by Paul Anlee
Paul realized he was staring back. I must sound crazy.
Fortunately, a doctor arrived before he could make things worse by trying to explain. The physician consulted briefly with the nurse as he examined Darian for himself and began quizzing Paul on the boy’s medical history. This time, Paul’s answers were better organized and he didn’t mention the dendies.
The physician ordered an x-ray and EEG, and promised to return when they were ready.
Paul picked up the waiting clipboard and started filling out insurance forms. He couldn't afford to indulge the painful memories flooding his mind, memories of the last time he sat in a hard plastic hospital chair, completing forms. He forced his concentration to attend to the task at hand, watching the pen spread ink across each box, one answer at a time.
Darian didn’t wake up, but the tension in his muscles finally relaxed. As the muscles eased, so did his father's panic. It was just a seizure. Everything’s going to be okay—he told himself.
Within the hour, the doctor returned with the x-ray and EEG results. He inspected the x-ray, tipped his head quizzically, and leaned in closer to the image. A quizzical frown pulled at his brow. Without a word, he shifted his focus to the EEG. The frown deepened.
The doctor paged the technicians. He took them aside and proceeded to interrogate them. The trio went back and forth between the reports, discussing one section and then another in low, hushed voices. They agreed the images and recordings were unusual but defended their work. The doctor turned to Paul.
“Mr. Leigh, your son has presented us with a bit of a mystery.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, here.” the doctor placed the x-ray film in the light box. “The x-ray is showing some unusual speckle and diffuse haze. I thought there must be something wrong with the machine or the detector, but the technician says he checked everything over himself, and swears it’s all working properly. He took three images from different angles to confirm, and they all show the same thing.”
Twelve years unwound in a flash. Paul stared at the x-ray image in horror. “That can’t be,” he whispered. The image could have been a copy of the one taken of Sharon’s head on the day of the accident.
The doctor raised a questioning eyebrow. Paul only shook his head, numb with disbelief.
The doctor continued, “His EEG is a little strange, as well. There is a lot of electrical activity. It doesn’t look like an epileptic seizure but, then again, it doesn’t look like normal brainwaves, either. Have you seen this before? Do you know something you’d like to share with me?”
Paul cleared his throat. “I have no idea,” he managed, avoiding the doctor’s gaze.
“Hm. Okay.” the doctor replied, unconvinced. “Listen, I’m a bit of a technology buff, and I like to keep up to date with the newest developments. That speckle pattern on your son’s x-ray appears very similar to those I've seen in research articles about Neuro Nano dendy lattices. Have you heard of those?”
“Yes, of course. Actually, it was my wife who invented the field. I still own a few shares in the company.”
“Is that right? Then you might know that the neural lattice is restricted to areas over the sensorimotor cortex, the occipital cortex, and the temporal lobes?”
“No, not really. It was her work; I’m not a scientist. She used to talk about it with me, but that was years ago. She passed away when Darian was born. I haven’t kept up with developments these past few years.”
“I see. Maybe you’re aware that neural lattices are only approved for use in adults?”
“I’d heard something like that.”
“So, would you like to explain to me why your son's x-ray shows a lattice, and why has it spread so far?”
Paul was genuinely bewildered, “I honestly have no idea.”
“Nurse Ranson said you mentioned that the boy's mother, your wife, died after a similar seizure some years ago.”
“Yes.”
“And, if I remember correctly, she was the first person ever to grow a neural lattice.”
“Yes, she was the first test case; she injected the dendies herself. I didn’t even know she’d done it until months later, when she had the seizure. I never even got to talk to her about it.”
“I’d like to get her file and compare it to your son’s, if I may.”
“Yes, of course.”
The doctor was still eyeing him, expecting further details or maybe a confession, but Paul was too distracted by all the thoughts reeling through his mind to notice.
Did Sharon’s dendies make their way into our son? Dr. Holden had said Darian was clear; there was no sign of them in any of the testing.
He agonized over what he did, and did not, know; over what he should reveal, and shouldn’t. I need to talk to Nick and Dr. Holden.
Darian moaned. "Where am I?" He blinked his eyes against the bright lights and looked around the room, confused and frightened.
“You’re back,” the doctor said with a smile, and started a physical check and neural exam. “What do you remember?”
Darian relayed his last memories of sitting on the sofa at home, reading some scientific articles. He seemed mentally and physically fine, the doctor concluded, despite having been unconscious for the previous hour. The boy’s muscles were aching but that was to be expected.
The doctor ordered follow-up tests, including an MRI and full EEG for the next day. With nothing left to do but observe, they transferred Darian out of Emergency and into a room. The ward nurse got him set up with some fluids to help balance his electrolytes. She wrangled some dinners from the cafeteria, for which Darian and Paul were grateful.
Darian was ravenous. They visited a while, and then Paul left his exhausted son to rest, promising to return the next morning. There was something he had to take care of.
Miraculously, Paul’s car had not been towed from the side of the Ambulance Parking area where he'd left it. He got in and gripped the steering wheel for a while, giving in to overpowering sobs that wracked his frame. He regained control of his emotions, except for his anger, and pulled out his phone.
