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  PURE REALITY

  PART TWO

  RYAN RINSLER

  1

  “As part of your pre-simulation evaluation, Mr. Cooper,” said Stanley, “we analyze the neurons in your brain and make sure there’s nothing unusual going on.”

  He watched as Connor placed on the cap, then, picking up his BlackBook, he dismissed a few standard notifications as the device began to analyze Connor’s brain patterns.

  Everything looks normal for his first time, thought Stanley. Anxiety a little high, but then he does seem a bit of a baby…He’s not going to last a day in 1920s gangland. A lot of temporal and frontal activity. Wow, this guy is on edge.

  Suddenly an alert displayed on Stanley’s BlackBook screen — “BlackBook connectivity suspended. Contact level eight clearance immediately.” He held his breath for a second, his heart began thumping in realization. This is big.

  “Sorry, Mr. Cooper, my BlackBook just gave up. One moment.” Maybe one of those idiots left one here, he thought, scrabbling through the desk drawers. “Never more than one meter away from a BlackBook these days,” he said with relief as he found one ready to go.

  After finishing up Connor’s pre-simulation evaluation, he left him to dress and hastily made his way out of the room. He walked as quickly as he could without running, his buttocks clenched, feet moving in a blur.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  He took out the second BlackBook as he walked and signed in. “Call Ella Stamford.”

  After a moment she answered. He smiled as genuinely as possible in an effort to sound sincere. “Hi Ella,” he said. “How are you today?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Dr. Chen.”

  “What is it, Stanley?”

  “Oh, I was just wondering if you’d like to meet me for lunch today?”

  “What?”

  “You see,” he continued, “my friend is in town and she was thinking about attending some art galleries. I thought you might know of some.”

  There was a pause.

  “Meet me in twenty minutes at the sandwich place I like,” she said, and abruptly hung up. Stanley increased his pace, and as the double doors opened with a swoosh at the end of the main corridor, he jumped as two men, one official-looking in a suit and a young intern in a lab coat, were stepping through it at the same time from the other direction.

  “Hello, Mr. Chen,” said the suit. “Please, follow me.”

  “Who are you?”

  “We’re with Internal Investigations.”

  A Scout, thought Stanley, a little nervous. He looked at his spotty assistant. “Both of you?”

  “Please come this way.”

  Stanley looked at the Scout sharply. “May I see some identification?”

  The man shrugged and produced his clearance card. “Agent Carrot,” read Stanley aloud. Hah, Carrot. “What’s this about?” he asked.

  Ignoring his question, Agent Carrot turned and began walking, his teenaged tech assistant following almost on his heels. Stanley followed, having to almost jog to keep up.

  “Do you have the BlackBook?” asked Agent Carrot without turning around.

  “My BlackBook?”

  The Scout turned to him, then to his assistant. His assistant looked back, then nervously spoke, “There, there was a CR15,” he stammered. “On your BlackBook, there was a CR15 notification.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Stanley. “A CR15. How could I forget?”

  “Come this way,” said Agent Carrot, turning and walking off at speed.

  Suddenly a man burst from a nearby room, out of breath, his suit jacket hanging off. He looked at the three of them rather panicked.

  Stanley was surprised to see him. “Neil!”

  “Stanley,” said Neil, panting, “Ambrose wants to see you right away.”

  The three of them looked shocked. “Richard Ambrose?”

  “Yeah, he said something about a CB15?”

  “CR15,” said the tech kid, instantly regretting speaking out.

  “Whatever, he just said he wants you up there, like, now,” said Neil catching his breath, his wavy hair sticking out as though he’d just been in a fight.

  “Sorry guys it looks like you’ve been outranked,” said Stanley, shrugging at Agent Carrot.

  “We will escort you,” he replied.

  “No!” exclaimed Neil. “No, Ambrose said that because it is a CR15 there needs to be only a level eight and the tech who owned the BlackBook. That’s me and him I guess,” he said, pointing to Stanley.

