LifeGames Corporatoin

by Michael Smorenburg

  In this regard, Leon had discovered that extracting information from Fernando was an excruciatingly slow process. Fernando was a minefield of irrational ranting; if Leon made the mistake of mentioning either Ken or LifeGames then the session had to be terminated.

  Fernando would begin to work himself into a tirade that would invariably explode and then degenerate into a wild-eyed string of Latin curses and prayers; the prayers in turn would give way to ritualized chants and a climax of uncontrolled epileptic convulsions would grip the man. When that point was reached, Leon’s only option was to banish Fernando, bringing Roger back to consciousness.

  The epilepsy was a key that Leon had followed—but there was much more to it;

  “All right Roger.”

  Leon depressed the ‘record’ button on his dictation recorder and checked to see if both spindles were turning, drawing the old mini cassette through tape through the recording device. The machine was ancient, and tapes for it obsolete; but Leon fiercely rejected moving on to digital media.

  “I’m going to begin to count you down from five, okay?”

  Leon took a sip of water while Roger nodded and obediently closed his eyes in readiness for Leon’s first command;

  “Five… you’re becoming drowsy, very, very drowsy. Four…” Leon was at work, all hint of senility evaporated; “I’d like you to remember a time, Roger. It’s your first day of school. Can you remember your first day at school?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Roger’s voice was soft and timid, unmistakably the voice of a six year-old.

  “Very good boy, Roger. Let’s go even further back in time. You are just born and you are being washed by your mother…”

  The man in the bed transformed into a helpless and feeble infant, his limbs flopped as if paralyzed, his toes and fingers curling, in the manner of infants. His face contorted with winds and a moan gurgled in his throat.

  “Good Roger… Now, you are not yet born; you are inside your mother’s womb where it is warm and safe and you feel verrrrry peaceful.”

  The face relaxed from the trauma of birth, becoming content, Roger’s thumb plugged into his mouth and his knees drew up to his chest, his eyes fluttered lazily, the lids turning them to slits.

  “Very good Roger, very good… You feel very loved,” Leon re-positioned himself for the task that lay ahead.

  The man-sized fetus in the bed was to all appearances asleep, the cheeks gently pulsating against the thumb.

  “All right Roger, I want you to remember another time, a time that came even before you were inside of your mother. Can you remember this time?”

  Roger’s thumb fell limply from his mouth and his limbs went slack, his facial expression blanked as though he were dead.

  “Good! Think again, this is a different time, a life that you remember. Who are you?”

  Nothing.

  “Who are you?”

  Still nothing… and then the eyes began to track behind the closed lids.

  “Tell me who you are…”

  The eyes opened and tracked around, looking for its interrogator.

  “I humbly ask, sir… what is your name?”

  The body came raring back to life, assuming a presence of great authority.

  In a throaty grumble coursed by a guttural Spanish accent came the reply;

  “I am Fernando Sanchez, Bishop of Andalucia and Spanish Emissary to the Holy Vatican in Rome.”

  There had been an uncanny metamorphosis of Roger’s body, face and aura. So thorough had been the man’s transformation that, to the un-initiated, the scene would appear to be a disturbing possession by an invading spirit. Alternatively it could be a most professional hoax indeed, but few would be fool enough to suggest that this was Roger at all.

  “What is the period in which you live, Sire?” Leon always began the session with the identical line of questioning, it was his method of verifying that his channel to the former personality was open; Fernando Sanchez’s authority demanded very specific protocols or he would refuse to answer.

  “I was born in the village of Mijas during the year of our Lord Fifteen Hundred and Seventy Two. I will die in the year Sixteen Hundred and Thirty Eight.”

  Leon was familiar with regressed personalities viewing themselves as current beings.

  They would speak of themselves in the present tense, yet they would simultaneously have the curious habit of mentioning their date of death as matter of fact.

  For them, the transition between terrestrial life and the spiritual world appeared to be no more than an academic point of departure.

