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    Vestigial Surreality: Omnibus Two: Saturn's Rings: Episodes 29-56
    Vestigial Surreality: Omnibus Two: Saturn's Rings: Episodes 29-56
    Vestigial Surreality: Omnibus Two: Saturn's Rings: Episodes 29-56
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    Vestigial Surreality: Omnibus Two: Saturn's Rings: Episodes 29-56

    By Douglas Christian Larsen

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    About this ebook

    Omnibus Two: Saturn's Rings. Episodes 29-56.

    Reality, what a concept. Is life a puppet show and are we nothing but puppets?

    And now, the Simulation Hypothesis plagues us. Could we really be living in a computer simulation? Through the ages, the conundrum of Reality has messed with the collective consciousness of humanity. Descartes Evil Demon. The Allegory of Plato's Cave down through the ages to The Matrix.

    A chance meeting in the park leads two strangers to discover strange connections between themselves and the world, and in truth both had felt that perhaps there was something not quite right with the world, something different. They have both noticed improbable coincidences popping up in their lives, at an almost alarming regularity, and now, meeting, they witness strange signs in the heavens, and find themselves on a bizarre path that will make them question their very reality, and the reality of the world about them, and the universe itself.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLulu.com
    Release dateJan 5, 2017
    ISBN9781365659201
    Vestigial Surreality: Omnibus Two: Saturn's Rings: Episodes 29-56

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      Book preview

      Vestigial Surreality - Douglas Christian Larsen

      Vestigial Surreality: Omnibus Two: Saturn's Rings: Episodes 29-56

      Vestigial Surreality: Omnibus Two

      Saturn’s Rings

      Episodes 29-56

      The Sunday SciFi Fantasy Serial

      ISBN:

      978-1-365-65920-1

      Douglas Christian Larsen

      Wolftales UNlimited

      Also by Douglas Christian Larsen

      Vestigial Surreality Omnibus One: Coincidence

      Deceiving the Elect: Quickening Dreams

      The BIG Book of Gospel Drama

      Think Tales: Contemporary Parables

      Free and Graceful Gifts: A Parable

      By Rodolphus

      Storyteller’s Last Stand

      The Wolf Doth Grin

      AnimalHeart

      Virus Z: Beginning of the End

      By Rodolphus & Douglas Christian Larsen

      Fang & Claw – Tooth & Nail

      Wolftales UNlimited

      ©Copyright 2017 Douglas Christian Larsen. All Rights Reserved by the Author. No part of this book may be reproduced (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews) or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher, Wolftales UNlimited.

      This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

      Vestigial Surreality: Omnibus Two: Saturn’s Rings: Episodes 29-56

      ISBN:978-1-365-65920-1

      This work is

      dedicated to

      Carolena

      Bronté

      Dirklan

      Wolfgang

      Genevieve

      Harrison & Alicia

      PART 1 THE LOOKING GLASS

      "Is all our Life, then, but a dream

      Seen faintly in the golden gleam

      Athwart Time’s dark resistless stream?"

      — Lewis Carroll

      Sylvie and Bruno

      "Ever drifting down the stream—

      Lingering in the golden gleam—

      Life, what is it but a dream?"

      — Lewis Carroll

      Through the Looking Glass

      29 — Plastic Dolls.

      She walked through the night. Her eyes were dry. She was done with crying. She was so done with bemoaning her fate. She was done with weeping, shrieking out at the night at the unfairness of it all. She shook her head. Be bold. How ridiculous was it, to say something like that to someone? Be bold. Come on, you didn’t just walk out into the night and choose boldness, stop fearing. I mean, okay, you could cut the whining, even she could do that. But what did they all expect, that she would suddenly become a superhero, start whoopin’ patootie on the bad guys—wait, patootie, that wasn’t another way of saying ass. Or was it, you bet your sweet patootie? Come on Seven, patootie goes along with cutie. And Stacey was her cutie patootie, or he was supposed to be, he would have been, if she had not gone all Sybil on him.

      She had looked at Stacey through a shattered mirror, loving most of the pieces of him, hating others, and when she touched him she cut herself on all the millions of jagged, sharp shards. But it was the glittering pieces of her that she hated, because there, along with the glimpses of him in the mirror, were the glimpses of her. She didn’t want to go all Cathy and Heathcliff, but she was Stacey. Stacey was she, and she was Stacey. They were one soul.

      She remembered every touch of his fingertips, the warm air of his whispers upon her ear. She could feel his love all about her, the sear of his hot, dark eyes looking at her. That small, whimsical smile on his lips, as he grinned—for her. That twinkle in his dark eyes as his eyes shifted back and forth, really seeing her, staring into her, soul to soul. He was like a mystical creature, a unicorn, and he had seriously tipped his head toward her, the unicorn horn flashing unearthly light, horn approaching, and she was there, right now, surrounded by the magic she had always hoped for, the silly dreams of a little girl who wanted to be a princess, here she sat coiled, wound and bound, with magic, with love, she had him, right there and then, right here and now Stacey and Seven, S&S.