Cold, grim determination took the place of fear and confusion. He scrolled through the contact list until he found Nick’s number. His thumb flexed rapidly, undecidedly, over the entry. His first thought had been to call ahead and make sure the scientist was at home and awake, but he couldn't bring himself to dial. What would he say?
Nick’s apartment was only a short drive away. He started the car.
13
Darya tucked, rolled and sprung to her feet, exhausted, but with her sword at the ready and prepared to kill or die. Conserve energy. Evaluate. Breathe. Attack.
The mantra saved her from reflexively dispatching the wide-eyed team member who’d yanked her through the doorway.
“Princess,” someone whispered from inside a swirling haze of barn dust.
Darya covered her mouth to keep from choking. Behind her, a hand swung the door closed, sending a fresh updraft of dust into the air. She blinked furiously against the grit, and let her eyes adjust to the low light.
Four worried faces came into focus and, behind them, a half-dozen anxious faces she recognized from today's new recruits.
“What are you doing here?" she hissed to the senior acolytes. "You’re supposed to be gone!”
They fidgeted like guilty children and avoided her gaze. “We’re sorry, Princess. The new recruits wanted to watch the dragon fight. We thought it would be okay just for a few minutes, but when that second dragon arrived, we couldn’t look away. When the Securitors showed up, we got out of there as fast as we could. By the time we got to the keep it was already surrounded.”
“They must have found out about our back door,” Darya said. “Either Securitor intrusive devices have improved significantly, or someone revealed the location.” Darya placed her bet on the latter.
“Can you get us out of the castle?” asked one of the acolytes, “or is there somewh
ere we can hide until they’re gone?”
Darya’s shoulders slumped; she had no energy left to put on a strong face. “There's nowhere to hide. The Securitors will turn the kingdom upside down until they’re satisfied they’ve caught every transgressor, and then they’ll decommission Lysrandia. Anyone left here inworld will die when they shut down the simulation.”
They kept listening, expecting her to divulge some plan to save them all. When she didn’t, they looked crushed.
I imagine right now everybody’s mulling over whether they’d be better off taking their chances with me, or surrendering and turning informer on the movement—she thought.
“There might be one other way out for some of us. I kept a hidden emergency exit, one I didn’t tell anyone about. It has limitations, though. It can only handle one transfer at a time, and it needs to reset between transfers. With the Securitors monitoring inworld traffic, there’s no way we’ll all get out before they find us.”
She let the acolytes digest this for a minute.
“But some of us will escape,” came a hopeful voice from the back.
“Yes, some of us. We’ll have to see what the situation around the exit is, first. Then we can calculate an optimal approach.”
The disciples exchanged glances, seeking agreement. They nodded consent in unison. Darya hoped she had enough energy left for a final push to freedom.
The exit was situated inside a nondescript maintenance shed near the rear castle wall. The shed housed little more than a mop, a bucket, and a sink. Every day, a couple of the castle servants would wash down nearby stone walks and pathways with the mop and bucket. They had no idea an escape gate to the outworld could be activated through a special combination of actions inside the shed.
Darya led her troupe through the stables and out the back door. The streets were considerably less crowded now. The Securitors had been ruthlessly efficient at tangle-tagging the majority of the crowd. They were now rooting out the more innovative evaders and escorting them to the parking area for processing.
We don’t have much time left! They raced to the outside wall as quietly as they could, and followed it to the shed in the back corner. Mercifully, it had been overlooked by the Securitors. So far.
Darya instructed the group on the escape protocol. “Once inside, you activate the exit gate by moving the spout of the faucet all the way to the left, as far as it will go, and then all the way to the right. Then turn on the hot water, exactly half a turn, and then the cold, also half a turn. Finally, turn off the cold, and then the hot. It has to be in that exact order.
“Can you remember that? That’ll open the gate. A black field will appear over the drain in the floor. Step into it. The gate will disappear, and you’ll be on your way to the outworld. Only one person can use it at a time, and it needs about ten seconds to reset before the next person can go. Count twenty seconds between people going into the shed.”
“How long do we have before the Securitors arrive?”
Darya reviewed the movements of the Securitor forces they had encountered along the way, and estimated how many of the runners were still on the loose. Activating the escape gate would draw the Securitors’ attention.
There'll be a delay between the Securitors detecting the exit gate activation and being able to secure it. By the time orders to secure the shed trickle down the ranks to the closest units we might get maybe two minutes, tops. That would give us a ninety percent chance of completing five or six activations.
Counting herself, they needed eleven activations to get everyone to safety. It wasn’t looking good. She shared the bad news.
Her team members were practical, they excelled at problem-solving, and they weren’t ready to surrender just yet, “Is there some way we can slow down the Securitors? Maybe create a diversion?”
Darya struggled to think of a way to improve their odds. Her processing center was slowing down, getting sluggish. “No matter what we use to distract them, as soon as we activate that gate, they’ll drop whatever they’re doing and head our way.”
