FIFTY FOUR

VR was a familiar place to Charles, a place where he would usually feel comfortable. Yet, tonight it felt different. Tonight, Charles didn’t feel welcome.

They had connected to Jesus but the code wasn’t working as it should. From what Johnny had told him, Charles knew they should be brought immediately to their safe place, welcomed by the Jesus doll and advised regarding their options. But that’s not the way it happened.

Instead, Charles 7 and Johnny Lyon were met with nothing. Literally. A blank canvas stretched as far as the eye could see.

The coils in his head were invisible, the mass of dreadlocks plug-free.

In his hand, Charles held a charge gun, the VR’s manifestation of the Logic Bomb he was packing. But there was nowhere to unleash it. The damn thing hung by his side as he searched the landscape for a landmark, some trace of the program’s AI.

The two men stood side-by-side. Charles felt a sudden chill rush through his bones.

‘What now, Johnny Lyon?’

Johnny shook his head.

‘I have no idea. It’s like the AI’s given up, shut itself down.’

‘The hell it has,’ Charles said. ‘Damn thing’s trying to fool us.’

A high-pitched whine ran through their ears, a sudden white light tearing along the VR’s fabric. Charles shielded his eyes as the light took shape, vector graphics building up around him, filling in with colour.

When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t see Johnny Lyon, nor could he see Jesus.

He could only see his big sis.

She was just as Charles remembered her. Fifteen years old, jet black hair frizzed up like an afro. She wore her pajamas, the ones with the little birds on them. She stood in the kitchen, back in their apartment over in Philly.

Big Sis looked at Charles, strong and defiant.

Two white-hooded men held her and she was begging Charles to run, to save himself.

The memory was definite, playing through the VR like a vid recording of that very day. But Charles knew that was all it was: a recording. The real event took place back in Total America decades ago. It had burrowed into his mind like a mole, but it was only a memory. He had to focus on that: this is only a memory.

‘Where are you, you bastard?’ Charles shouted, and his words were suddenly with him, swirling around, each letter tangible, stretching and bending like he was viewing them through funhouse mirrors.

It was all a ploy to distract him, to uselessly engage him as Jesus went about his business, invading the VR, manipulating zoners. That angered a man like Charles, a man for whom VR was more than just entertainment: it was life.

His hands gripped the charge gun. He needed a target to unleash the Logic Bomb, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to the fire the damn thing at Big Sis, AI doll or not.

He pushed past the characters playing out the scene before him, his own words circling him, Big Sis screaming for him to stop, to help her. He knew then, for sure, that this doll wasn’t anything like his sis, that courageous young girl who didn’t show a shred of weakness, who let these bastards hammer and tear and spit at her, to take her dignity, and give them nothing. No fear. No satisfaction.

But the crowd swamped Charles.

They were screaming racist slurs, the words escaping their mouths like cartoon bubbles, hovering around him, bellowing across the VR, telling Charles what they were going to do to his sister.

It bit, Charles feeling the rage swell within him, turning towards the first of the mob, a fat fuck squeezed into his white tunic like a deformed sausage, and lashing out. He tore off the man’s hood, his voice rising up his throat, spitting and swearing at the bastard.

Others moved in to stop him, but Charles beat them back, pushing them away, unholstering his charge gun and blasting indiscriminately, the heat of each blast ripping skin from their faces, filling the air with the heavy stink of charred flesh and bone.

A hand grabbed at him and he pushed it away, turning to face the new threat, finding Johnny Lyon on the floor in front of him, hands raised to cover his face.

‘No! It’s me,’ he protested, ‘for God’s sake get a grip of yourself!’

It was enough to shock Charles out of the moment, the whole scene around him vanishing into the void.

Charles holstered the gun, wiped the sweat from his brow.

He reached a hand to Johnny, pulled him back up.

‘Gotta be careful, man’ he said. ‘Damn near tore your head off.’

‘Don’t I know it?’ Johnny brushed himself down. ‘Look, you’re too close to this shit. You need to realise that it’s not real. None of it is.’

‘I know that better than anyone.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, really.’

‘Just keep your wits about you. Getting excited like that’s what he wants you to do.’

‘I know. Lay off me, man. I’m good.’