  Stanley nodded in agreement, knowing full well Richard Ambrose, lead BlackBook designer, wouldn’t even see Stanley to fire him, let alone anything remotely important or company related.

  The Scout and the tech turned and paced off quickly as Stanley and Neil ducked out of a nearby exit, making their way upstairs.

  “They’re gonna know,” said Stanley as they came into a known black spot in surveillance, where cameras didn’t reach and the background noise of nearby machinery affected recorded audio. “If anyone was listening to that conversation they’re gonna know. You took too big a risk.”

  “They were gonna take it off you, you need to get that analyzed pronto.”

  “Ella’s taking ca—”

  Neil interrupted him with a hand on his chest as they had left the blackout zone, gesturing with a nod toward an exit as he pushed open a side door. Stanley continued to walk and made his way upstairs to the exit of the building as quickly as he could. He strode through the Pure Reality lobby, heading for the revolving door, purposely avoiding eye contact with anyone in his vicinity. As the sunlight hit his face his pace quickened, leaving behind the Pure Reality compound and making his way deeper into Silk Town.

  Silk Town was a ten kilometer square area of Mountain View, California, and was home to Silk Headquarters, Pure Reality, their entire research and development center and most of the assembly factories. There were also residential areas for employees, comprising hundreds of high rises, and some more exclusive properties in the hills which were reserved for the elite board members. Silk Town was under constant surveillance, through automated CCTV, bio scanning and traditional human presence. Any comings or goings by any type of vehicle were recorded, including Gyros, and those on foot had to pass through a series of checkpoints as they entered or left the perimeter of the town.

  Stanley was nervous.

  He walked quickly, head down, hands in his pockets, feeling a million eyes on him as he glanced toward the drone cameras that operated twenty-four hours a day. They were automatic, pilotless, seeking out heat readings and going after them to investigate, with a human at the other end of the camera in case of an alert.

  After a swift ten-minute walk, he arrived at a small commercial precinct — six food outlets surrounding a quaint seating area and garden. This was one of the main congregation areas for the Pure Reality staff and a common area for them to meet.

  He wasn’t here to chat out in the open on some garden bench. Pushing through the door of Daisy’s Deli he made his way to the counter, where there stood a chubby, middle-aged woman serving customers.

  “Hello Daisy,” said Stanley over the hubbub of diners.

  “Stanley!” she said with a beaming smile. “Are you here for the usual?”

  “Yes please,” he replied. “Has Ella arrived? She is helping me with something.”

  “Yes, she got here a few minutes ago. She’s waiting for you in the lounge.”

  He quickly headed over to a closed door in the corner of the room, and with a turn of the stiff handle pushed his way through it and stepped into the quiet lounge. The room was rustic, shabby chic, through age more than art, and besides some old sofas and a bookcase, it was empty.

  He turned and closed the door, locking it quietly. With a quick, cursory gl
ance around the room to check there was still no surveillance cameras, he headed to a sofa which was pushed up against the wall. The floor creaked conspicuously as he walked, and down at his feet, Stanley baulked as he noticed the green anti-static shoe covers still wrapped around his feet from the Pure Reality lab.

  He carefully dragged the sofa out to forty-five degrees, revealing a small, well-concealed trap door in the bare floorboards, a small rope handle waiting enticingly to be pulled. It yanked it open with a squeak and he peered down into the hole, a sudden gust of stale air puffing out.

  Great.

  He turned and stepped down into the hatch, and after gingerly making his way carefully down a short ladder toward the darkly lit basement, he closed the trap door behind him and shut out the remaining light. It was hot and stuffy, and the air smelled ‘old’, like there had been no fresh circulation in there for fifty years.

  As he reached the floor he saw Ella, waiting restlessly, a dim flashlight beside her. She was stocky in build, short with a tight, long ponytail. She didn’t bother with makeup, at least not for work, as in her opinion there were far more important things to take care of than her own appearance.

