Virtual Heaven, Redux

by Taylor Kole

  After dismissing the room with a few words, he’d shared frightening information about the Lobby and its soul-trapping capabilities. Specifically, how the Japanese had identified the soul-shifting effect a few days after Roy Guillen’s passing and jumped into the business of selling “death trips” to Japan’s ultra-wealthy, with intentions of expanding that opportunity across the world.

  The idea chilled Andrews. When had humanity fallen so low?

  He detested the Mr. Johnson’s visits, but he valued the information imparted. And why the Man in Gray? Agent Andrews assumed the moniker stemmed from arriving in the same pressed gray suit each time. Surely the man wore other colors of suits. Hiis undergarments had to be white, only jiggalos wore colorful underwear. The guy operated outside the governmental fraternity, yet held immense clout. An extreme annoyance.

  The head of CRYPTLOG, Kathleen Sousa herself, vouched for the man’s ultimate authority.

  The Man in Gray moved toward him.

  Preferring to avoid the handshake, Agent Andrews said, “Let’s head into my office,” and hurried inside.

  He busied himself by opening a folder next to his tablet computer. A thirty-two-year-old man from Tennessee had been experiencing double vision ever since his last trip to the Lobby, two years ago.

  He marveled at what a little press could do. In six days, the LOC had received a number of complaints equal to its previous six years.

  Rather than hear the door shut, he sensed the room’s air pressure increase.

  The Man in Gray stood beside the closed door. His arms hung loosely at his sides, his body stiff as if sprayed with starch, his gaze honed on Andrews.

  The man’s height confounded Agent Andrews. He couldn’t be more than five two. At that stature, with a receding hairline and small ears, how could he be a man of mystic authority? Andrews’s arms, chest, and quads bulged, proving he wasted time at the gym rather than at work or study. Who anointed this man-child?

  However, the Man in Gray did possess a strangely powerful walk, the kind of strut that turned heads, and hushed a room.

  Without having to ask, Andrews knew the man previously served in the military. No better avenue existed for getting scooped up by one of the many clandestine governmental agencies. Join, test out of the water, get scrutinized without knowing it, and if you please someone important, an invite manifests. Andrews pinned him as Air Force. The Man in Gray carried himself with their smugness. Closing the folder, he greeted his guest. “Mr. Johnson.”

  “We will be adding a military presence at all Atriums to keep zealots from entering the Lobby.”

  Agent Andrews ignored the lack of greeting, and focused on the words. He knew local law enforcement, along with six-man teams of federal agents, denied entrance to anyone besides maintenance workers and the occasional IT guys. Since the agents mostly sat around playing with their smartphones, he didn’t understand the need to bolster those numbers.

  “Within the next few hours, two problematic revelations will be released to the public,” Mr. Johnson said. “A major one is underway at the Cutler home as we speak.”

  Andrews splayed all ten fingers on the table, wondering if Alex would truly be stupid enough to press his luck.

  As the silence dragged on, Andrews grew embarrassed by his childlike enthusiasm to hear about Alex’s problems, and relaxed.

  Mr. Johnson continued, “The other occurred in London twenty minutes ago. A janitor disguised his wife as an employee. Together, they managed to sneak their children inside. The husband logged his wife and children into the Lobby and then injected each with a hundred fifty cc mixture of motor oil, antifreeze, and other homemade poisons.”

  Agent Andrews’ mouth dropped open.

  “The husband then sat in his own chair, and with seconds remaining, chugged his green punch.”

  “A father murdered his entire family for the Lobby?” Pressing his palms against his closed eyes, Andrews repressed his bile.

  “The events at the Cutler home will hit your desk within the hour, the media shortly thereafter. It will be hectic. I advise a power nap.”

  A nap? No chance. His next question might cost him credibility, but he had to know. “One hundred percent, if someone dies while in the Lobby, their soul stays there?”

