The Reality Thief (Deplosion Book 1)

by Paul Anlee

  “It’s about time something went right,” Greg replied. His voice became quiet, almost reverent. “Can you imagine what that must have been like? He produced a micro-scale universe right in the middle of his dining room. A space with its own distinct physical laws. Sure, it wasn’t all that stable. But still, can you believe it? A freaking microverse!”

  He threw on a t-shirt. As his face popped out the top, it wore a pensive frown, reviewing the conversation. “Hey, I didn’t know Darian was growing an internal RAF antenna array in his own head. Did you?”

  “No, not a clue. I’m not surprised, though. Our original RAF generator should have worked. Everything checked out: the hardware, the software, the theory. But it still didn’t work. So what does a good scientist do? He starts all over, clean slate, and goes through it all again, step by step, with an independent approach.” Kathy laughed. “That’s so Darian, though, to grow the hardware in his brain instead of making another device.”

  “We better get moving,” Greg said, already pulling on his jeans. “We still have to swing by and pick up Larry on the way. I’ll call him right now.”

  Larry didn’t answer their calls or his door when they banged on it some twenty minutes later. “Larry!” they’d both complained before giving up and heading to the lab without him.

  Greg was easing the car into the parking lot near the Physics building when a torrent of Darian’s thoughts, memories, and knowledge, everything that made him who he was, pushed past their internal neural-lattice security and gushed into the two scientists’ minds unfiltered.

  Unable to combat the rapid influx of data overwhelming their own perceptions, they lost consciousness. The car rolled to a stop in a shallow ditch, as they struggled against the invasion of their minds.

  Just before being completely swamped by the inundation, Kathy disconnected her own communications and stemmed the inflow. Still physically incapacitated, but at least back in control of her mind, she created a cutoff routine and piggybacked it on the back of the surge of data streaming into Greg’s lattice. As fast as it had hit them, they were free of the deluge and reconnecting to their own bodies.

  Kathy rubbed the back of her neck. “He just blasted through our anti-virus protection like it was nothing.”

  Greg groaned. “I didn’t know that was even possible.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Greg stretched his neck muscles to each side. He blinked a few times, clearing his eyes. “Yeah, I think so. My head hurts, and I ache in muscles I didn’t know I had.”

  “Me too, but I don’t think there’s any permanent damage.” Kathy tried the car door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I think Darian might be dead. I don’t know why, but that’s what it felt like.” She stepped out of the vehicle, wincing as she stood.

  Greg followed. “I feel like I ran a marathon,” he moaned.

  “Worse,” Kathy replied. “Like I ran a marathon with a backpack full of rocks.”

  They left the car hanging half-in the ditch and raced to the lab, expecting to find Darian dead or in some desperate condition.

  The hallway was eerily quiet this early. No lights shone through the observation window on the way by. That’s odd. Kathy braced herself for the worst as she opened the door and turned on the lights.

  They walked around the workspace and checked the shared office. Nobody there. Did Darian make it to the lab after calling? Where was he when he transmitted his message? Was he in trouble?

  They tried transmitting a lattice message to him. Nothing. Greg tried calling Darian’s cell phone. No answer, but Darian rarely turned on his phone. Why bother when he carried a built-in connection to the internet in his head?

  Not sure how worried they should be, they took a more careful look around the room. Kathy’s eyes went immediately to the project to which she’d devoted the past six months of her life. The overhead lights reflected off a dusty patch of lab bench where the Reality Assertion Field generator should have been sitting.

  What the….? “Greg. It’s gone!”

  Darian would not have taken it out of the lab; he was adamant it stay in the sturdy anti-theft frame, secured to the counter. The frame was still there, unlocked and empty. The RAF generator, however, was gone.

  The server!—Greg thought of the repository for the other half, the theoretical half, of their work. Without thinking, he went to log on, as normal, with his lattice but instantly hit a security wall. Kathy must have inserted a confirmation step to his comm-activation protocol when she pulled him out of Darian’s thought storm. A pop-up message reminded him of the danger of opening his lattice to external communications. Yes, definitely Kathy’s work.