  “I seek the salvation of many good souls, Your Eminence,” Leon had found it an important ingredient to first make these assurances of his intent, before questioning Fernando.

  “Bendito seas, my son,” the Bishop blessed Leon for his devotion.

  “There is a friend who has left our world, he was known by the name of Craig Angelis.”

  “I have knowledge of this soul,” Fernando folded his arms.

  “He has imparted a message to yourself, Eminence?” Leon was carefully navigating the waters of heretical suspicion.

  “Much evil my son, much wickedness,” his voice growled; so soon into the session and Fernando was already fierce, “Beware, for your own position is stalked by the Demons of Hell.”

  Leon’s skin crawled with the sincerity in the man’s voice, “The evil takes what form, Sire?”

  “The evil surrounds you in your place of work. Heed my warning!” Fernando boomed, close to the precipice that would quickly give way and slide the whole session to its premature end; “…for you are not in a position to control your destiny.”

  Leon averted his eyes from the crazed stare of his patient-become-confessor, and an ironic notion passed through his head.

  Here he was, a Jew, being confessed by a Catholic priest who hailed from the most oppressive time in mankind’s history.

  He wondered how the intolerant Bishop would accept talking with a ‘heretic.’ Although not a practicing Jew, Leon was painfully aware of the bigoted mind. He knew all too well that in Fernando’s limited outlook, the stigma would be damning.

  There was a crackling silence in the room, and slowly Leon raised his eyes to find the Bishop studying him intently, inclining his head, frowning as if seeing Leon’s thoughts; “…and do not believe that your false religion will gain your admission into the Kingdom of God.”

  The Bishop’s voice crashed in Leon’s mind, bringing a new dimension to Leon’s experience. Never before in all of his vast experience had he known any subject to read a hypnotist’s mind.

  It was a shaking experience for Leon as Fernando continued haranguing onward with his admonishment;

  “…Your only salvation will come when you guard the thoughts of your heart against Lucifer… that Prince of Dankness creeps through the chambers of your den!”

  Leon had never penetrated this far into the enigma, which Fernando’s riddles posed. Maintaining an attitude that he hoped would best convey his deepest gratitude for the Great man’s advice, Leon tried to restore calm;

  “I am grateful for the advice that you offer me, Sire,”

  But calm was not to be, and he watched helplessly as his words had little effect on the building momentum of the Bishop’s slipping rationality;

  “The Beast is in league with your master. It uses foul balms and sweet words to recruit soldiers into the armies of the Anti-Christ! MADRE DE DIOS, PERDONA TUS PECADOS… You are as one blinded by the darkness! You bring great perils to all of mankind! Let the inquisition cleanse your sins!”

  The session was over in that twinkling of an outburst, with Fernando continuing to build himself toward a crescendo of bed-rattling wroth until the tirade exploded into savage chaos, forcing Leon to assign him back to his own period, and bring the memory of Roger forward to its self-awareness.

  After he had ensured that the conscious Roger was in a relaxing sleep, Leon made his way toward the exit of the hospital. The route took him past
Andrew’s office.

  “How did you go today, old chap?” Andrew was secretly hooked on the saga.

  “Short but sweet. Too short… That’s the trouble with religious-nutters, can never get a word in edgeways. Not a word.”

  Leon went on to fill Andrew in on the scant progress made, he rewound his cassette and played the interesting bits.

  When done they began to consider the riddles that the session had borne.

  “My guess is drugs and you, old boy!” Andrew offered triumphantly.

  “What on earth do you mean by that?”

  Leon was bewildered. Their constant and ongoing duel of wits extended to diagnosis, and by not reading Andrew’s cryptic clue Leon had forfeited a point in their game.

  “The ‘balms…”? They’re drugs, old chap! I saw it on that fellow the moment I met him. He’s an addict if you ask me… always at his nose,” Andrew mimicked Ken’s constant fidgeting at his nose.

  Whenever Andrew referred to Ken, he’d say ‘that fellow’.

