Orfyn

 

 

These days, Bat prefers to live in the masterpieces. I’m glad he’s found a way to escape his basement prison, but now we need to help someone else who’s being imprisoned.

Today, Bat is in a painting of Monet’s studio in France, filled with paints, brushes, and canvases. I’d love to know what it feels like to hold Monet’s tools.

“I think it’s too dim in here,” Bat says. “What if we lighten it up?”

“Sure.” Could my idea actually work?

Bat strolls around Monet’s room, slurping a grape soda. “Giverny didn’t have electricity until 1909. What do you think, pre-electricity or post?”

“Bat, how is all this happening?” I gesture to the screen where he’s now scratching his butt.

“It’s what we do.”

“I’m not doing anything. You are.”

“It’s your brain.”

Bat shuffles over to an easel and grabs a brush. I cringe as he stabs out a lopsided daisy on one of Monet’s blank canvases, in Monet’s studio, using Monet’s brush and paints. If he can do that …

“Can you help me write your gaming program in my world?”

“Depends on why you need it.”

I tell him about what’s been going on. “The thing is, we doubt the Darwinians will agree to unmerge Angus if there’s no place to put his consciousness. If your program were real, then Angus could keep working, and Marty could get his life back.”

Bat scratches his unshaved cheek. “My model predicted this might happen. You can’t take the most curious minds, contain their experiences, and then expect them to be satisfied.” Bat rotates the canvas ninety degrees and studies it.

“But the Mentors were all dying. This is better than being dead.”

Bat paints a yellow sun with a smiley face. “Is this what you were told it would be like?”

“I’ve gotta admit, when I figured out you weren’t an artist—I mean a Master painter—I was pissed. But now, I’m glad you’re the one sharing my brain.”

He beams at me. “Me, too. But it’s not going to work out like this for everyone.”

“Do you think the other Mentors will try to take over their Nobels?”

He shrugs. “Depends on the kind of person they were before.”

“If the Darwinians can unmerge Angus, is it possible to put him into your program so he can keep living?”

Bat sets down his brush and rubs his stubbly chins. “Software is nothing more than a map for electrical impulses, which isn’t that different from how a brain functions. My program is modeled on brain synapses rather than the traditional binary 1’s and 0’s, and I’ve developed a matrix of different inputs controlling the amount of electricity that’s distributed in each burst …” Bat continues mumbling techno-geek stuff until finally saying, “It could work.”

I’ve never written software, but if we can do this, Bat and I could save Marty’s life. That’s a seriously big purpose. And if the same thing starts happening to the others, we’ll have a way to save them, too.

As long as the Darwinians agree to it. And the unmerging procedure works. And if their plan all along wasn’t to have the Mentors take over our bodies. I recite to myself one of Sister Mo’s favorite Bible verses: Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself.

“What do I need to do to create your program in my awake-life?” I ask.

“Why don’t you use the one at my house?”

“Where is it?” I jump up from the recliner.

“Not this house. The other one.”

 

 

Bat couldn’t remember where his real house is. I get on a computer to search for his address, then realize I don’t know his last name. Or his first, since I doubt his mother would’ve named him Bat.

He lives in my head. How could I not know his name?

I type what little I know into the search engine. Bat video game developer. Pages and pages of results appear. He was seriously famous!

I hover the cursor over the first entry. Do I want to learn about the old Bat? Will it change how I think of him? But I have to find his house.

I click on a story about how multi-billionaire Bartholomew Wakowski died after a long struggle with ALS. I don’t know much about that disease, but I know it destroys the body. The story then lists all the video games Bat has written. I’m not a gamer, but even I’ve heard of most of them. Bat—the slob who paints flowers that would embarrass a five-year-old—created worlds that entertain millions. What the story doesn’t cover is how Bat couldn’t leave his house, or how he had no friends or family. I’m glad. I want people to remember the good parts of his other life.

It only takes a few more clicks to find his address. Now the question is: how am I going to get to New Jersey?