  He walked into the office area and tapped out his user I.D. and password using a keyboard, like any other mortal. Hundreds of folders containing all of their theories, schematics, and half-written papers awaiting data, were gone. “Uhh…Kath? Look, the directory is empty.”

  “This doesn’t make sense,” Kathy said, looking over his shoulder. “Darian called to say he was on his way to the lab. He wouldn’t take all this stuff home with him. There’s no reason to move it. Do you think someone broke in and stole it? Who would do that?”

  Greg tried Larry’s number again. C’mon Larry! Where are you? Still no answer. Why aren’t you picking up? Are you with Darian? Kathy’s question was a good one. Who could possibly have any motive to steal their equipment and all their data? Was Larry in trouble too, or was he involved, somehow?

  Kathy’s mind still reeled from the data, memories, and thoughts that had assaulted her earlier. She couldn’t make sense of the flashing images, but she was sure it was an emergency broadcast from Darian’s internal neural lattice to their own—a desperate effort by a dying scientist to continue his legacy the only way he could. She had no proof, only a feeling…and an empty lab.

  “We have to call the police,” she said.

  “And tell them what?”

  “Darian’s missing. The RAF generator is missing. We don’t know where Larry is.”

  Greg wasn’t so sure. “Darian never sends messages over the public systems. We don’t even have proof that he talked to us earlier.”

  “But Larry and the RAF device, too? That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “How would anyone know, besides us? Maybe the two of them went out hiking for the weekend or took a trip together. Maybe they got drunk and took the RAF generator as a prank. Maybe they needed a bigger lab space or some specialized equipment in another lab. Who knows?”

  Kathy stared at him. “I can’t believe you’re saying that. You know what hit us. Darian is dead, or at least hurt badly. That was sheer desperation, what he sent out.”

  Greg sighed. “Maybe. Maybe not. We can’t prove anything. How do you know it wasn’t just a program glitch? Think about it. There’s no sign of a struggle here. Nobody but us knows Darian got the device working. Maybe he and Larry are just out for a long walk, talking about the next steps.

  “I know what you think hit us in that transmission but, the truth is, we don’t know anything yet. We’re just guessing. What if they’re on the way over right now with the RAF laptop and a box of doughnuts to celebrate?

  “And don’t forget. Our own dendy lattices are still growing and adjusting in our heads. Maybe what broadsided us was just the next level of growth, you know? Like maybe they’re linking us all together or something. What if Darian received our brain dumps in his lattice at the same time, and that’s why he’s not answering. See? We don’t really know anything. If we report it now, we’ll just embarrass Darian and the lab. The university is already giving him a rough time; we don’t need to add any more negative attention.”

  “We can prove the device is missing.”

  “We can claim that a non-functioning piece of lab equipment is missing. Basically, a fancy laptop, that’s about all. What else do we have? An empty anti-theft frame in a lab. And we all have a key.” He held up his key ring. “Darian has one, and
so does Larry. Until we talk to them, we don’t know whether one or both of them have the generator with them.”

  Kathy walked over to the lab bench where the RAF device should have been. She looked down at the empty frame. “Okay, so even with witnesses who know what was here in the lab, we have no real proof that it was stolen.”

  “No, and we don’t have any proof that Darian and Larry are missing, hurt, or dead, either. Just a private lattice conversation that no one else can access.”

  “We’re going to look hysterical, aren’t we?”

  “If we call now, hysterical is the best we could hope for. More likely, crazy. And if anyone did believe us, we’d be looking like the prime suspects.”

  “What do you think we should we do?”

  “I’m not sure. I mean, what have we got to work with? Nothing concrete, not really. It felt like Darian blasted out all this data, the essence of his self, to us in a real panic. We have to report his disappearance to the police eventually; I know that. But until we have a better idea of what actually happened, until we’re sure he’s truly missing, I don’t think there’s much we can do, or should do. Let’s give it a few hours. If we don’t hear from him, and he doesn’t show up for work—“

  “You mean, when he doesn’t show up for work. C’mon, Greg. You know what we experienced. That was a dying gasp.”