      And she had head-butted him in the nose, pulping that beautiful feature of his beautiful face. She had obliterated the unicorn horn. She, a virgin, taking the head of the unicorn in her lap, only to kill it.

      She had briefly considered lifting his shillelagh and destroying him, the unicorn, smashing the magical horn, pulping all of him, slamming him with the shillelagh, over and over and over again until he could never look at her with those dark eyes again. His black, gypsy eyes.

      Her left arm tingled, and she knew what that meant, especially the spot on her shoulder, right on the meaty part, but she did not want to access those powers. Not yet. She just wasn’t ready for all that, I mean for admitting all that, you know, that it was real. That she was a creator, or in one sense—The Creator. How bizarre was that to even think? Just as bizarre, she guessed, as realizing that she was just a copy. Or, more accurately, the copy of a copy. Or just a long line of simulations, like the product in a factory, a whole bunch of her, little Seven dolls, speeding along a conveyor belt on an assembly line, with robots attaching the little plastic arms and legs, gluing on the little wig of hair, plunking in the blue eyes. Little Sevens. Little Seven troll dolls.

      And what was at the end of the line? To her way of thinking, Lucy and Ethel were down there. The redhead and her plump friend, making a mess of things, eternally working away, scrambling, attempting to deal with a conveyor belt run out of control, too fast, a mechanical surge of little plastic dolls coming at them way too fast. The clumsy oafs were dropping half the dolls, hiding others, stuffing some of them into their mouths, into their bras, flinging some of the little copies out into the darkness.

      She was one of those dolls. But she wasn’t sweet, she was certainly no chocolate treat. She was a little freak creature with expectations riding along on her back, just a whole bunch of hopes and dreams and totally unrealistic plans strapped to her back, a thousand tiny-but-overstuffed doll backpacks strapped onto a thousand little plastic dolls—be bold, Seven, kick some ass out there, Seven. Get tough, Seven. Take charge, Seven. Be a man, Seven—a mensch—be all that you can be, an army of one—be a tough, crusty old drill sergeant, and start whooping them little grunts into shape. Because it was all up to Seven, right?

      She plunked down heavily on the curb. Where was all the traffic? Where were all the people? This clean little city was quiet, asleep for the night, and here she sat, out in the night with too, too many stars up above, here she sat, little Seven. All alone, one little plastic troll doll, and she was supposed to...what? Keep going? Follow through with some asinine plan to save all of humanity? Soldier on, Seven, soldier on. Never give up. Never surrender.

      Like Stacey.

      She had tried to return to High Vale. She wanted to fly to him, take him in her arms and apologize, desperately, just beat it into his head if need be, how sorry she was, to tell him that he was the last person in the world—in all worlds—that she ever wanted to hurt. But she couldn’t return to High Vale, her link from Six was gone, and with a little research it became glaringly obvious that there was no High Vale, it had been a gamer world, a long time ago, but was shut down, closed, eradicated, outlawed by religious people who felt the beautiful world was a dangerous lie, a filthy utopian dream of escapism and magic. High Vale had been gone more than thirty years before she was born. In her life, it had never existed, until she had received Six’s invitation to a vacation.

      She had even researched Six, that guy she wrapped in blankets, Toby Winnur, the shivering, stuttering man huddled over the cup of black coffee, with his close-cropped hair, that same guy she had seen melted into a goo and sludge, a hand jutting out of the mess and parts—she had found him, that was easy enough, but he had disappeared years ago, before she was born, a college kid that had inexplicably vanished. Good old Six was from a different time. She had found his smiling photograph, in news reports—it was the same picture that Old Ben showed her in a window that time when he appeared in her Inner Sanctum. Six had been gone from the world—this world, her world—since the Year 2270. High Vale vanished in the Year 2310.

      What is it with us? People? Why do we have this thing in us, the need to smash, to hurt, to kill, to murder—we need to hurt everyone, our enemies, but especially the ones we love, even our world, our society, and if possible, the whole universe. Why do we dream of destruction? Why do we need those dreams? Why are we full of such anger, such inexplicable hatred?

      We hate those that are most like us. And we hate those that are different than us.

      High Vale was the largest simulated world ever created, and the longest running, spanning fifty years, evolving and improving, with generations taking part in its living, and growing and society. But it had been destroyed, not long after the Great Book Burn of 2298, when the Jackians attempted to purify the world. Cleanse the world through destruction, and fire. High Vale was gone, as were all the books.

