ESCAPE THE GRID
Patrick F Kelly
Copyright © 2016 Patrick F Kelly
All rights reserved.
To my loving family, who inspire me to be creative and productive, and support my crazy ideas… I love you all.
To my close friends who supported me in the early drafts. Your feedback and encouragement is so appreciated. This book wouldn’t have happened without you.
A special thanks to Heather T, who went above and beyond in helping me craft and edit this book.
PART ONE
HAPPY CAMPERS
1
THOMAS LOOKED AROUND the immaculate interior of his Gulfstream as it flew at 13,000 feet on a virtually cloud-free day. Three beautiful women in bikinis sat on large leather seats - a small sample of his entourage. One pretty young thing was getting up and walking in high heels to mix a drink.
High heels and a bikini: an outfit only a man could appreciate, Thomas thought.
In the cockpit, it was just the auto-pilot software and the instruments. Thomas could fly the plane if they got in a crunch; he had the requisite skills. But that had never happened in twenty years.
He looked the ladies over in a somber mood. He had been living this lifestyle for twenty years but had grown bored of it. The girls couldn’t quite read his thoughts, but they knew something was different about him.
“What’s wrong, baby? I know you’re not scared of the jump,” the blonde one said.
What was her name?
He didn’t remember if she was Jessica or Barbie. Or was it Violet? She had beautiful blue eyes. All the names of his blondes seem to have run together. His computer assistant had selected two of his skydiving companions this morning, and he hadn’t bothered to check beyond the first name on the list.
“Not scared,” he replied. “Just pondering life.”
“Why are you sitting by yourself and pondering life when we could be partying?” whats-her-name asked sincerely.
It’s a legitimate question.
“Ehh,” Thomas shrugged his shoulders. Whats-her-name got the hint and walked back to her seat.
The brunette who had been mixing the drink walked elegantly over to him. Her name he remembered – Julia. The “Ju” was pronounced like “Who”. He brought Julia with him on most of his skydiving trips. On most any type of trip. She was the top of the passenger list this morning; the only name he checked for.
“Que te pasa, mi amor?” she asked. [“What is wrong with you, my love?”] She had a Venezuelan accent. Thomas had gotten good at distinguishing between the different accents of South America.
He had spent the last two years becoming fluent in Spanish. He had no real job, no real responsibilities. At most he worked ten hours a week, spending the rest of his waking hours on leisure. A man could only spend so many hours a day jumping out of planes or drinking with pretty women. He tried to pick up a hobby, like golf, but he found it too boring. These days, he found many things boring.
Maybe I should take up bull fighting.
His last six months of Spanish lessons had been held in various historical parts of Spain, including the famous bull fighting arenas. Julia had been his teacher more often than not. She had something special, different from the others. Something that merited his attention and real conversation.
“Nada, Julia,” Thomas said. “I’m fine.”
“Dey haf a bute-ee-ful meal prepared for us on dee island, after we land,” Julia told him. Her hair was about shoulder length, not quite reaching her pink bikini top. “I’m going to putte on my pada chute. You wan’ dat I bring jours to jou, my love?”
“Gracias.”
The red head came over and sat in his lap. Thomas thought about pushing her off.
Why not? What’s she gonna do?
He had specifically selected the red head years ago for her Irish accent, but he now found it highly irritating. He loved accents, but sometimes a thing could go too far. He knew her name though – Maggy. Sweet Maggy Malone. Just thinking about Maggy brought up images of Dublin, wheel barrows, cockles and mussels.
Alive, alive-oh!
An old Irish song his mother played for him as a child so long ago. He suddenly felt like a seven-year-old learning songs from the old country. Maggy Malone, Mick McGilligan’s Ball, Danny Boy. How the years had passed. Thomas hadn’t heard a peep from his mother in nearly twenty years, since he made his fateful decision.
“Maggy, pop up please.”
Please, he thought. The magic word.