  “I know what it felt like, but I’m trying not to jump to any conclusions. Besides, the police won’t do anything until he’s been missing for at least twenty-four hours. So when he doesn’t show up for work, we’ll go talk to Dr. Wong. He can make the call.”

  Greg frowned and his eyes scanned the lab again. “In the meantime, let’s leave a note here in case they show up, and walk the route back to his apartment. He could be somewhere between his place and the lab. Maybe he fell, or got mugged or something. If we can find some sign—his backpack, a loose shoe, or something solid—then we can go to the police.”

  “What about the RAF generator?”

  “Until we can figure out what happened and what he’d want us to do, I think we need to keep quiet. I don’t think we should tell anyone, not even the police, that Darian got the Reality Assertion Field working. It’ll make no difference to their investigation, and it could make things worse. Right now, we’re the only ones who know it works, besides Darian. If you’re right, if somebody stole it, we don’t know who’s involved or what they know. If they find out that the RAF theory is right, and they know we helped design and test it, we could be next.”

  Kathy’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t even thinking about that. Do you think we’re in danger? Darian wouldn’t have told anyone else about the RAF generator working. Even Larry wouldn’t have known that yet. Remember? We were supposed to tell him on the way.”

  “And Larry didn’t answer his phone or door,” Greg added. “I know I said I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but I have to admit, it’s not looking good. I know, that’s typical Larry, not answering. But with everything else…”

  He came to a decision. “Okay, let’s walk to Darian’s place and see if we can come up with anything more solid to report. If we can’t, we’ll give it overnight. If we haven’t seen them by 10 a.m. Monday—tomorrow—we’ll go talk to the Department Chair. Dr. Wong will need to know what’s going on, anyway, and maybe the police will take it more seriously if he reports it.”

  Kathy looked around the lab. Her shoulders sank. “I feel useless.”

  Greg pulled her into a hug. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do. I hate this, too, not knowing what’s going on. I hate that I don’t dare activate my lattice so I can think properly. I imagine all the little bits of Darian’s mind out there, waiting to storm into us the second our lattices are up. Waiting to overwhelm and incapacitate us.”

  Kathy’s face snuggled into his shoulder and she mumbled, “I don’t like being just normal again. Do you?”

  Chapter 2

  “AND HOW LONG WILL YOU BE HERE in Casa DonTon, Mr. Trillian?” Lady Frieda, the oldest and most obviously available of five sisters, played with her dark curls.

  The sumptuously appointed Family Dining Room bubbled with bravado and promise. The two-dozen guests who had bagged some game in the afternoon’s hunt were the only ones invited to join the family for this intimate repast. Along with Mr. Trillian, of course. As the wealthy scion of a powerful industrialist of mysterious reputation, Mr. Trillian was an attractive catch.

  The fact that he was also achingly handsome, athletic, and available, garnered him an invitation to dine with the family, despite his obvious distaste for chasing very small foxes with very large horses, slathering hounds, and ridiculously oversized guns. His intentionally dismal performance in the hunt, bordering on outright refusal to participate, did nothing to dissuade Lady Frieda and her sisters from their lavish flirting.

  The object of the young ladies’ attentions apologized, “Sadly, ladies, I must take my leave before the evening wears too late. I have pressing business to attend to.” Five disappointed pouts appeared. “However, I do hope you will permit me the honor of visiting again soon.” The bachelorettes brightened straight away.

  “Well, we have you for now, and we shan’t let you off without at least one dance each,” chirped the youngest of the five, Lady Mirabel. Mr. Trillian bowed his head to her in polite acquiescence.

  “Miry, my precious, please let Mr. Trillian finish his meal in peace,” her father, Lord Chattingbaron, chastised. “He has far more important matters to attend to than some silly dancing, I’m sure.”