  Mr. Johnson cocked his head to one side and stepped closer. “It was verified a week ago. That’s why I briefed you.” He moved one of the seats to displace the object dividing them. “You have been given a position of importance, Mr. Andrews. I hope you have the stamina to persevere, and the faith to adhere to a communal plan. I was told I could delegate high-priority tasks to you.”

  “You can, absolutely.”Although it’s Agent Andrews.

  “Your responsibility is to harass Mr. Cutler, keep his feet to the fire, and remove the Lobby from society. I’ll make sure the world sees it as the destructive element it has always been, and learn to hate its memory.”

  Agent Andrews liked the thought, but by those standards, he’d be doing the important stuff. Hence, he should be giving the orders.

  Agent Andrews checked his watch. Less than two hours to prepare. For now, he mulled over how chaos within Cutler’s home and a family slaughtered in London helped, and concluded those events helped tremendously.

  The short man glided to the dominant window that faced the office. Despite an empty floor, he twisted the hanging rod, closing the blinds. Once sealed, he went to the light switch and dimmed the lights.

  Sensing danger, Andrews moved his hand under the right split of his suit jacket, near his sidearm.

  “Dim lighting helps with the nerves.” Mr. Johnson motioned to the chair before Andrews. “Sit. I have things of vital importance to share. The correct frame of mind allows for optimal retention.”

  Mr. Johnson stayed at the light switch until Andrews obliged.

  He didn’t believe sitting and turning down the lights affected mental function. That stuff might be necessary for weak-minded peons, but not him. Still, he obeyed.

  From the new angle, Mr. Johnson’s body vanished behind a cushioned chair, making it appear that a disembodied head addressed him.

  “Everything thus far is but a pittance compared to the turmoil approaching this nation, and humanity itself.”

  Stature forgotten, Andrews leaned forward, wondering what could be more serious than a machine that caused a man to kill his family and also ate souls?

  “How strong is your faith, Mr. Andrews?”

  Again, he preferred Agent Andrews, but he kept quiet, considered the question. He attended church somewhat regularly, missing at most two Sundays a month; read the Bible; and knew deep in his gut that God would consider him an amazing person. “I have no doubts that the Bible lays out the pathway to good living.”

  “You have quirks, but you are devout enough to get committed. That’s why I’m here.” Mr. Johnson stepped from behind the chair. “You sit before one of the few men throughout antiquity who can assure you, there is a God. A force, with the characteristics of a sentient being, exists. He initiated the universe. And though He loves everything, we are his most engaging creations.”

  Mr. Johnson stood like a robot from the 1950s, block shaped and inanimate, but his words rattled Andrews more than a six-foot-five bodybuilder shaking him for owing the local Don.

  “I can also assure you we’ve known the soul exists for over fifty years. We’re close to being able to gauge the strength of its presence in a person, and we’ve determined mental exercises to strengthen it. There is a school of thought that believes the strength of the soul multiplied by a person’s positive and negative choices is what most greatly impacts the world. Broumgard all but made public the existence of a soul the day of the Lobby’s launch, but no one noticed. This machine and current events have done something very rare in my life: they have surprised me. This equipment steals souls, Mr. Andrews. Souls mainly destined for a desolate hell of insanity, confusion, and regret, but now that majority is evading their deserved punishment for choo
sing a life of apathy and cowardice. Much more disconcerting is that this machine is stifling the rewards earned by those few who follow their instincts into action, forgive those who ask, and contribute to more than their own offspring.” Making steady eye contact, he said, “You do understand what I’m saying?”

  “Of course. Men of action. I know the type.”

  “There is a God, and His plan to reward or punish an individual’s use of free will is being circumvented. Another truth for you to absorb is that a plan this intricate can only be initiated by His nemesis.”

  Agent Andrews almost blurted, “Alex Cutler.” Instead, as full comprehension registered, he narrowed his eyes and said, “I understand.”

