Orfyn

 

 

We peel out of the garage, narrowly missing a tree, since we don’t have the headlights on. Stryker swerves, and the Flem Van’s tires skid over the gravel. I death-grip the passenger door, and Lake looks like she’s seriously regretting her decision to come along.

“Bjorn raced stock cars when he was young,” Stryker says as he whips us around another corner. “I may be channeling his love for speed.”

“Are you serious about channeling?” I ask, every muscle tense as we tear down the road.

“I’m still deciding,” Stryker says, as easy-going as if we were all hanging out in Lake’s rose garden instead of roaring away in a stolen van.

Am I channeling Bat? I have started playing classical music while I paint.

Out of the darkness, Lake says, “Can we stop somewhere for cigarettes?” Then, “I don’t know why I just said that.”

I hear crinkling and then smell peppermint.

“We’re all a little tense, Lake,” Stryker says.

“All part of the fun of stealing a van to bring a life-altering program back to the secret brain lab to keep Marty from becoming a zombie,” I add, trying to make her smile.

Stryker catches my eye in the rearview mirror, letting me know I’m not the only one who’s worried about her. He told me he tried talking to her like we agreed, but he didn’t get far. I’ll try when we’re alone—and if she ends up mad at me again, I still have to do it.

We finally get to Jersey, then Bat’s neighborhood. The homes on his block feel like the kind where families have dinner together and share stories about their day. The yards are mowed, brightly colored flowers line the walkways, and kids’ bikes lie in the driveways, waiting for the next carefree summer day of exploring. I always dreamed about living in a place like this, and of being one of those kids. Instead, a corporation intent on changing the course of mankind has adopted me.

Fate can be surprising.

Bat couldn’t remember where he put the spare key. Knowing him, he “hid” it under the doormat. As we walk up to the house, I see a high-tech panel next to a door without a doorknob, which looks totally out of place.

Stryker studies it while I grin at the doormat, which proclaims, Live Long and Prosper.

“It’s a palm reader,” Stryker says.

Lake beats me to the punch. “How do you know that?”

“My dad had one installed to keep me out of his home office.” When Lake raises her eyebrows, he adds, “Long story.”

“I don’t mean to sound insensitive here,” I say, “but Bat’s palm is buried six feet in the ground.”

Stryker grabs my hand and pushes it against the panel’s black screen.

“That’s not going to—”

“Welcome, Kevin,” says the security panel … in Bat’s voice.

A chill runs through me, and Lake chews her gum fast enough to dislocate her jaw.

Stryker smirks at me. “Kevin?”

Hearing my name is startling, but hearing it said in front of Lake and Stryker—in Bat’s voice—is beyond freaky. It takes a few seconds before I can answer, “Another guy in another life.”

Stryker gives me a nod, making me feel like he understands, which I didn’t expect.

I lead Lake and Stryker into Bat’s home, and the hairs on my arms rise to attention. The living room is exactly like the one in my dreams: worn couch, rose-colored wallpaper with flowers, the photo of Bat’s mom on the mantel.

Stryker surveys the room. “Not what I’d expect from a gaming tycoon.”

“Shut up,” I snap. “You don’t know what his life was like.”

Stryker looks like I sucker-punched him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“It reminds me of my Grandma Bee’s house,” Lake says. “It feels like home.”

I smile my thanks to her. “Bat said it’s in the basement. The stairs are over this way.”

I head down the hallway and am confronted by another high-tech door. Next to it is a screen six inches square with a glowing orange line moving from top to bottom. I place my hand on it and nothing happens.

“It’s meant to scan something,” Stryker says.

Questions about Stryker’s old life swirl through my mind like van Gogh’s stars.

We start holding up different things in front of the screen, but nothing works.

“He wouldn’t give you access to his house, but not the bathtub … I mean, basement,” Lake says.

“He’d probably use something he could keep on him,” Stryker says while opening a drawer crammed with blue First Place ribbons and Certificates of Achievement.

We try the ribbons. We try photos off the wall. We even try my eyes, which only turns everything orange for a few blinks. “Bat’s never without his grape soda,” I joke.

“Go see if you can find one,” Stryker says.

