Virtual Heaven, Redux

by Taylor Kole

  Alex’s stomach turned as he remembered these people had created much of his current suffering. With every recent life-fork leading him down a wrong path, he couldn’t bear to consider what Sophie’s choice they had for him, or its eventual outcome.

  “And Jodi Reister,” Willis said, “chairperson of the committee on federal spending. Easily the most important person in this room.” Alex put her in her mid-fifties, her blond hair cut short in the staggered fashion of many women in power.

  They all sat. Andrews was left the chair at the end of the table, eight feet from the others.

  Jodi Reister spoke. “Mr. Cutler, let me first say how sorry I am for your tragedies and losses over the past few weeks. I, like millions of others, enjoy an annual vacation with family inside the Lobby and am crushed by the latest developments.” She interlaced her hands on the table and searched his face. “As I imagine you yourself must be.”

  “Well,” Agent Andrews said before Alex could reply, “something was bound to happen.”

  Willis fixed him with a look of annoyance, and adjusted his glasses.

  The others waited for Alex’s response.

  “A machine inside the brain and all,” Andrews added.

  “That’ll be enough, Andrews,” Jodi Reister said.

  “Thank you for your condolences,” Alex said. “I’m still processing everything. I’m really not sure what to make of it.”

  “None of us are,” Willis said.

  Alex saw Agent Andrews fidget in his peripheral, no doubt wanting to chime in with his complete comprehension of the universe.

  “Mr. Cutler,” Willis continued, “we appreciate you coming in today, and allow me to apologize for our part in adding to your discomfort. Henceforth, I fully expect we will be partners.”

  By threatening to toss me in prison for life? Alex wondered. He glanced at the locked door, and wondered if guards were stationed outside of it?

  “Before I turn it over to Agent Martineau,” Willis said. “I want you to know it’s not the agency’s intention to eradicate the Lobby. We do not see it, or you, as our enemy. The goal of this meeting is to make us allies.”

  Were they enemies? Alex still couldn’t believe he sat on the opposite side of the law, that strangers held his fate in their hands, yet again.

  “There are many serious domestic and international conflicts brewing as you know,” Willis said. “What you don’t know is a date will soon be set to bring countries with differing beliefs to one table, in hopes of settling those differences. The United States must enter those talks with the ability to control access to the Lobby.”

  That made sense to Alex. “Well, you have the manpower to control the Atriums.”

  Dour looks spread on the faces across from him, stealing the remainder of his reply, and proving that more drama existed. Racking his mind produced nothing as outrageous as the current problems, so he waited.

  “Do you know who Rebecca Trevino is?” Willis pushed his glasses tighter to his face.

  Alex leaned back, and cocked his head to the right. Was there anyone who didn’t?

  “Tonight, her program will ignite controversy. In this great nation, we allow the media free reign, regardless of its effect on society. We simply prepare to minimize the damage,” Willis said.

  “Will her program impact this upcoming international meeting?” Alex said.

  “Not as much as our current dilemma,” Willis looked beyond the big man beside him. “Ms. Reister and I have read the rough outline of the United States’ proposal to maintain peace. The plan is only possible if we control access to the Lobby.”

  To avoid repeating his previous statement, Alex withheld the urge to comment, and wiped his clammy hands on his pants.

  “The world is worse off than all the horrors you see on the news,” Willis said. “Many countries do not believe in a free press, and during crises of this magnitude, we appreciate that. A chasm is rippling across the globe. The suppression of facts helps slow the tide of outrage, but it’s coming.”

  Jodi Reister cut in, her short blond hair hardly moving as she leaned closer. “Mr. Cutler, we need your help. President Tanner personally sent me to meet with you. My presence is to inform you that any workable scenario you produce will receive funding. Do not allow cost to hinder your creativity.”

  Alex fidgeted. As long as his creativity happened outside of a cell, he wanted to help.