  “This had better be good,” she said immediately, straight to the point as usual. Right now, they didn’t waste any time on small talk, but Ella always spoke as though she couldn’t be bothered listening to anyone — short sentences, an exasperated tone in her voice at all times. The way she constantly sighed at everything bothered Stanley to the point of grievance, often being made to feel inadequate, intentionally or otherwise. But Ella was an ally, and a level eight ally at that.

  “I had a guest earlier who prompted a level eight clearance inspection,” Stanley replied.

  “Do you have it with you?”

  He handed her the BlackBook.

  “You know, Stanley,” said Ella as she opened it up, “there are over eight thousand POIs who could have triggered this. It’s probably not gonna be anyone useful.”

  Stanley leaned in and spoke dramatically, “A Scout came and tried to get it off me,” he said. “He looked important.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “Luckily Neil found out about it somehow and came and got me out of there,” he replied. “He said Ambrose wanted to see me with it.”

  “That’s gonna take some explaining,” she said as she sat down on a dusty bench and began swiping on the BlackBook.

  “Neil will make something up,” he replied. “You’re sure they can’t detect us down here?”

  “That’s why we’re down here, dummy,” she replied as she tapped away.

  After a few minutes of waiting impatiently, he stood on his tiptoes to try and glimpse what she was doing. “Anything?”

  “Patience.”

  He took off his lab coat and fanned himself with a small notebook. He hated it in that bunker — his claustrophobia would kick in as soon as he stepped on the ladder, but it was a necessity. It was a safe place, one free of surveillance, almost a Faraday cage in its ability to block communication in and out of it. Nobody knew about that bunker apart from six people, including Daisy up in the deli, and with Stanley only being on the fringe of the resistance he thankfully had rarely a reason or opportunity to go down there.

  Right now he was hoping for something useful to come of this meeting — his reputation in the guerilla operation not being one of particular stature. He wasn’t part of it for the accolade, he was there for the same reason as everyone else — to make a difference — but if this person of interest was significant, this event may be a way to show his quality and earn more respect between the ranks. Ella was particularly curt with Stanley, or so it seemed to him, so to add value to the operation may put them somewhat on an even keel. With a sweaty brow, he glanced over again.

  “What’s taking so long?” he asked.

  She looked up at him with a frown. “Do you want to do it?”

  “I’m not rushing you, genuine question,” he said defensively, raising his hands.

  “Well, for starters it doesn’t just give me all the information straight away,” she said. “You have to go through a hundred security hoops which are nearly impossible down here.” She dropped her head and continued working, and with a deep breath Stanley crouched against the wall.

  “Everything is locked down,” she continued, “and trying to do anything with no connectivity is, shall we say, difficult.”

  Stanley sighed. They were both risking a lot down there by not delivering the BlackBook immediately. There was a lot of explaining that had to be done, and a lot of holes in their story that would need to be filled if they were to keep their heads above water. They were playing a dangerous game, and one wrong step could result in serious consequences.

  “Don’t get your hopes up Stanley,” Ella continued. “It’s probably just some guy who shot his wife ten years ago.”

  “He totally fits the description though.”

  Without looking up she replied with a wry smile, “So did the other three you brought me.”

  He forced an open laugh, inwardly annoyed with her wisecracks. What am I supposed to do? His knees jigged up and down as he crouched, his sweaty hands rubbing together, waiting for any news from Ella.

  “OK, we’re getting somewhere,” she said. “One more hoop to jump through and I think we’re there.”

  She tapped furiously on the BlackBook as though she were writing a strongly worded message until finally, Stanley saw the blue flash light up her face as the BlackBook unlocked. “OK, event report,” she said quietly, reading a list on the screen. “Lockdown, lockdown, security attempts, this is all me…Ah, CR15.” She clicked on the CR15 report and read it quietly. “I doubt you downloaded the POI catalog before you came down here but, fortunately for you, I did,” she said, pulling her BlackBook from her pocket.