  “Nothing could be as important to me as spending the evening in the company of your lovely and charming family, my Lord.” Mr. Trillian held up a hand to stem his host’s mock objection. “Unfortunately, my investors insist that I elevate their mundane material priorities above my own pleasures. I must visit the office this evening.” He smiled graciously at Lady Frieda, setting her heart aflutter, and sampled the roasted mutton.

  “I, for one, find discussing matters of business distasteful at the evening meal,” declared Lady Chattingbaron with a flick of her napkin. “Tell me, Mr. Trillian, Did you enjoy your ride today?”

  “Very much so. You have the most wonderful grounds, and the forest is magnificent.” Trillian flourished his fork and speared piece of meat in evidence of the family’s bountiful estate. “Lady Adelle gave me quite the competition in jumping the brooks, I’m afraid.”

  Lady Adelle blushed to a shade befitting the dashing man’s compliment. Four sets of artfully shaped brows scowled discreetly at his approval of her riding skills.

  Timothy, the family’s First Footman, removed the remains of the main course from in front of the young heiresses. Their figures would not tolerate the excessive ingestion of heavy meat and potatoes anyway, not if they wished to draw the attention of the likes of Mr. Trillian. Timothy nodded to Mr. Gowling, the Chief Butler. It was time to light the Peach Flambé.

  As desserts were offered, some of the young men took the opportunity to engage Lady Frieda and her sisters in small talk not relating to the dashing Mr. Trillian.

  Timothy started dessert service with his Lordship at the head of the table and worked his way around until he’d completed nearly a full circle. He stopped in front of Mr. Trillian and presented the polished tray holding hot brandied peaches and ice cream.

  The guest didn’t notice Timothy standing expectantly beside him; he was, instead, completely preoccupied with a nondescript closet door on the opposite wall.

  Timothy subtly cleared his throat to draw the man’s attention, but Mr. Trillian’s focus remained abnormally fixated on the closet.

  Timothy was about to cough quietly a second time when the room went fuzzy, and he heard a dozen bees passing within inches of his ears. Years of training and discipline helped him to hold onto the dessert tray instead of frantically batting away at the loathsome insects. He struggled to maintain his stooped position without sending the peaches flying from his outstretched hands, but it was too muc
h.

  Against his efforts, he jerked the silver platter, sending the remaining delicate cut-glass bowls to the edge of the tray, where they bumped against the rails and spilled a little juice onto the table linen. The unexpected clatter wrenched Mr. Trillian’s gaze away from the closet. The buzzing in Timothy’s ears stopped, as did conversation among the startled diners. All eyes turned to Timothy, who stood in uncharacteristically stunned silence.

  Lady Chattingbaron jumped up from her seat. “Whatever has gotten into you, Timothy?” she demanded.

  Timothy was as surprised as anyone. Well, he was as surprised as any Partial could be, which, normally, wasn’t all that much. “One moment please, my Lady. I shall inquire of the DonTon Supervisor.”

  Initiate self-diagnostics–he sent the command to the local inworld supervisory program. The diagnostic generally reported findings within milliseconds. This time, it dragged on and on. Entire seconds passed. Most uncomfortably. People grew restless. They drummed their fingers and rolled their eyes. What was the holdup? This was most unusual. Completely unacceptable for a game such as DonTon.

  * * *

  THE DONTON INWORLD SIMULATION was as stable as the classic conservative Victorian England society it portrayed. It was not a demanding inworld, being filled with activities no more strenuous than dining, dancing, visiting, playing cards, flirting, and the occasional hunt. The main features hadn’t changed in millennia. The local physics were realistic, if somewhat simple. Since nobody ever examined the buildings or the wildlife too closely, they didn’t need to be overly detailed.

  Likewise, nobody paid much attention to the hundreds of thousands of servants, caretakers, town folk, or city folk. They were only Partials—Partial personas—a simple backdrop for the real entertainment, the endless pursuit and seduction of marriageable partners, and the creation of new family ties that carried out into the real universe.