  Jodi added a seriousness to her tone and said, “We need your cooperation by this meeting’s end.”

  “If for some reason,” Agent Andrews inserted, “Mr. Cutler is unable to help, I’m sure I’d do an equal, or better, job.” After a look from Willis, Andrews shrugged. “If it’s a programming issue, is all.”

  “Thank you, Agent,” Willis said.

  Andrews swallowed.

  “Agent Martineau, will you apprise our friend of the current situation?” Willis continued.

  “Certainly.” The big man filled a glass with water, sipped, and rose, blocking some of the room’s lighting from Alex.

  “First off, my condolences for the losses a’ your friends.” His voice carried an East Coast accent, with a twinge of Southie, making Alex suspect he’d worked some undercover. “The world’s a kicked beehive, little soldier bees is out stingin’ normalcy in a hundred places.” He frowned. “Our mission is to get life back to its former self.

  “Many military leaders believe the singular threat we are about to discuss holds the key to avoiding war. You’re the man best able to help.”

  Alex rolled his chair back a few inches as if to escape the thought. Who could he help? The program he poured his heart and soul into for the past seven years rushed in untold joy. With one alternate amendment, it was now being cited as a catalyst for destruction.

  The media hinted at international tension at the opening of every program. He’d considered it ratings fodder. How could there be this much outrage over people killing themselves? The world endured thousands of suicides a day, for decades. It was a personal choice. Their loved ones suffered emotional stains, but the rest of us moved on, and no one protested.

  Alex understood. Give the right person a Bible or a Quran, and you supercharged them with power. Nearly every monolithic preacher and doomsday blogger yelled about the current evil. The speeches resurrected attendance. Who could blame anyone for taking advantage of free speech and capitalism? God bless America.

  Fights abounded at protests, whether for or against the Lobby. Since Glen’s suicide, five Broumgard employees had been shot and killed, ambush style. With only one shooting officially linked to their employment, the trend avoided media coverage. And now war? Military action? America still worked to extricate itself from the last half-dozen battles.

  The dangers surrounding Alex made him feel like he stood in the center of a dry field of waist-high grass, with a half-dozen lighter-wielding, meth-addicted pyromaniacs around him. Remembering where he sat, he focused on the now, to best offer his advice.

  Apparently noticing his return to attentiveness, Martineau continued. “We believe if this summit is handled correctly, everyone, excluding some in the Middle East, will be happy. Japan and those in the East want to use the machine as a carrot on a stick, telling their citizens if they live honorable, useful lives, they may,” he made quotations, “‘retire’ in the Lobby. We, in the West, want to avoid that, but we can compromise. Perhaps beef up our screening, add a heavy tax. They could limit their permanent trips, impose age limits. Who knows?”

  Alex considered the implications. How could the U.S. prevent suicides with an operational Lobby? Strip people naked and make them sit in a cell for twenty-four hours? Cavity searches? X-ray scans?

  “You ever heard a’ Paul Spagnelli?” Martineau asked.

  Alex shook his head.

  “Paul Spagnelli is boss a’ the crime families operating along the East Coast. Their criminality has lessened over the last few decades as they enter more legitimate ventures, but there’s still drugs, prosti
tution, gambling, murders.

  “Yesterday, we executed a search warrant on the nephew a’ the big man in connection to a double homicide. It was more a cage-rattling session, but we found some guns, a stockpile a’ cash, and some very disturbing machinery.”

  Martineau paced from behind his chair. Each time he pivoted, one side of his broad shoulders dipped, reminding Alex of air brakes lifting on a 747.

  “We didn’t know what we had until our techies started digging. We assumed we were looking at some rig for cheatin’ slot machines or skimmin’ gas pumps. Possibly a bomb, which would a’ been a little out a’ character for these guys, but it’s a crazy world.” He shrugged, retrieved a briefcase from under the table, popped the dual locks, then tossed a binder on the table before Alex. “As it turns out, it’s much scarier than a bomb, Mr. Cutler. This device could rock the world. That right there could derail the international peace talks by removing our leverage.”