“What if we….” The group threw out a few wild ideas, but nothing stuck.
We’re wasting time. Darya knew what had to be done, but didn’t have the heart to tell them until they’d run out of other options. The time had come.
“If we give up three of us, we can save eight. The three will get tangle-tagged and interrogated by the Securitors, who will assume they hold significant knowledge about the movement. The questioning will be severe and probably end in a complete personality wipe. Three of us will have to fight—to fight and die—to save the rest.”
“Then you need to get out first. We can decide among ourselves who else we can save.”
Darya started to object. She had endangered these people; she needed to protect them for as long as possible. But the rebellion was based on reason and, all noble gestures aside, reason held that there would be no rebellion left without its leader. In the end, reason won.
“Very well. There’s no time to waste. Once I enter the shed, three of you cover the different routes here. Take implements to defend yourselves. Buy us as much time as you can. Those who follow me have to pass through the gate as quickly as possible. I hope my calculations overshot a bit and we can all make it through. I’ll contact you all in the outworld after some time. If I receive no answer, I’ll surmise you didn’t make it out. Know that you have my thanks as well as that of the movement, and I will find a way to notify your friends.”
It was decided; to linger any further would cost lives. Darya left them discussing who would go and who would stay and fight.
She opened the garden shed door, and entered. The small room smelled of damp mop and dirty water as it always did. A single tiny window high on one wall allowed in sufficient light to make out the faucet.
As she had instructed the others, she moved the spout and turned the water on and then off in sequence.
An ill-defined black field appeared noiselessly over the floor drain and she stepped into it, exiting Lysrandia forever.
14
It was a busy day for both Shard and monk. Darak strolled through a good part of Alumston, enjoying the charming ambience and hospitality, casually acquainting himself with the town and its people, and stopping to chat with random individuals at their work or play.
Everywhere he went, people were in a state of awe to see one so holy and so close to Alum. They found themselves captivated by his gentle and humble manner. His questions were genuine and kind, never seeking shortcomings or failings. Each person he spoke with felt, for a short while, like they were the most important person in town, their job was the most crucial, and their problems were the most pressing.
His suggestions on how to improve a process and how to smooth interactions among the People were perceived as inspired. Those fortunate enough to receive advice from him hurried to implement his ideas while it was still fresh in their minds. Love and praise followed him—in Alum’s Name, of course—wherever he went.
Brother Stralasi, too, covered a good part of Alumston that day, running around town like a chicken with its head cut off. The frantic monk fretted and scrambled to make preparations for departure, and to solidify sensible arrangements for coverage of his duties while he was away.
He tried in vain to convince the visiting Shard to perform an Official Blessing or give a sermon in Center Park. Each time, Darak politely demurred. “I’m here to talk, not orate.” Disappointed, the monk went about his business. There was no time to waste.
He appointed an interim Caretaker and did his best, given the few hours they had together, to bring the chosen junior Brother up to speed on the business of the Alumita.
Brother Westlock was nervous but enthusiastic about his new role as interim Head Brother. The novitiate had always been a quick and eager study, and Brother Stralasi felt confident that he'd rise to the challenge.
"It may surprise you to learn that spiritual guidance of the Peop
le is actually the easiest part of this position,” the Good Brother divulged. “It can be time-consuming, and at times demanding, but a job well done is rewarding and important. People appreciate it.
“The more challenging part of the assignment is ensuring Adherence. This is equally time consuming but utterly thankless. Indeed, if not conducted delicately, monitoring and ensuring Adherence can raise resentment.
“But you must remain strong; I cannot overemphasize the importance of this. Constant prayer drives the machinery of all the Worlds, and it is critical to demonstrate an adequate expression of the People’s love for Alum in order to continue receiving His Blessing. Continuity of prayers at the power station and at the starstep must be maintained without fail. Our survival depends on it; proceed accordingly.”
Westlock pursed his lips and blurted out his question before he could change his mind. "Brother, I've heard rumors about Founding towns that spent harsh winters in the cold, stranded outside Alum’s Web because of the negligence of an uncooperative starstep. They suffered terribly until Alum finally took pity and returned them to the fold. Are these stories true?"
Stralasi couldn’t bear to think of his beloved flock suffering that way. "Brother Westlock, I could graphically and emphatically describe to you how utterly dependent the physical wellbeing—the very survival—of the Colony is on our disciplined, pious observance. But I will let you imagine for yourself the horrors they will face, should you fail in this duty and Alumston become separated from The Realm."
Westlock's innocent face broadcasted his distress at the thought of such isolation. His mentor watched with a soft heart, anxious to see the result. Would this so far untested novitiate be up to the difficult task ahead?
The younger monk filled his lungs, straightened his back with confidence, and lifted a steady, even gaze to meet Brother Stralasi's own. “You can count on me.”
Seeing the soft, boyish face transformed by firm resolve, the Good Brother relaxed. He was pleased, and tremendously relieved, to see this promising young man he’d hand-selected stepping up to his new responsibilities so intently. Yes, he will do fine.