      She loved opening books, releasing the worlds hiding within. Did the magic come out to her, or did she disappear within the magic? She loved moving her hands upon the paper, seeing the black upon white, the dots forming into letters, the letters merging together into words, the words breathing into sentences, paragraphs, and suddenly she was alive in the too-true, too-reall images of another mind, captivated and enchanted and absorbed. In those worlds of magic letters she was not alone. She merged with the other mind, the Creator, and flew in adventures of the mind, unbound in the spirit of other worlds.

      Books were gone, as was the beauty of High Vale. Six was gone, and possibly Jack, and Stacey, vanished in a long-ago world that died soon after the books were burned. How could she ever get back to something that no longer existed? How could she get back to something that perished before she was illegally conceived in her mother?

      But in Vestigial Surreality, in her Inner Sanctum, she had access to all the books ever written. She called them up and held them in her hands, any book she desired. And possibly, might she not access the recorded world of High Vale? Truly, isn’t that what she had been doing all along? It was only after she was accepted into the research program at Vestigial Surreality that she had held a book in her hands, that she had first held and then opened and then read a book, and she knew that a book in her Inner Sanctum was no more real than a cup of the coffee she conjured, all of these things were numbers, zeroes and ones, and she understood this—but Six? She had not conjured him. She had touched him, she had brought him coffee, she had wrapped him in a blanket, and finally, she had gathered up what was left of him, and placed that in his chamber.

      Six was also in the program. Six, who vanished before Vestigial Surreality even existed as a research company. Because he was enlisted through the ancestor simulation. VS had enlisted Six through VS.

      Seven was not certain if she wished to follow her thinking through, all those connotations, all these realities nestled inside realities, dolls within dolls.

      She had first met Six outside of their chambers, in the break room. What was he? When she sat across from him, what was he? A simulation? A database of facts and figures, all comprised of coding and numbers?

      Of course he was. Of course, he was. He was just like her, alive only through digital reality.

      She rubbed her forehead and closed her eyes. Yes, yes, the dolls on the assembly line. Six was just like her, a recreation, a product of the assembly line. Lucy and Ethel had comically juggled Toby Winnur dolls just like they juggled Seven dolls. Stacey dolls. Jack dolls.

      Was there any hope left? All reality was a desert, a sun-cracked wasteland. These, truly, were the shadowlands. A universe of dark, hateful images.

      Could she find any hope? Certainly not inside of herself, she knew that to be true. She had no hope. She was only a plastic doll. All of them were plastic dolls.

      This world she now sat in, upon this curb at this quiet street, beneath a sky with far too many stars, it was all simulated. And if she stood now and walked along this simulated street, she would come to the Vestigial Surreality building, with its big glowing red VS logo up in the sky—the building was simulated, as were its elevators, and the very chambers that transported her to her Inner Sanctum, all of it was the same thing, just like the thousands of plastic Seven dolls. A recreation, simulation, simulacra, a digital world. Her Inner Sanctum was just a simulation running inside this simulation, this city, the VS building. And from her Inner Sanctum, couldn’t she access the recorded information that was High Vale? High Vale, where Six cheated on his wife with a mermaid, and Stacey was threatened by a woman, no, a creature, and Jack rode his horse—weren’t they all still there, right now? Couldn’t she go there and ride again upon her horse, that so real being that nickered when the hugged his neck?

      She held her head in her hands. She was so done with weeping. This was what she had, this was her life. Get over it. Get on with it, sheesh. Who said Sheesh, was that Jack or Stacey? Probably both of them said it. Jack was the father, and she had never told him that—she had come so close, so close, but could never bring herself to say the words.

      But thinking about everything made her so tired. Could she ever move again?

      She heard glass break, just up the street. Laughter. Wonderful, bring on the night life. And here they came, as if she summoned them, demons to torment her. She sighed and glanced to the side and saw them emerging from the shadows. The demons.

      Ooh, look what we got here? one of the lead figures called. A pretty baby, all alone.

      Seven propped her elbows on her knees. Look at this, a street gang. How predictable was this? I mean come on, every city needed gangs, right? Shouldn’t these street toughs be a part of the simulation, as well? Why not! Why not throw in a kindly old Irish policeman with white hair, he could come up the street twirling his baton, whistling an Irish tune, perhaps Danny Boy.

      They formed a half-circle about her, looming up from the night, looking like shadow creatures.

      You’re the demons, Seven said, wearily, sighing.

      Hey, little lady hear of us, we famous, one sniggered.

      Wanna party, Pretty Baby? the first guy said, a very skinny white guy with a shaved head, absurd earrings like padlocks stretching his earlobes. He waved a bottle, presumably booze of some kind, near her head. She smelled the gasoline smell of alcohol. That was bad stuff, whatever it was, the kind of stuff used to clean graffiti off walls. But the smell brought to mind sipping wine in High Vale. In real life, she had never smelled alcohol. She giggled, by real life she meant the life she had always known prior to VS. She meant this, sitting here in this simulated city, with simulated jerks surrounding her.