  Leon knew of Ken’s cocaine addiction, but it was prudent to deny Andrew’s charge;

  “Not a chance of it… not a chance. With all the pressure he’s under, Ken couldn’t afford it.”

  Andrew eyed him suspiciously;

  “If that’s what you truly believe old fruit, then you definitely need brushing up on your diagnostic skills. I can give you pointers.”

  The banter continued unabated as Andrew completed his analysis;

  “And drugs of course cloud that fellow’s thinking. They make him employ the likes of you, you see… sweet words.”

  “Sweet words, sweet words,” Leon repeated over his shoulder as he made for the door.

  Though it had taken him another point down in their jousting game, he’d graciously accepted defeat by bowing to Andrew’s playful insult. Theirs was a subtle humor for the duration of which both men generally maintained deadpan faces.

  Andrew reveled in his victory and went back to his papers.

  “God be with you,” Leon closed the door and departed for his car.

  As he drove, Fernando’s words looped through his mind with nagging persistence.

  Andrew was correct, two phrases stood out from the entire litany, foul-balms and sweet-words.

  But what was the significance?

  Foul-balms for drugs? Possibly.

  Sweet-words meaning hypnosis?

  That, he conceded, was possible too, but the more Leon thought about it, the more he became convinced that there was a more sinister meaning lurking there.

  Chapter 11

  “As the hydraulics engage, keep your eyes on the HUD… the Heads-Up Display—a digital countdown will be running… If you’re ready, give a thumbs-up to command when they call for it. Look straight ahead, head back, chin tucked and brace for the hydraulic ram.”

  “To abort, I pull up on this lever…?” Catherine confirmed what flight instruction prep had drilled into her all morning. Though she fought to portray a nonchalance she wasn’t feeling, her eyes were stark, staring ahead in terror.

  “You’re not going to abort,” Ken assured, and something slid through her gut. He signaled the control room with thumbs up and Kim’s voice immediately transmitted to every corner of the operations complex;

  “Standing clear for a-GO! I see a green light at launch command—do I see thumbs from simulator…? Delta-Foxtrot-Lima—the simulator—Miss Kaplan—do I see your thumbs?”

  With an effort that felt like pushing into clinging mud, Catherine forced her hand within the glove to respond with the thumbs up sign. Her vision was hopping to the thunder of her heartbeat; so loud in her ears it blotted the launch announcements;

  “And it’s a-counting… a-seventeen… a-sixteen… a-fifteen… ignition sequence start… a-twelve-a… eleven… ten-a…” a man’s voice spoke.

  Ken continued standing alongside the open cockpit. Watching her prepare for takeoff, an erotic entree to the promised cyber-sex that drew closer by the day.

  All the hardware necessary to produce the required body suit had already been assembled and were in surreptitious testing and undergoing software interface. Anton had promised to have it setup and ready for use within a fortnight.

  Ken watched Catherine’s breasts heaving with the hyperventilation of fear. It appeared that they might at any moment burst their way over the lace bra restraining them.

  Catherine at least had several hours of practical instruction under her belt in an abandoned bid to gain a pilot’s license. It was the reason she’d chosen the fighter pilot program from those on offer. It was the closest skill she had to match the library of possible options.

  “…Delta-Foxtrot-Lima… it’s a-seven… you’re ready for takeoff… six… a-five…”

  Catherine was looking down the impossibly short deck of an aircraft carrier. Ahead, out beyond the bow, lay a turquoise army of wind-flecked swells marching in long lines under the driving hull.

  Disbelieving her eyes at the realism of the image, she looked to her left, and there was the launch officer in his ship’s control turret where Kim should be, his mouth perfectly synchronized with the strong Southern drawl of his count;

  “a-four… a-three…” He winked at her, not missing a beat in the count. Winked! She couldn’t believe the detail to realism.

  She looked fixedly ahead and gritted her teeth for the slam of the thrusters. The thud-thud of her heart slowing time, the pounding in her ears obliterating the count.

