Psychology, and the letter was a notice from a colleague, Dr Kaver, dated a year ago. Rick remembered Peter Kaver as a decent guy. And he lived nearby. Perhaps the computer psychologist could tell him what had happened in Blackwell? He hoped. He opened the car and was pleased to see the antique Fiat that Liz had bought on her tour of Europe. He drove it to Kaver’s apartment. Rick could see a few people walking around the streets, chatting as if everything was okay. He’d remembered people, in his world.
Kaver answered the door in baggy corduroy pants and a crumpled polyester shirt. His bleary eyes narrowed. “Rick, what are you doing here?”
Not the greeting Rick expected. “I’ve just got back from Mars.”
“I gathered that.”