  She flipped it open and browsed to a database of files. “OK, let’s see if we can get a match.” She dragged the CR15 file, comprising a huge 2048-bit encrypted key, from Stanley’s BlackBook onto her own. The act of dragging and touching the edge of the screen with the file, while holding the BlackBook above another would instigate a copying of the file automatically via Bluetooth. Once the file copied over, her BlackBook began scanning for a match against the database.

  “This may take a while,” she said. “2048-bit encryption is a big old number.”

  “I don’t think he’s going to be here for more than a few days.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Twenties gangster. Designed.”

  “Oh, interesting,” she said. “If he is someone useful then we might be able to get in there before he leaves.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Stanley. “No Silk Corp in the twenties, so no security.”

  “Quite,” replied Ella.

  Suddenly the BlackBook beeped as it found a match. Stanley blew out his cheeks in nervousness and excitement.

  Ella picked it up and examined it. Stanley watched as her eyes widened, and her fingertips started to twitch.

  “Who is it?” he asked excitedly.

  “You’re not...umm...”

  “What? Who is it?”

  Ella looked at Stanley. “It’s him.”

  2

  Connor’s eyes opened, the subdued light aching his retinas. He lay there, watching as the blemish on the ceiling came slowly into focus, reminding him of where he was. He’d seen that mark every morning – every single morning. But today, it just wasn’t the same.

  His troubled sleep had lasted forty-six hours — forty-six hours of painful dreams and vivid nonsense, broken up only by the occasional and brief respite of vague and haunted consciousness.

  He lay there, staring at the ceiling.

  It was real. All of it. I watched a man die.

  Red died.

  In Red, Connor had a connection with a person he had never had before. It wasn’t like a normal friendship or family bond, it was more like he expected the bond of conjoined twins to be. He shared his brain,
his body. He shared his heart and everything that kept him alive and made him who he was. He shared his life — not his lifestyle — his life essence. His biology. It was like nothing he had ever experienced.

  The hairs on his neck stood up as he thought of the world in which he left behind, one of danger and conflict, but one that was balanced before he arrived, at least as much as it could be. His blood ran cold as he pictured the way in which he left it.

  Edna.

  He was responsible. During the experience he’d assumed he was being led down a path, guided from step to step, until he ultimately made the decision to include Edna in the heist. At the time it was a guilt-free decision, but knowing what he knew now, it was all him. There was no ‘design’, and no guided experience. Their ‘designed experiences’ were simply finding a universe which fit the description. Everything that happened, every event that unfolded was real, not the brainchild of some kid in a design team.

  The ending of his experience had arrived so suddenly, he’d no time to tie up loose ends. Had it been as they described, a story-boarded course of situations and missions which culminated in a grand finale, there would have been more closure. Instead, Donnie had regained his strength and caught him off guard. What had happened to Charlie, Eric and Paulie he’d no idea. Perhaps he would never know. What he did know was what happened to Edna. He thought of her mother, calling her from the garden, and how she would feel when she heard the news her daughter had been shot while driving a getaway vehicle in the robbery of two pensioners. Tears welled in his eyes as he pictured her receiving the news, and having to go to the station to identify her daughter’s body. And it was all his idea.

  It’s not your fault.

  He was put into that situation without fully understanding what he was participating in. The concept of a kid driving his getaway vehicle on the way from the armed robbery of two elderly business-people was so alien to him, he couldn’t fathom why he’d got so carried away in the moment. It was a game. Or at least it was at the time. He was under the impression there were no consequences. But there were.

  Suddenly remembering the fact he physically shared saliva and other bodily fluids with Red, nausea crept up his throat and threatened to manifest itself. The act of tonguing his teeth, of washing his private areas. He shut out those thoughts as quickly as they entered.