I head to the kitchen. Like in my dreams, the fridge is filled with purple cans. Could that be it? I grab one and hold it in front of the scanner. When the door slides open, I have to chuckle at the way Bat’s mind works.

I head down the orange shag stairs and when I reach the last step, I freeze.

It’s all real!

Monet. Degas. Van Gogh. I know everything upstairs looks the same, but I couldn’t make myself believe that hidden in Bat’s basement is a priceless art collection.

“Holy Picasso!” Stryker says.

“They’re not … what’s the word? Originals, are they?” Lake asks.

I nod. “They’re the real deal.”

The same nine screens as in my dreams are mounted on the far wall. But in this basement, there’s only one of the most comfortable chairs in the world. Bat was so alone. But now, in his second life, he has me.

“Bat told me to turn on the screens when I got here,” I explain.

“Where’s the remote?” Stryker starts searching.

“I’ve never seen him use one.” I rack my brain, trying to remember what Bat does. He gets a soda from upstairs, plops down in the left recliner, and then the screens come to life. I sit in his chair, feeling like an interloper. It’s as comfortable as the dream version, but something doesn’t feel right. It’s not usually this quiet. Bat always has music playing.

“Mozart, please,” I say. Classical music fills the room, and the screens light up.

I gasp.

In front of me is the electronic version of my painting, Take This Cup, with Christ, his twelve disciples … and Bat, sipping from a plain, clay cup.

When you dream about something that feels impossible, and allow yourself to hope that it really exists, and believe it enough to steal a van with a beautiful girl, and risk your life letting a guy who thinks he’s a NASCAR driver bring you to New Jersey—well, even then, you’re still not fully prepared when it appears right in front of you.

Bat gets up from the table. “You must be Kevin.”

“You know me?”

“Naturally.”

He looks like my Bat, pink bathrobe and all. Except his eyes don’t have that magic that makes you believe anything is possible. “Are you the same Bat as in my dreams?”

“He is the real Bat. I am a program with a more limited array of thoughts and feelings. But please let me say, I am very glad to meet you. It means the procedure was a success.”

Stryker nudges me. “Dude, he’s hanging out with Jesus!” he says out of the corner of his mouth.

I’m not sure if it’s all the masterpieces, Christ and his hockey player disciples having supper right in front of us, or the replica of my Mentor making polite conversation. Either way, this is the first time Stryker has ever referred to me as Dude.

“That’s a painting of mine,” I say, as if that explains it.

“It looks so real.” Lake steps closer to the screen.

Virtual Bat stares at her like he’s never seen a girl before. Some things can’t get filtered out of a copy.

“Virtual Bat, this is Lake, the Nobel for Chemistry.”

“Hello, Bat,” Lake says, as if there’s nothing strange about this experience.

Virtual Bat pulls back his shoulders and tightens the tie on his bathrobe. “You’re pretty.”

Stryker slides me a look. I just shake my head.

“Thank you.” Lake gives him a smile.

“And this is Stryker,” I say, trying to salvage Bat’s cool. “Peace.”

Virtual Bat holds up two fingers. “Peace back at you. Now, how may I help, Kevin?”

“I’m Orfyn now.”

“We thought you would choose that name.”

The warmest feeling floats through me. I really do have a guardian angel … or two. One who seems as much man as computer, and one who probably acted more computer than man.

I tell Virtual Bat about what Angus is doing to Marty, and our plan to insert Angus’s consciousness into Bat’s program. “Real Bat said it’s here.”

“Yes. The prototype is in this room.”

“Do you think it will work?”

“In theory. This version has extensive capacity and an impressive range of sensitivity algorithms.” Bat rubs his stubbly chins, like my Bat does. “I estimate the current prototype could hold the memories and impulse patterns of twenty mature human minds.”

“Then there’s the possibility to save those other kids, too,” Lake says.

This isn’t the time to bring it up, but if her memory keeps getting worse, she may need to be next in line. Would she consider it?

“If it works, Angus Doyle can keep working in Bat’s prototype for, well, forever,” I say, hoping Lake understands that her Mentor won’t have to die if Lake chooses to unmerge.

“This is brilliant, Orfyn,” Stryker says.