  Something to her right where Ken had been a moment earlier caught her peripheral vision and she snapped attention onto it; it was a flight crew rating’s sleeve flapping as he crouched in the blustery wind.

  “…a-one… Launch!”

  At Launch! Catherine was hoofed in the back by what felt like a stallion; the deck exploded into on-rushing acceleration, the deck markings a blur as the end of the deck rushed under her and gone—with it, the familiarity of a base beneath her undercarriage fell away to the ocean.

  It was only her spasm of terror that still kept the throttle wide open.

  The swoop of the aircraft and its sudden roll to starboard galvanized Catherine into action.

  Until that moment she’d been paralyzed by fear, but the treacherous tilt had her on an instant collision course with the waves that flashed by her dipped wing-tip only feet away. The cockpit heeled over to one side and she was compressed into her seat by gut wrenching centrifugal forces. Instinctively she leaned against the stubby joystick and pulled the plane out of the turn and into a rattling climb.

  The sensation was like none she had ever begun to imagine. The craft jolted and snapped in response to the stick, shuddering with the pummeling forces of over correction. Her vision was filled with the blue of heaven and she remained jammed into the near vertical climb;

  “JEEEEEES-U-S!” She was yelling over the deafening thunder of the jet engines, then, from the far reaches of her mind, she heard flight control confirming her successful launch. He had gone on to question her piloting skills.

  Get fucked, she thought and then wondered if the computer flight controller would be programmed to deal with that sort of message.

  Every sinew and fiber in Catherine’s body pulsated with shock, every finger felt capped by a throbbing golf ball; terror supercharging adrenaline through her.

  She’d managed to roll the jet into level flight and attempted to maintain a steady heading. Knowing that fear paralyzes and that she must fight to regain her nerve.

  After a few minutes of level flight and a few giddy, sickening swoops when her concentration slipped, she began to relax. I’ll be a passenger for the rest of the flight, she cunningly decided.

  Flight control piped up cheerfully, confirming her headings, the weather and her position according to his radar.

  Nobody had told Catherine that she couldn’t simply admire the view from her bubble in the manufactured sky.

  And besides, she thought, it’ll be the best way to take my mind off of the inevitable l
anding.

  Worst thing was, she started hankering for the comfort of her cherry flavored juice-stick… or, better yet, “a real cigarette”; it was all she could now think about.

  Looking about and above her, fine clouds wisped over the dome and around the wings. Nothing in the experience betrayed that this was all an illusion, taking place within four walls; so she formulated a plan to trick the computer, reasoning that if she moved quickly enough the sensors that monitored her movement wouldn’t have time to relay her actions to the processing unit and feed back images in other directions.

  She chose an obscure place to look, reasoning that the computer would be least likely to have insignificant images in its data bank.

  She leant far forward then suddenly whirled her head to look behind her. There, true to real life, was the seat’s upright back, complete with all the paraphernalia of oxygen pipes and wiring leading to the pretend-helmet she was wearing. It was attention to detail she hadn’t expected.

  With her eyes off of the horizon, the plane yawed and swooped. Catherine quickly caught the drift and righted the path once more. Then after a further while she decided that it was time to execute a slow 180-degree turn and return to ship.

  Gently she coaxed the thoroughbred into a long, banked sweep, and the sensation of G-forces gently pinned her into the seat. The compass rolled lazily as the nose came about, making the sun’s shadows swing around within the cockpit until they faced in the opposite direction. With the new course set, she settled into the homeward run.

  Catherine had time to consider her predicament and, dreading the approach and landing, she instinctively backed off on the throttles. Immediately there was a sensation of deceleration. Intrigued, she bumped the throttle open a fraction and watched the gauges respond by several clicks as the gentle thrust from behind her seat confirmed the increase.

  The ice of Catherine’s trepidation was now broken and a host of conservative experiments begged to be tried. She gave the joystick a minute wiggle and the plane jinxed. She elevated then descended in quick succession and the plane dolphined. “This is fun!” she squealed with delight.