Old habits were hard to break. Both the good and the bad. Men in 2075 didn’t need manners. Thomas didn’t have to be polite to get what he wanted. He didn’t need magic words when his every wish would be granted; his every command would be fulfilled.
Well, sort of…
Thomas walked to the cargo door and swung the heavy latch. He was playing with fire now, and he wasn’t wearing his chute. The slightest push and the door would open enough for the wind to catch it. Once that happened, it would be blown wide open and he would be sucked out. At this altitude, it would likely only pull him out and spare the girls.
He looked at all three girls and shouted loudly enough for all to hear. “I’m done. Time to move on.”
Sighs of protest filled the small cargo area of the plane. Julia walked toward him with his parachute and said, “Ay, no, papi. What are ju doing?”
“Stay back, Julia. Keep a safe distance,” he said.
She stepped back.
Thomas yanked the lever downward and pushed the door. Julia screamed. He saw her jump back and grab hold of the seat belt in one of the plush leather seats, dropping her cocktail. The door flung open in an instant.
Thomas felt his body zoom through the door, pulled by the wind differential between the cabin and the outside altitude. With the speed of a hurricane, he flew out of the plane, leaving the parachute in Julia’s hands.
2
THOMAS CLOSED HIS EYES as the sensation of falling filled his nerve endings. The rush of the wind hit his face and hair. He tilted his body upward against the G forces so he could see the plane. The girls had stayed back. None had been pulled out.
The plane seemed to change its flight trajectory and descended. Was it coming for him? If so, it was too late. It had no chance of catching him. Some decisions in life are irreversible. Thomas knew that fact all too well.
As Thomas accelerated toward the ocean at 9.81 meters per second squared, he thought about gravity. Nobody gets mad at gravity. From a young age, you learn that gravity is just and swift. It is consistent. Little kids don’t fall down and scream that gravity treated them unfairly. Its justice applies to us all, old and young, weak and strong, male and female. Gravity works even if you don’t believe in it.
As gravity worked its magic on Thomas, he saw the ocean fast approaching. His body would be destroyed under every conceivable scenario.
Luckily, Thomas’ life wasn’t constrained by the normal rules of physics.
He put his hands in the air and watched them move in front of his body toward his eyes. He did this same motion multiple times per day, and every time, he thought about the baby’s game of peek-a-boo.
Peek a boo, Thomas. I see you.
His hands grabbed around his eyes and the side of his head as if some imaginary set of goggles were present. His right index finger tapped an invisible button on invisible goggles. A beep was heard, and two worlds collided.
The loud sounds of the wind went away. The feeling of air gusts stopped. Everything went black. And then, in a fade from black, he could see his small studio interior room.
He pulled the goggles off his eyes and took the buds out of his ears. He unhooked himself from the suspension wires that
had lifted his body. He stepped out of the circular tread area where he had been walking on a friction-free surface for the last hour, and he stepped over to his bed, lying down.
Slipping the black gloves off his hands, he gently handled the expensive sensor technology. The body suit, he decided to leave on. Plopping down on the bed, he stared up at the unfinished ceiling, which held a large reservoir of fluid with a tube coming down next to the bed.
The equipment covering his body felt like regular clothing when it was turned off. He could lie comfortably here and just stare at the ceiling for hours. This cement box that he lived in was his other reality. Not exactly as glamorous.
Thomas glanced at the exercise equipment in the corner with the guilt of an unmet obligation. He had to use the elliptical today, for at least a few hours. He skipped yesterday, and the supervisors don’t like it when you skip too many days in a row.
Get some fucking exercise, dude. It’ll be good for you. Get out of this funk.
Thomas liked to exercise, and he enjoyed the efficiency of knowing that his exercise equipment could convert mechanical energy into electric energy and power some of his virtual reality (VR) equipment. The building also used solar panels and wind turbines, battery storage in the basement, and the old electrical grid when all else failed.