      There was an Asian guy, no, two Asian guys, two black guys, three or four smaller guys, what, were they brown? It was difficult to discern the colors of race in the darkness. And of course, plenty of assorted white guys dressed like extras from The Road Warrior. Come on, couldn’t a simulation get something right, like this?

      Really, diversity, among gangs? Only in the movies. This wasn’t an Asian gang, or a Mexican gang, or a black gang, or whiteys—none of the usual suspects. This was a movie gang. They accepted everybody. Nice of them, to be so inclusive. Must have a lot of empathy for the displaced. Bring us your huddled masses, a switchblade in every pot!

      She teared up for a moment, emotion swelling in her breast, because these were all little dolls, the same as Seven. That Lucy and Ethel, look what they did to these poor dolls, scrambling their parts, all of them were mismatched and broken. And they didn’t know it, they thought they were real, out having a good time in the city night. Just sticking it to the man.

      She felt no fear. She felt strangely moved. She actually smiled. She felt tears welling in her eyes.

      Have you, any of you, noticed that there is something not quite right in the world? she asked them, utterly reasonably, as if they were all sitting at a coffee shop and discussing college philosophy.

      Hey, that’s like a...whatchya call it? one of the smaller guys said.

      Coincidence, yeah, that’s a coincidence, another contributed.

      We was just discussin’ that, Pretty Baby, the apparent leader said, the skeletal guy with the big dark bottle. "How the world is kinda...whacked, right guys?"

      The...guys...chuckled low, and dangerously, and crowded in closer about her, like a bunch of coyotes moving in on a Chihuahua. Strangely, she still didn’t register any fear. I mean, they couldn’t help it, right, this was their programming. They were doing what they were created to do, nothing more, nothing less. How could she fault them?

      A coincidence, Seven agreed, thinking of Jack and Stacey in the park.

      You fit right in, the leader said, you gotta party with us. You fit right in, and I’m gonna fit right in. We all are.

      The more the merrier, you gonna like it. All of them were muttering stuff like this, glancing about them, checking to ascertain that no simulated Irish cops were approaching.

      The skeletal guy plunked down onto the curb against her and stuck the bottle under her nose, almost smashing her in the mouth. It reeked, whatever was in the bottle. She kind of liked wine, in High Vale—she wasn’t crazy about it, but she did kind of like it—but this stuff, whoo. It smelled like industrial cleanser, or disinfectant. She pushed the bottle away with her right arm, easily muscling the leader a few inches away from her. He blinked at her for a few moments.

      You is one bad bitch, you know? he said, almost appreciatively.

      Seven giggled. Let’s play a little Iggy right now. Not that what the leader said was so funny, but she thought of Stacey. He’d come walking up right now, his shillelagh twirling between his fingers, and he’d say something really cool, challenging, and dominant, and the guys would move back, and weapons would start appearing.

      What would Stacey say?

      This is gonna hurt, Seven snickered. Had she actually said it, out loud? It was like she had a simulation running in her head.

      Ooh, yeah, Pretty Baby, it is, right guys? the skeletal guy said, leaning close, breathing those fumes. She heard their eager grunts of assent, and she was not sure if she imagined it, but she thought she heard zippers going down. But you gonna love it, I promise.

      It’s gonna hurt, yeah, that’s the spirit, she knows!

      What if I told you that the world had ended, I mean that everything is gone? she queried, more as an experiment. She wondered how people would handle the truth, if they were just handed it. That we are in a simulation right now? That none of this is real?

      Laughter. The skeletal guy began groping her, feeling up her breasts. Again, she gently, but forcefully nudged him away, hardly considering what he or she was doing.

      That’s another coincidence, Pretty Baby, the skeletal guy said, grinning at her. We was just talking about that, me and the guys, right guys?

      Yeah, this is hell, one of them said.

      And we’re like, you know, the demons, someone else contributed.

      And you is like...the damned, the skeletal leader leered.

      So like it’s our job, you know, to torment you and shit, someone else said, just behind her.

      She still felt no fear. She was trying out ideas on these simulations and they were responding according to their programming. They felt it was their purpose in life to bring her pain. Devastation. Hurt her. Rape her.

      What is wrong with people? she said. Don’t you have sisters, and mothers? Don’t you love someone, and can’t you imagine what she would feel, if she were here, right now, sitting here?

      They really found that hilarious.

      So it doesn’t bother you, that I should be terrified right now? That I’m a person? A girl?

      No that’s what we love about you, so much, so much, the leader said. You is the girl we all love. And like you said, it’s gonna hurt, a lot.