  “Never forget what I’m telling you. You will need ample fuel for the upcoming battle.” Mr. Johnson softened his tone and continued, “I’m sure you’ve heard it rumored that we monitor global chatter. We do it for a multitude of reasons, mainly to predict or influence voting habits. That endeavor has been a science in this country since the early sixties and worked in all elections, save one. We have thwarted future antagonists from attaining their destined positions for decades. We now send them down a path that leads to prison or death. And with people of exceptional charisma weeded out, the country keeps the proper ‘follow the lesser hierarchy,’ and decency reigns.”

  Agent Andrews always wondered why there hadn’t been any political or philosophical leaders in opposition to the government’s increasing control, since the barrage of assassinations and suspicious deaths throughout the nineteen sixties. But he couldn’t believe the government exerted the described level of control. If they did, why were so many imbeciles allowed to succeed, or live even?

  “This machine is evil,” Mr. Johnson said.” And the chatter around the world is troubling. Each hour, more people are discussing whether the Lobby can store your consciousness forever. With the upcoming news coverage, those numbers will explode. Despite our efficiency, my side lacks the manpower to contain what’s coming.” He shifted his weight. “People will want to get inside of those machines to die. And when humans identify a true want, we are the most inventive creatures to ever exist.

  “My end has begun a soft campaign, reaching out to true believers. I will forge a powerful front. Your people, as well as various other factions, will be vital to our victory.”

  Agent Andrews’s mouth dried. The current conversation solidified his lifelong conviction that staying the course would lead to a role of importance.

  “I need a copy of that list of those who will help,” Andrews said, “and a greater role.”

  “You need to do as you’re told, nothing more. Boot up your computer.”

  No please? Andrews was head of the LOC, not this midget’s lackey. He looked down at the device, wanting to continue this briefing, but he deserved a proper level of respect.

  A mild disorientation settled as he depressed the power button and listened to the startup noises. Then he accepted that a power greater than the Mr. Johnson sought his help in the battle for all of mankind. God Himself.

  The screen lit up with the normal blue. When it completed the cycle, it flickered once, and a tan backdrop replaced his normal series of icons. One icon, shaped like a manila folder, stood alone. It was labeled “The Beast.”

  “Open that file, but don’t peruse it at this time.”

  I’ll peruse whatever I want, thought Andrews. He double-clicked the icon, which opened an electronic dossier. He’d poured over thousands similar to this. The exception being that this one had twice the number of thumbnails dotting its side. The header, Sung Yi, age sixty-one. Tao Buddhist, born in Xiang, China, immigrated to Nara, Japan, in 1989. Upon finishing the information on the main page, he glanced at his visitor. Andrews hoped the man had noticed his blatant perusing.

  As if unconcerned, the Mr. Johnson said, “Sung Yi’s teachings rapidly digressed from fundamental Taoism in the late eighties, which seemed to decrease his audience, but attract loyal followers. In the mid-nineties, he became the first ordained monk to stream his Buddhist nonsense over the internet in a podcast. Still, no big deal. A couple hundred eclectic weirdos.

  “What now makes this demure kook a threat to this nation is his viral explosion over the past week. Considering all the past internet sensations, there’s never been growth like this. His introductory video about the seventh plane of existence has received over five hundred million views in the past six days.”

  Agent Andrews frowned. He enjoyed going on the internet to watch recorded presidential inaugurations, so he considered himself a YouTube expert. He had never heard of Sung Yi, or a seventh plane of existence. “I’m sorry, seven planes of existence? Isn’t science still working on proving the forth?”

  “You’re talking about dimensions, and we’ve identified over forty of those, but that’s irrelevant. Planes of existence are methods of classifying reincarnation. Buddhists believe that when a person dies, they immediately return to life in another form. Particle physics say they are correct about physical matter returning to life—in about five hundred years—but they are woefully incorrect when thinking the spirit participates in that journey. God might recycle, but the soul moves on.”

  Andrews knew judgment awaited every person. Anyone who didn’t believe that was a fool.

  “Many Buddhists believe that when you die, you return on one of six planes of existence. As ridiculous as it sounds, they figure you become a plant, an insect, an animal, a sea creature, a human—or you appear on the sixth plane as a demigod.