Talking to yourself again, Thomas? Nice. All the communication technology in the world, and you spend your waking hours talking to computer algorithms or debating yourself. Very healthy.
You want healthy, dude? Get some fucking exercise. Gotta pay the energy bill on those suspension wires you wanted.
Thomas remembered a new hiking trail on Kilimanjaro that he had recently discovered.
Like I’m going to Africa.
In the real world, Thomas had never left the state of Tennessee, where he was born. And in the last twenty years, he had barely left this tiny studio apartment, safely located in a low-rent town outside of Nashville. There were several hundred similar studios, stacked side by side in this building. It was called a “grid camp.”
Go to Africa, dude! Get some fucking exercise.
THOMAS CURSED HIMSELF, waking up from an unintentional nap. He hadn’t moved from his bed in the last few hours.
Get up, dude!
He reflected on his youth. Twenty years ago, he had checked himself into this camp. He had taken all of his life’s savings, as meager as they were, to pay for a year “on the grid.”
Lots of guys his age were quitting their jobs and taking a sabbatical to go online full time. 2055 was the first year that virtual reality felt like reality – the equipment was amazing and could sustain over twenty hours of consecutive use. The software worlds created, such as Resort World, let Thomas live like a king on a pauper’s funds. He could see, hear and feel everything. For most men, virtual reality was better than real reality. Camps everywhere were filling up as men abandoned the rat race and plugged into the grid.
The amazing thing was what you could do: which was pretty much anything you dreamed of. Imagine being a Roman emperor or taking control of a dream. Create a harem of women to your exact specifications and take them on adventures all over the universe. Any city in the world, any planet in the galaxy, any fantasy your mind can conceive. Pretty frickin’ awesome!
You made friends, all over the world. It’s not that it wasn’t social. If you wanted to talk, there were other campers worldwide to chat with.
So why don’t you then? Why don’t you chat with other people, Thomas?
When he first checked in, Thomas was all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to try this new lifestyle. Not once in the first year did he leave the camp. He didn’t even open his door and walk down the hall the first month. Nobody did. All of these guys living together under one roof but never interacting as people. They played online, and he might be in a game with the guy in the cube next to him or somebody from Egypt.
Thomas chose this community in a small town outside Nashville because it had the lowest monthly costs. No frills, small rooms, cement everywhere. Thomas rarely ate real food; instead, he had a feeding tube attached to the reservoir in the ceiling. Every resident of the grid had unique reservoirs, filled by robots with personalized nutrient water. Thomas got exactly his fill of nutrients and medicine while he slept, including drugs for his blood pressure.
Get some exercise, dude!
He tilted his head. It was hard to believe the room was so small. The bed, the VR space, not much else. There was a toilet in the corner and a drinking tap with cold vitamin-enhanced water.
Just get up and have some water. Take a piss. Do something!
THOMAS WOKE UP from his second nap.
For fuck’s sake, man, you fell asleep again?
He thought about his work schedule for the week. What did he have to do, besides the exercise?
“Wall Screen, wake up! Hey Elvis, what do I have scheduled this week?” he asked aloud.
The wall across from him had a large display which lit up. His personal butler, Elvis, an artificial intelligence (AI) avatar came on the screen. The software modeled the famous rock and roll star from a hundred years prior, a Tennessee boy like Thomas.
“You ain’t nothin’ but..a… farm monitor… Peaches all week,” Elvis sang, swaying his hips in a stereotypical manner.
“What days and times?” Thomas asked.
“Well, uhh, good buddy. Four hours on Tuesday and five hours on Thursday. Starting at noon. Just like last week.”
“OK. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. You’re welcome very much.”
“Hey, what day is today anyway?” Thomas laughed.
“It’s a dynamic Domingo, Farmer Tom. That’s Spanish for Sunday.”
“All right. Stick to singing.”
“Just trying to help you practice your Spanish, man.”