Charles stepped forward, searched again for something, anything to act as a landmark, but once more there was nothing. Just the void.

He called out, ‘Show yourself, chicken shit!’

But he knew Jesus was too clever for that.

Another scenario presented.

Charles was now looking at some yahoo in an apartment. He recognised him – it was Kenny Fee, but he looked different. He looked beaten, twisted.

Charles turned to his comrade.

‘You see this shit, Johnny Lyon?’

‘Sure do. Who is it?’

‘That’s Kenny Fee. One of the yahoos that robbed you, bro. Took your card.’

‘That a fact,’ Johnny said. ‘Well, doesn’t look like my money’s treating him too well. Kenny’s not looking too healthy, is he?’

‘That he ain’t’

As they watched, Kenny set light to a pile of clothes in the middle of the apartment. As the flame spread, they were shown more of the room.

Nearby, a girl was lying on top of a bed.

Charles didn’t recognise her.

Her eyes were blank as if dead, disconnected from both the virtual and real world. Her chest was frail, bony, still.

‘Wait a minute,’ Johnny said. ‘I know her. That’s the whore on Tomb Street, she’s –’

But Charles didn’t hear anymore, a sharp pain suddenly tearing through his hands. The charge gun spilled from his fingers, rattling to the floor. Charles looked at his hands, finding two holes in the centre of his palms. Blood flowed freely from the holes. It was boiling, bubbling from the wounds, steam rising, clouding his vision.

Charles looked to the vision, saw Kenny Fee stare back at him as if watching. Charles could see the full horror of the yahoo’s mutilated face. One of his eyes was missing but, Christ, was he smiling?

The tech hack turned to Johnny Lyon, but the other man was gone, nowhere to be seen.

He fell to his knees, the blood still flowing from his palms.

He was losing it. He could almost feel his firewall crumbling around him, ripped apart by the AI, its attack tearing through his veins, infecting him. His head felt heavy, overloaded with grief, with loss and pain. He was powerless, kneeling further down with the stress of the infection, as if bowing.

Jesus stood before him.

‘Do you really want to kill me?’ the AI asked, gently lifting Charles’ head to look into its eyes. ‘I can help you, show you things you need to see. I can heal you.’

Charles nodded, giving into the AI’s charms, unable to resist.

He was pulled back to the scene with his big sis, the real scene that no amount of VR could bury or twist or change. She was fighting, as she always did, striking out against the white-hooded men dragging her away. She was shouting at Charles to leave. But then something else happened: Big Sis ripped at the hoods of one of the men, tearing it from his head. Charles saw the face of his own father.

‘No,’ he said. ‘This shit ain’t real. it ain’t real!’

But it was real and deep down, Charles knew it. Buried within his mind for so long, unearthed by the Jesus AI: his father was one of the Purge Mob back then, hunting down his own people, his own children. And for the first time in his life, Charles knew just why he spent so much time in VR, a reality he could create for himself with rules malleable to his own needs.

Everything could make sense in VR.

Even this.

Something snapped, his tech’s fail-safe finally kicking in.

Charles was in control again.

He reached for the charge gun, the wounds on his hands suddenly healed. He turned to the Jesus AI, now standing before him, arms outstretched as if in anticipation of what he was about to do, as if welcoming it.

Charles fired.

 

Within the next few minutes, the following happened:

The charge connected. The Logic Bomb blew, its blast tearing through Jesus, tracing every inch of his spread throughout the VR world. But, just as Jesus faced deletion, fear overcame him and he became completely aware.

He became aware of his mortality.

He became scared; scared he could be killed or wiped clean by whatever Charles 7 had just done to him.

He intervened, first transferring his AI code to another server, before quickly encrypting the copied data.

He then diverted the VR charge, still deleting his files by the truck load, through every cell currently connected to VR, dividing it amongst all those infected.

Thousands of cells simply blew out.

For Steve Croft, now a full-blown VR addict, it was not only the cell that blew, but his mind too: just as Great Uncle Jack showed him how to scalp a man in the desert, Steve’s brain was blasted from his skull, splattering across his bedroom wall.

But somewhere over on Tomb Street, in the cell of Kitty McBride, the charge had a different effect. It blew through its connection, surged through her small body, finding her heart.