  Alex opened the five-inch-thick three-ring binder. Inside, photographs of electrical equipment, each followed by a section with schematics, another with analysis.

  Martineau pointed at the binder and said, “We’re hoping you can verify our thoughts, and more importantly, that you can crush this.”

  Alex was a software guy, one of the rare computer geeks who avoided hardware. Back in Chicago, Sean did his changeouts, and since then, there had always been someone skilled and willing. Picturing his old friend, knowing he now dwelled among the deceased, dried his throat. He leaned forward, poured a glass of water, and drank.

  Ten minutes passed in silence as he examined the collection of data. He looked at what should have been an impossibility. The content in section D represented a type of macroserver, but a model light-years more compact and sophisticated than Broumgard’s next-gen diagrams. The photographs in section L sucked him in. It seemed this odd contraption of loose wires and welded sensors functioned like an access chair, allowing someone to hack into the Lobby. The processing speed had to be abysmally slow, but a macroserver capable of accessing the Lobby was ludicrous.

  If he read the schematics correctly, the entirety of the Lobby existed in a case no larger than a shoebox. Built of a titanium alloy, it must have cost a hundred grand to assemble, a pittance of the necessary R&D to reach this model. He hefted the binder’s contents and returned to the front page. Before reviewing it again in more detail, he looked at the three patient faces across from him and asked, “Is this… a pirated access point?”

  Willis’s head dropped, his glasses slipped down his nose.

  Agent Martineau squeezed the back of his chair hard enough to make the plastic groan.

  “That’s our fear,” Jodi Reister answered. “The last thing we need is organized crime getting into the business of Death Trips. The only positive here is that this group is usually ahead of the curve, but others will follow.”

  “When it comes to a planned suicide,” Willis added, “people will pay any amount because, to them, money will soon lose its value. If citizens go around maxing out their credit with plans of defaulting, putting up homes, cars, and college funds, with plans to vanish, it would destroy the global economy overnight.”

  Agent Martineau cut in, saying, “On a criminal front, there’d be a wave a’ insanity; guys willing to do anything, and instead a’ money, they’d get everlasting life in a dream world.”

  Alex picked up on the syntax of it being a dream world, not his dream world. Realizing he wasn’t a witch to burn eased a degree of worry.

  “Judges, politicians, prosecutors—no one would be safe,” Martineau said. “Society will crumble.”

  “If we lose the ability to control access to the Lobby,” said Jodi Reister, “this upcoming summit will be a waste of everyone’s time. If random thugs can offer Death Trips, we can’t ask the East to shelve, or even limit, theirs. If they don’t limit them, we have a hard right-wing military branch that might find a way to start a war over unfettered suicides. Control of access is our only diplomatic leverage.”

  “We are trying to avoid anarchy,” Willis said. “Do you get that?”

  “Americans believe we are the superpower of the world,” Jodi Reister continued. “But we don’t want to quarrel with Japan’s navy and technology or China’s numbers and training. Alex, if we can’t contain this, if these pirated access points proliferate…” Rather than finish her sentence, she shook her head dramatically.

  Alex examined the first photo: the many components of the pirated access point.

  Agent Andrews cleared his throat, waited to be chastised, and when he wasn’t, spoke. “From my initial review, this is a prototype.” He pointed to the binder. “We confiscated the schematics and an engineer at the scene. Evidence suggests he designed that contraption.”

  So this seizure gave them a reprieve, but not a permanent one, Alex thought.

  “Can you confirm this device’s purpose?” Willis said. “Can it actually connect people to the Lobby?”

  “I’d need more time with the equipment,” Alex said, “but someone sunk a fortune into this.”

  “We have a more ambitious expectation,” Willis said. “Can you circumvent its capability? From my understanding, it needs to jack into the system and copy the entire Lobby infrastructure before a person can load in.”