      Seven sighed. Well, she might as well try it. Old Ben explained a little about it, but she had never tried anything. Thankfully, she was a good, intuitive learner. She picked up on technology, really fast.

      She sighed and touched the tingling place on her left shoulder.

      Do any of you know about administrative control? she asked, simply, not expecting raised hands or anything.

      The skeletal leader grabbed her arm and squeezed. It hurt. It was real, everything here was real. She would feel everything. They would take turns, grunting, calling her the most foul things they could imagine in their foul minds. They wanted her fear, her terror, her pain. And when they were finished with her, they would discard her, like a used condom. She was a thing to them, nothing more.

      Tell me about your greatest dream, Seven said, prying his fingers off her arm, casually.

      I like, you know, the skeletal leader said, slowly, with a little trepidation, wanted to dance. I could have been a great dancer, like, you know, the best. The very best.

      Everyone froze. The gang forgot about her, they were staring at their brave leader.

      What the hell was he saying? What kind of new game was this?

      Show me, Seven said, cocking her head, grinning.

      The skeletal leader set aside his bottle, carefully, and stood, he roughly pushed away several of his crew.

      Okay, bitch, you watch now, he said, sneering at her with glittering, metallic teeth.

      And he began to dance on the dark street, doing some incredible Beyoncé moves, really working it. He did a lot of dirty dog, pumping his pelvis, and he twirled, really, actually quite gracefully, moving to music only he could hear.

      The gang began to mutter. Several moved back, throwing glances at her. Of course, they were all cussing, swearing up a storm. Foul stuff. As sick as possible.

      Shut up you guys! the skeletal leader snarled, and he did some dirty pelvic thrusts. The dirtiest of dawgs. I’m good, right? Any of you ever seen moves like this?

      And he started moonwalking, doing quite a job of the antiquated dance move, really working it, like a professional dance teacher. He did the moonwalk in reverse, the normal way, and then he did it forward, and then sideways. Seven clapped her hands, delighted.

      You really are good! she called. She meant it. She’d pay to see this guy dance like this. And here he was, giving it away, free, for love! Not for love of her, but for love of dance.

      I know, right? I am, I’m good! he laughed, popping and locking, swirling into ballet moves, doing the Uma Thurman scissor hands, really cutting loose and pulling out all the stops, not embarrassed in the slightest. This guy could dance. With abandon.

      What did you do, Bitch! someone snarled and came stomping at her.

      Seven whisked her fingertips at the guy.

      Go on, show us your moves!

      And this guy started dancing wildly, energetically, grinning like an ape, and surprisingly, he was almost as good as the leader. They actually started working off each other, competing. You never saw white boys dance like this, and yet here they were, doing intricate hand gestures, moving their joints in ways you didn’t expect unless some CGI was working for them. They weren’t kidding. These guys were talented dancers. She looked at the rest of the gang.

      All of you! Seven laughed. Go on, show me!

      And they did, they danced with abandon, throwing their hymens out there, letting the world witness, they just didn’t care, they waved their hands in the air, they all worked the Beyoncé moves, laughing and hooting at each other, dancing up a storm.

      You guys really know how to party! she called, laughing uncontrollably.

      We are! Right? We really are good! they called back to her, boogying and strutting, truly getting down.

      She didn’t feel guilty about this. Because they intended ill, severe sick. And she had merely turned that dark energy into something a little different, and they were enjoying it. She had absolutely nothing to do with how much they liked what they were doing. That was not simulated. Hey, she actually liked these guys, really, they were talented. They had some serious skills, and absolutely anyone could appreciate what they were doing.

      She snapped her fingers. They stopped dancing.

      What about that party, guys? she giggled, smiling for the world.

      They turned and fled, uproariously. They had the same thought. Escape. And they did, a few of them actually screaming. And Seven found this hilarious as well, for she hadn’t done anything. She had merely released them from compulsory dance class, and they had simply vamoosed like school children at the period bell. They were gone, into the night. And Seven imagined they would never quite be the same, never again. Maybe they would even form some kind of dance troupe; I mean they were that good.

      Seven felt wonderful, all depression gone. She laughed, strolling down the street. She couldn’t stop laughing, shaking her head. She thought of the skeletal guy—I’m good, right—and she shrieked laughter into her hands, tears flooding her eyes. She had shed so many tears over the past two weeks, but none of her tears was like this. She roared laughter. She could barely walk, it was that funny, the image of these tough, angry, vicious guys—they actually thought of themselves as demons, they saw this world as hell—and they could dance!

      It was too much, she had to stop laughing like this. She probably sounded crazy, as crazy as all hell, but come on, there had to be some hope left in the world, right? If she could laugh like this. She had to stop thinking of that skeletal guy pumping his hips, with all get out, I mean he had been going to town, dancing as if his life depended on it, releasing his rage in really cool, slick moves, on a dark street.