  “Enlightened Buddhists consider this recycling of life a cruel and unjust existence. For even if they live kind enough lives to reach demigod status, they would still experience suffering and loss, and after thousands of years, death. At which point they reincarnate again on one of the six planes, continuing the cycle.

  “So what a Buddhist strives for is Nirvana—an inner peace that leads to an enlightenment. An understanding of the cosmos that, once attained, enables them to cheat Gaea’s recycling plan, and allows them to become nothing. In short, Buddhists strive to end themselves.” Mr. Johnson inhaled deeply, and slowly exhaled, as if the entire premise bothered him.

  Agent Andrews stared at the photo of the Asian monk on his computer. He had a wrinkly face beneath either a bald or shaved head. He wore a yellow robe with a brown sash wrapped around him. A half-smile frozen beneath dark, beady eyes that sparkled with what Andrews perceived as violence.

  Everything he heard seeped in. Dying, only to pop back as something new. Believing in eternal life, and then trying to escape it. The absurdity almost made him laugh. Then a question formed. Why had five hundred million people watched a video created by this monk? More importantly, how did this man play into the recent activities?

  As if reading his mind again, Mr. Johnson continued, “For the last twenty years, Yi has been preaching to a limited audience about a seventh plane of existence—one promised by Gaea to end the suffering of her people. He hypothesized that her heart breaks each time one of her children reached Nirvana and ceased to exist. He claimed to have been granted a vision, showing how she would soon provide the world with an alternative to nihilistic enlightenment.

  “Can you guess the subject matter of his seventh plane of existence videos?”

  Agent Andrews closed his eyes as his heart rate slowed, and the blood in his veins became pudding, “The Lobby fulfilling those prophecies.”

  “Exactly. At this point his argument is a novelty, a scandalous topic to discuss following a few drinks. After these two stories leak, the seventh plane of existence will become an exploratory curiosity, validated to greater degrees with each forthcoming suicide.”

  The word itself chafed Andrews’s core. He wasn’t as convinced as Mr. Johnson that more suicides would follow. Anytime Andrews heard about suicide prior to the Lobby madness, he thought of how weak and pathetic the person must have been. The only comfort came from knowing they were no longer a burden on the rest of us. “Perhaps a goo
d PR campaign and tight security will prevent further deaths,” he said.

  “Please, you need to listen, follow advice—nothing more.”

  “Maybe you’ll learn I could be more valuable than even you?”

  Mr. Johnson allowed seconds to pass. Time during which he did little more than blink. “Tight security will be ineffective. Security personnel will comprise some of the validators, and our soil is not the greatest problem. Japan has reached out to South Korean diplomats for support to explore a practice of dying to live as a method to govern. Much of that part of the world is fervent over Yi. Those nations will continue to unite. The wound this media exposure causes will fester. People will turn this machine into a symbol of immortality, reached through sacrilege.”

  Agent Andrews felt his sidearm tug at his hip. He’d never fired his weapon in the line of duty. He wasn’t one of those guys who spent his weekends at the gun range or stockpiled an arsenal at his house. But hearing this latest atrocity, his gun whispered to him. He thought of all the people with underdeveloped brains in the world, and how this evil siren would enthrall them. A fiery rage filled him, along with an urge to find Alex Cutler and shoot him dead. To force Adisah Boomul to kneel in front of him and decapitate him with a machete.

  Pushing aside his honorable thoughts, he made eye contact with the Man in Gray. “I pray you have a plan to prevent all of this.”

  “We do, but you must be forewarned: it’s going to get messy before it gets clean. And that, Agent Andrews, is the question I have come to ask you. It’s the reason I flew out here today. I need to know—are willing to get your hands dirty in the defense of the American way of life, against an adversary powered by a dark evil?”

  Agent Andrews returned his gaze to the beady eyes on his computer screen. He thought of Adisah Boomul and Alex Cutler and the riches they had amassed by leading sinful lives. He’d need a bigger role, more respect, but he had also pledged to honor the chain of command. Locking eyes with the Mr. Johnson, and applying layers of sincerity, he nodded.