“Thank ya. Thank ya very much,” Thomas did his best Elvis impersonation.
“Don’t steal my lines, T-bone.”
“Hey Elvis, you got any words of wisdom for me today?”
“Are you feeling all right, good buddy?”
“I’ve felt better.”
“What kind of wisdom?”
“I don’t know. I need motivation, I guess. I can’t seem to get out of bed.”
“Do something worth remembering, Thomas! Get your lazy behind up out of the bed and do something worth remembering.”
“What do you suggest?”
“You gotta find your own purpose, good buddy. Everybody has a different path.”
“Did you find yours?”
“I died from a drug overdose at 42, so there’s that. But I did a lot of things that people remember. In a hundred years, will men be choosing the Thomas avatar as their butler?”
“Not likely.”
“Well, you gotta change that attitude, Farmer T. Remember that values are like fingerprints. Nobody’s are the same, but you leave ‘em all over everything you do.” Elvis paused a beat and then finished with, “What do you value, Thomas?”
He thought about it. “Not a lot.”
“Friends?” Elvis asked.
“Human friends or simulations?”
“Can a simulation be your friend?”
“Aren’t you my friend, Elvis?” As the words came out, Thomas realized that he was only half joking.
“Well, uhh, sure I am, good buddy. Why else would I call you my good buddy? But what about human friends? Or maybe a lady friend?”
“I really like Julia,” Thomas replied.
“Yeah, she’s a knockout,” Elvis agreed. Elvis sometimes joined him at Bikini Island in Resort World.
“But she’s software too,” Thomas said grudgingly.
“Human friends are overrated,” Elvis said. “I had a bunch during my life. They always seemed to show up when one of my songs hit number one on the charts. There weren’t as many around when I needed help.”
“Maybe this is my problem,” Thomas interrupted. “None of my friends are real. Everything in my life is a fa
cade.”
“If it’s any consolation, I can tell you that real life isn’t necessarily any different. At my prime, every woman wanted to be with me and every man wanted to be me. It was all a facade, though. Same thing you’re dealing with.”
Thomas considered what he knew about Elvis’ biography. “Too much of a good thing?”
“Maybe you gotta ask yourself what you mean by ‘good thing’, good buddy.”
3
SOFIA WAS NERVOUS. Very nervous. It was her first day at Bernardo Heights Middle School in sunny San Diego, California.
Sofia had made adequate grades in elementary school. She got C’s and E’s (“Conforming” and “Excellent”) in all of her subjects, except science, where she got an N for “Needs Improvement”. But her mother had told her that elementary school grades don’t matter too much. Middle school was far more important. Her grades here influenced what high school she could attend and what trades she would learn. Doing well gave her a shot to go into politics and intelligence, like her mother who worked for the National Security Agency (NSA).
But there were a LOT of smart girls in her school, and Sofia was very nervous that she might not make the top ten percent, where she needed to be to get into her preferred high school. Her nervousness was silly, since sixth grade didn’t matter so much. Eighth grade was where it mattered. But Sofia had inherited her mother’s anxiety.
“Welcome to the sixth grade, students,” Miss Woods said to everyone. “Has everyone found the seat with their name on it?”
All of the students – all girls – were sitting and smiling.
“Great. My name is Miss Woods,” she pointed at the wall screen where her name was illuminated. The screen suddenly changed and a bullet list of items appeared under the heading “Sixth Grade”.
“In Sixth Grade, you will start learning the foundation for being a productive US citizen. I will be teaching you history, so you understand our country’s roots. Miss Kelly will teach you civics, where you will learn the rules of a civilized society and the roles that each of us play in being good citizens. Another teacher will introduce you to programming worlds in virtual reality, which is where many of your lessons will occur. There will also be classes in math, P.E. and electives. Unlike elementary school, you will have multiple teachers. Any questions so far?”
Escape The Grid: Volume 1 Page 1