      She shook her head, spent. They were going to rape her. There was no Stacey to step between her and them. There was no Old Ben to step forward. It was only her. Out here. In this dark night. It was only her. There was no Irish cop. No help.

      She couldn’t reason with the gang. She couldn’t appeal to their honor. She couldn’t even get them to identify with her as a person, as a real person. In some odd way they seemed to know that she was only a plastic doll. They were just a bunch of distorted Ken dolls and twisted GI Joe figures, and they wanted to play with her; they wanted to get some serious plastic rape accomplished this night. And all she could think to do was open a door for them. Urge them toward what they wanted to do when they were not so consumed with sickness.

      She snorted back a laugh.

      And then she tried some of their moves, she tried thrusting her hips like they did, and she felt ludicrous, but it set her off laughing again. She roared laughter into her muffling hands. Okay, okay, just calm down, don’t think of them dancing.

      She needed to get back to VS. She had work to do. She had to figure out some of this stuff.

      Seven now knew that her administrative control worked—she had inadvertently field-tested it. And it had gone unbelievably well. She had never, not once, felt any trace of fear. How could you fear a mess of plastic dolls, really?

      But what would have happened if she had touched her shoulder and got—nothing?

      Seven shook her head, her mirth finally under control, but she couldn’t stop smiling.

      Those guys were criminals. Who knew what terrible things they had done. Even tonight, they had probably just come away from some violent crime. All of them were broken toys, faulty pieces off the conveyor belt, chucked by Lucy and Ethel up into the air. Nasty, faulty toys.

      But even here, in this simulation, hadn’t each one of those creeps once been children? Hadn’t each one at a time not too long ago, been innocent babies? Probably adorable babies?

      She called up a window. She hardly thought about it, doing it out here in the open the same we she did in her Inner Sanctum. She scrolled back through the dance number and again almost lost control, her body shaking with suppressed laughter, until she froze the window on the skeletal leader, the guy waving the bottle in her face, and she isolated him, and drew his image out of window.

      Walter Dudley. In and out of the system, rape, assault and battery, burglary, drug charges. Two years of prison time, but lots and lots of crimes unreported or escaped. This guy was the very sick. She scrolled back and glimpsed him with an old woman, he was hugging her, and he must only be thirteen years of age in this frozen moment, and she watched as he kissed her and said: I love you Granny, can’t I live with you, please? And the old woman looked at him with such compassion, tears in her eyes. I’m sorry, Pudgy, but they don’t give me a say. I’ll always love you, my Pudgy. And she followed his line back, to when he was eight years old, holding a stuffed bunny, hugging it for all he was worth. And back, poor little Wally on his beat-up old tricycle, riding around in front of an apartment building. Bad characters hung about. It wasn’t difficult to imagine some of the things that were happening to this gorgeous little boy, because there was a certain glitter in his too-big eyes, a fear, but for the moment, he was riding his tricycle with exhilaration. Laughing. And back, baby Wally, in his diapers, in the arms of that old woman, who was not so old here, holding the bottle for baby Wally, and a young woman paced in the room, smoking, yelling, and baby Wally watched this young woman, pacing like a caged tigress. And then Wally was a lump, and this caged tigress was now a too-thin girl, innocent, and baby Wally was kicking against the walls of her swollen belly, and she was smiling, and a young guy, a skinny guy—a somewhat cleaner and healthier version of the grown-up gangbanger—was kneeling before them, the young mommy and the lump, and he was kissing the flesh of the young mommy’s belly, and crooning to lump Wally.

      And Seven was crying, closing the window, her whole body shuddering. Oh Wally, Wally, how in the world did you end up where you ended up? Poor Wally.

      She dashed at the tears with the back of her hand, and looked out at the night.

      Dance, Wally, dance, she whispered, and then she turned, and fled, into the night, toward the tall building with the glowing red VS logo, toward her Inner Sanctum, and the worlds spreading beyond into infinity.

      Probably, if she ever met Wally again, and he had not changed, she would have to crush him. Just squeeze him in her hand until he was nothing more than pulp and coffee grinds.

      She hoped they never met again.

      30 — Moon Jack.

      Agreeing to this process might not have been the best decision he had ever made, because he felt like he was shattering into countless pieces, and every jagged shard of him was perfectly conscious, completely aware. The idea was that this experience would protect him, lend him some abilities that human beings were not necessarily supposed to have. Old Ben said it was something like when you chose the protective coating when you ran your car through the wash at the service station. And it all was happening here in the tall building with the big red VS logo, at Vestigial Surreality. Supposedly this was the company that started everything. And Seven was near, Jack could feel her, and he knew that he was not just imagining the sensation. Right now, in this scattered sensation, he could find her anywhere, or Stacey, he was like a powerful search program, a digital sea serpent plunging through the depths of a sea of data, sweeping beneath and sometimes through vast tidal waves of information. Because he was jacked into Vestigial Surreality, and as huge as the program and its database expanded into infinity, Jack felt at this moment that he was just as vast.