  “That is correct,” Andrews said.

  Alex looked at the photo then back at them. “When can I put my hands on the actual components?”

  “We can get them here within the hour,” Willis said.

  Alex nodded absently. “I’ll need Ike Wood, my networking guy from the L.A. Atrium.”

  “Done.”

  Alex glanced back down and then rocked in his seat to test its comfort.

  “Privacy, a speakerphone for access to Victor, two packs of Oreos, and a two liter of Barq’s root beer.”

  They all nodded with growing enthusiasm.

  “I can’t make any promises,” Alex said, “except to give this my full attention.”

  Agent Martineau left the room without a word. The others stood.

  “That’s all we’re asking for, Mr. Cutler,” Willis said, extending his hand. “If there is anything you need, just poke your head out the door and ask.”

  “You have no financial constraints,” Jodi Reister said as she walked around the table, patted his shoulder, and left.

  “If you need my expertise,” Agent Andrews said, “I’m available.” Willis motioned for Andrews to exit. After another glance at Alex, Willis left as well, granting Alex his privacy. The rest, saving the world from madness, seemed up to him.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Tim Vanderhart only knew the word exodus from the Bible. He’d looked up the definition. Exodus—a mass departing, often with aims of arriving at a favored destination. That description often applied to stories from Scripture. It also fit very well with the soldiers vacating Northern Michigan.

  There were some members of the newly formed Lord’s Thorn that were too weak to make the journey. Some physically, but most mentally.

  Most people lacked purpose, drive, or a belief in anything. Even some of the men around him used camouflage, shotguns, and training as a way to transform today into the next. Their rants about the government dictating their lives and the minorities diluting their race with inbreeding were only condiments to beer consumption. If born in California, they’d have their hair in dreadlocks, and smoke marijuana, talking about how everyone was stupider than them, that their way—despite having been tried millions of times over thousands of years—was the right way to govern, and how they needed to breed with minorities to unify humanity into a less intelligent, more aggressive race.

  Tim believed what he believed. He entered life with a purposeful destiny, like everyone. The difference was that he had located, embraced, and was now acting on the signs that had unearth his path.

  Whoever that short, confident Man in Gray had been, he sure knew his stuff. Specifically about the people he referred to NMCD. Of the two
hundred eleven troops traveling to northern Nevada, eighty-four were walk-ons, singled out by the Man in Gray and encouraged to join the Lord’s Thorn through emails, letters, and phone calls. These people knew their purpose. Their grit and determination validated the term exodus.

  Two school buses held supplies. Members piled into an old Greyhound and more vans, trucks, and SUVs than an eye could take in.

  Tim would go—no one could keep him away—he only hoped Alan would give him a fitting role, or would he try and assign him a role as janitor or errand boy?

  Lacking an assigned vehicle, he leapt into the back of an F-250 filled with crates of ammunition and two drums of grease. The impulsive decision to cross the country in an open bed evolved into a bad one. Rather than complain about the painful jounces and radical shifts in the elements, he endured in silence.

  When they got within four miles of their destination, a Nevada desert ranch, the discomfort vanished. He sat up and took in the scene.

  The F-250 assumed its position in a near-static line. Hundreds of additional vehicles, with plates from all over the Midwest and East Coast, proved the NMCD were one feather in a wing of the exodus flight.

  It was hot in the desert. The openness of the tan-colored horizon and blue sky in all direction but up, astounded him. He’d never seen so much space. Michigan’s woods offered a more isolated beauty. Trees and rolling meadows always limited what the eyes could take in. Peeling off his shirt, he frowned at having neglected to pack sunblock. If he burned, Alan would razz him for lacking foresight. At least he brought his army hat. He adjusted the brim and pulled the hat down, making his ears stand out more than usual. As he looked around, intent on borrowing or trading for some sunscreen, a shadow darkened the bright morning.