“
“Thank you Edward.” Professor Lorentz pressed an icon outlined in red on the floating display in front of him and ‘RECORDING’ began to flash at the top of the VR screen.
“Okay team, we are up and running. Everybody stand by, please,” he said.
The computer now began churning through an automated program, displaying each step and its result onscreen. Although everybody on the project was receiving the same feed, and the VR-Comp was recording everything in real time, Lorentz still read each step aloud as the computer progressed — old habits died hard, at his age.
“Phase 1 Diagnostics: Complete.” And: “Phase 2: Diagnostics: complete. System Diagnosis: Optimal.”
The transformer in the corner of the room began to power-up, emitting a low whine that rattled the protective bars of its cage like a monkey testing the security of its enclosure. The whine slowly grew in pitch until it passed out of the range of human hearing, leaving behind a low
Then: “Power: Engaged.” The old scientist’s screen flashed a message in bold green letters:
System Diagnosis: Completed.
Power Level: Optimal.
And a few lines underneath that, outlined by a flashing red border, a single icon glowed beckoningly.
He regarded the screen for a few moments longer, savoring the moment before finally turning to look directly at the black box on its table and his associate professor standing expectantly next to it, holding the microphone in her hand.
“Alright, fire her up,” he whispered and pressed the engage icon.
PART-TWO
“It is hard to have patience with people who say ‘There is no death’ or ‘Death doesn’t matter.’ There is death and whatever is matters.”
“Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life.”
Six
Rebecca Lacey woke up screaming. Her fingers twisted into claws that grasped at the cloth of her sodden, sweat soaked tee-shirt, bunching handfuls of the material until the shirt was pulled far enough up to expose the lean paleness of her damp belly. Her breath exploded in short, ragged, panting gasps as tears spilled over her scarlet cheeks and beads of perspiration dribbled over her naked arms and legs.
She heard her words as if from a distance, more pleading than spoken. “Oh… God! Oh… God.” A mantra of horror repeated over and over as her heart rattled behind her ribs, a terrified animal trying to escape its cage.
The dream — it felt so real — started out so wonderfully. She was somewhere beautiful. The half- remembered sensation of running her hands through long grass. Warmth. A wonderful light that permeated all things. And clouds. The scent of something so… she could not remember, there was no word to describe the wonderful fragrance.
And then it was all gone, ripped away from her in an instant and replaced by a horror so profound that her very breath froze in her lungs.
The
She could still see it glinting in the light of the naked bulb that hung from the bare stucco ceiling of her apartment, the glass lampshade shattered on the floor where her head had smashed it into a hundred pieces.
The stranger had twisted the knife back and forth, back and forth, letting it glint and scintillate across her eyes, his face inches from her own, and his breath hot against her cheek.
She felt the frigid keenness of the blade as he traced its point from her forehead over the ridge of her nose and across her lips, sliding it down the curve of her throat until it reached her breastbone.
An everlasting pause and then:
He had sliced away one of the buttons of her blouse.
A moan of terror had escaped her lips.
“Oh please, no. God. No,” she whispered.
He had worked his way through all of the buttons, his breathing becoming more and more rapid, and then,
Rebecca threw herself over the side of the bed and heaved a steady stream of vomit that spread in a rank pool across the carpet and splashed against her ghost-white skin.
She kept throwing-up until there was nothing left, just dry heaves that forced the breath from her until she thought she would choke to death. And, when finally that was over she started screaming. A shrill horrified ululation that escaped from deep down within her soul shattering the calm of the room before petering off to a low sobbing howl of pain and fear.
The door to her bedroom burst open. Between her wracking sobs of terror, she managed to lift her head towards the two people who now stood in the doorway and mumble through chapped, vomit caked, lips, “Mom… Dad… he killed me. He killed me.”
In the doorway, Mr. and Mrs. Lacey stood in their nightclothes and as the early morning sun shone through the bedroom window, framing them in a beam of dust-mote filled light, Jim Lacey, his eyes agog, fell to his knees and began to weep like a baby at the sight of his child. Sarah Lacey, her hair disheveled and tumbled, crossed the space between the door and her daughter in two quick bounds. Then she gently took Rebecca in her arms and held her until Becky could hardly breathe, all the while keening in her daughter’s ear, “You’re alive, praise Jesus. You’re alive.”
Seven
Oh, if only Jupiter would give me back my past years
“…fine.”
Jim Baston blinked at the sudden change of lighting.