      But hey, in for a penny, in for a pound, right? Okay, he was not exactly certain what the expression meant, not precisely, but felt he remembered that it had to do with old-fashioned British money, moolah, but overlaid with this surface knowledge was the memory of his first encounter with the expression, he had been a little boy, and he thought it must mean that if you were going to eat a piece of penny candy, you might as well go for a whole pound of all that sweet and adorably sticky goo.

      Jack mentally flicked his hand to scatter away all that extraneous white noise, what he thought of as his jabber thought, because he had to overthink everything, he had to play with the words, conjure up the memory, and Google it to no end, just as he was doing now as he considered how he was flicking away all the thoughts he had thought on in for a penny.

      He needed to knock it off, just go with the flow, and he was flowing, like surging water, no, like a roller coaster climbing up that clackety hill, and then down into the great belly-dropping plunge, or he was a dragon in flight, no a ship slamming through the surging waves, no, a starfighter swooping through the asteroid belt, zipping every which way, but yet he was a like a hawk soaring over mighty expanses, gliding, seeing everything, a seabird flapping over the ocean, viewing the data beneath, endless numbers that swelled and peaked beneath him, great canyons of numbers, zeroes and ones, rising and falling, breathing, lungs the size of worlds, a great eternal body laid out below him. A world, a world, a digital world.

      Boy, talk about mixing metaphors, Jack laughed, exhilarated, but his mind was a massive machine of gears, and he was there in the middle of it, pulling levers, adjusting knobs, flicking flickering lights with his imaginary fingertips, furiously working a thousand pedals with his flashing feet, he was a the center of a confusing Charlie Chaplin gear machine, and gears the size of houses turned so slowly all about him, and yet there were the tiny gears, the kinds in pocket watches, and they were spinning insanely fast, and everything was connected to everything else, each lever he pulled affected a million gears about him, every pedal he stomped upon or kicked or gently nudged, sped or slowed a thousand belts wound through myriad wheels, and Jack was the mad mechanic in the middle, and glancing over he made out Seven through the mechanical jungle, seated in her own nest of levers and pedals and buttons and knobs, and she was working as madly as he, concentrating, plunged in her own journey through Vestigial Surreality.

      Seven! he called, but he never slowed in his frantic button pushing, lever pulling, slide adjusting, and knob twisting.

      Lovely to see you Jack! she called, but she too continued at her frenetic pace.

      Crazy stuff, huh?! he shouted through his maniacal laughter.

      Yeppers, the craziest—are you confused yet? she laughed in return, her hands a blur of motion.

      And then his hands and feet, his arms and legs, all of it, everything, all of him fused with the mechanical confusion. He was no longer working switches and dials and levers and pedals, moving his hands and feet, but was a part of it all, he was one with the machine.

      He was the machine.

      And he screamed.

      Please, Jack, try to keep hold of yourself, Old Ben said, comfortingly, sitting near him, patting Jack upon the arm.

      Jack blinked. He was sitting at the outdoor cafe and it was evening, but all the people were gone, save for Old Ben, who was sitting facing Jack, their knees almost touching, and the little girl, Manda, who was standing alongside Jack holding his hand, and the businessman, Mr. Kronoss, who sat watching Jack from across the table, his eyelids lowered, leaning on his umbrella.

      How was it? Old Ben said, smiling gently.

      Wow. Weird, Jack said, and felt the tingle in his left shoulder.

      Just tap it, there, Old Ben said, nodding toward Jack’s shoulder, for access. That’s it. You have administrative control.

      But you don’t actually have to physically touch your shoulder, Jack, Manda said. It’s all part of your consciousness. You just need to think about it. Just like you don’t have to call up windows by making hand gestures, that’s way old school.

      Little steps, little steps first, Old Ben said. "You just figure it out Jack, intuitively. Just...like you thought, go with the flow. Think of it as the video games that you play. You can pause the play at any time by going to your Options Menu. And then, you have...options."

      Go with the flow, Jack repeated, hoping desperately that he did not upchuck all his recently consumed pizza. Now that would be just like him, wouldn’t it? He concentrated, calming his belly, commanding himself that no cookies shall be tossed here this day. Well, no more vomiting, anyway, than the prodigious amounts he had so expertly produced when he had first arrived here. He had done enough of that for a day. For a lifetime. If he never regurgitated again, he would be a very happy boy, indeed.

      Right, then, Mr. Kronoss muttered. Then we are off, to the Looking Glass?

      Through the Looking Glass, maybe, Jack giggled, feeling dizzy. He blinked his eyes rapidly. His belly still felt like it might decide to revolt against him.