“Bat and I make a good team,” I say, trying to hide how much his compliment means to me.

“Thank you,” Virtual Bat says.

“Will you give us the prototype?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he says, swiping a piece of bread from Jesus’s plate.

Stryker’s jaw practically hits the floor.

“Where is it?” I ask, loving that he and Lake get to experience what my Mentor created.

“You must say the magic words, Orfyn,” Virtual Bat says.

“Please,” I automatically reply.

“That’s not it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Consider it an extra security measure. Or, perhaps it is just that we enjoy games.”

This is so Real Bat. I scrape through my memory, searching for what he’d use as a password.

“Vivaldi,” I try.

My painting fades, and in its place materializes Munch’s The Scream. Virtual Bat sets his cup on the bridge’s railing and takes an appreciative look around. “One of my favorites. But, alas, wrong.”

“Beethoven,” I say.

The scene shifts. A girl is outstretched on the ground, looking yearningly back at an unpainted house in a sea of prairie grass. Christina’s World. Virtual Bat shakes his head. He reaches for his cup, but it disappeared along with the bridge’s railing from the last painting. He frowns, as if he couldn’t create another one.

“Bach,” I blurt out.

The scene changes to a group of well-dressed people sitting around a table filled with wine bottles and crystal glasses. Boats float on the river in the background. Bat swipes a half-filled glass with a smile.

“Mozart,” I say with clenched teeth, and the scene returns to Take This Cup.

“Can you give me a hint?” I can hear the frustration in my voice. Virtual Bat has all the time in the world, but Marty doesn’t.

“That would not be playing fair,” he says.

“Will you do it for me?” Lake asks.

He takes so long to answer, I’m worried she’s thrown him into an endless loop. He finally blinks. Then he whirls around, and when he faces us again, he’s wearing a football jersey. “Does this help?”

I smile, thinking back to the first time I saw Bat in the dreamspace. He’s as big a fan as me—as big a fan as Sister Mo. “The New York Rangers.”

The overhead lights dim, and one of the paintings slides to the side, revealing a hidden compartment. Tiny LEDs turn on and highlight a platinum-colored cube the size of a mini-microwave. It’s strangely gorgeous. The shimmering metal. The shape. The sense of power—twenty brains’ worth. In a room lined with masterpieces, this is the most amazing thing here.

I carefully remove the cube from the compartment. It’s lighter than I expect—and it’s giving off a low hum. “Is this thing dangerous?”

“Not as long as you do not drop it,” Virtual Bat answers.

“Seriously?”

“The power source is somewhat unique.”

“We need to show this to Alex. It might help him with his renewable energy project.” Stryker flicks his chin at me, which I guess in rich-person speak means well done.

“I could kiss you, Bat,” Lake says.

Virtual Bat’s glass slips from his hand, shattering on the floor and splashing wine all over him and the white tablecloth. He grabs for the cup, tripping on his own feet, bumping into the table, and sending a plate crashing to the floor. Christ doesn’t flinch, which I’ve got to admit is a huge relief. I couldn’t handle the Son of God coming to life and losing his cool.

Virtual Bat wipes his hands down his robe. “Is anyone else in your class exhibiting signs of distress?”

I make a point of not looking at Lake. “Alex is having problems breathing.”

“How about any of you?” he asks.

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Stryker says, with a little too much emphasis.

“I’m good, too,” I say. Because I am.

“I’m fine.” Lake’s eyes are glued to the embroidery on the white tablecloth.

Virtual Bat glances at me, and I give a tiny head shake.

He watches Lake pretend nothing is wrong, and sighs deeply. “Orfyn, from what appears to be happening, I must insist that you unmerge from Bat.”

Leave Bat? I’ve never considered it. Not for a second. I’ve come to love spending my dreams with him. He’s not only my Mentor, he’s like an older brother. Why would I live without him? Nothing’s wrong with me.

“No way.”

“The scenario you are describing is one we considered might happen, and the projected solution was to immediately unmerge, if such a procedure were validated.” Virtual Bat stares at me.

“Nothing is wrong with me. I’m not throwing him out like a botched painting.”

“I fear that could be a fatal mistake.”