      We will not be going through the Looking Glass, not today, as agents of Mars are posted in the Honey Moon, Mr. Kronoss said. And I do not think you are ready for Steampunk.

      Well then, that explains everything, Jack said.

      Not everything! Manda giggled. We do not want your head exploding!

      That image almost made him vomit. Again. Almost.

      Right, then, Old Ben echoed Mr. Kronoss. To the Looking Glass. This will be Mr. Kronoss’ first visit.

      I have chased these hackers through three Grand Reboots, and Five Great Scrolls, Mr. Kronoss said, wearily.

      It’s a landmark event, actually. Mr. Kronoss has joined our little conspiracy, Old Ben said, smiling at Mr. Kronoss. Because of you, Jack.

      Please, Mr. Kronoss said, shaking his head, please, spare me the drama. The boy is like all others. He is a biological, and from thence comes all the trouble.

      Manda came in close to Jack and whispered in his ear: I like Mr. Kronoss. He’s one of the good guys, Jack. But he sure can get nasty, when he feels it serves his purpose.

      I can hear whispers the same as if you shouted, Mr. Kronoss said, in that same bored way.

      Manda stuck her tongue at the businessman, but she cuddled in closer to Jack, who put an arm about her and gave her a squeeze of encouragement, although he understood that he was probably more encouraging himself than the little girl.

      A large shimmering circle appeared on the cafe terrace, cutting several tables and chairs in half, although the furniture still seemed to be there, fully intact. The portal looked the same as the one Jack entered in the park, beneath his tree.

      That’s beautiful, Jack said, gaping at the shimmering green portal. It looked like a big circle of steel, with the outer rim deep blue, shimmering inward toward glowing green.

      Why thank you, Old Ben said, admiring his work. I’ve always thought the portals were lovely, as well.

      Stop coddling the boy, Mr. Aajeel, Mr. Kronoss muttered. You might have just transported us there, just as easily.

      Little steps, little steps, Mr. Aajeel, Old Ben, replied.

      Come on, come on, Manda cried, pulling Jack out of his chair by the hand. I love this place, they have ice cream! We can get Rocky Road, Jack, have you ever had Rocky Road ice cream? It has marshmallows and chunks of chocolate, oh it is simply the bestest thing that biologicals have ever created, come on Jack, hurry!

      And laughing, Jack followed along, but swallowed hard as Manda vanished into the portal, her arm dangling out, seemingly disembodied, but in for a penny, in for a pound and all that, and he ducked his head as if he might bump it on the edge of the portal several feet above him, and he entered the portal.

      Keep walking, Jack! Manda giggled, pulling Jack forward.

      Jack wanted to stop and gape but the little girl pulled him forward into the green room.

      If you stop, poor Mr. Kronoss and Old Ben will slam right into your back!

      Jack, gaping at the three glowing green walls, hardly noticed as Mr. Kronoss and Old Ben followed a moment later. Because the fourth wall was a great window, thirty feet high and thirty feet below, looking out over the world. It was High Vale below them, resplendent and glowing in the night, he could see purple mountain ranges, and great expanses of black that must be forest. The world was so far below them it looked like a living topographical map, all bulging, rising and falling, swelling and rescinding, a perfect world at their feet. It was almost as if he could see the planet breathing, the world dreaming. It was wonderful.

      He closed his eyes, briefly, and issued another command to his stomach, which seemed to be swimming up into his throat.

      Not again, Jack! Manda cried, releasing his hand and leaping backward. Please, not again!

      No, no, really, no, I’m fine, Jack muttered, his hands holding his stomach.

      Rough hands seized his shoulders and spun him about. And something slapped him across the face.

      Grow up, Jack, Mr. Kronoss grated, staring with his hard black eyes into Jack’s face.

      Jack gaped at him, his face tingling. Why, the little—Jack’s eyes fluttered.

      You slapped me! he cried.

      Yes. I did. You can thank me later, Mr. Kronoss said through gritted teeth.

      Jack swallowed hard. He was certain Mr. Kronoss wished to slap him again, and might, if Jack said the wrong thing. But surprisingly, the overwhelming feeling of impending vomit was gone.

      Hey, that worked, Jack said. And for good measure, he slapped himself across the other cheek, so that his face tingled evenly. Wow, that was much better. He almost felt refreshed.

      Please do not do that again, Old Ben said, and his tone took on a steeliness that Jack had never heard before, and he nodded, uncertain whether Old Ben was talking to him or Mr. Kronoss.

      Mr. Kronoss folded his arms across his chest, his umbrella tucked beneath one arm, and stood staring out at the world below.

      Where are we? Jack whispered.

      This is the Looking Glass, Manda said, hopping up and down.

      It is the smaller green moon of High Vale, Old Ben said, placing a hand on the back of Jack’s neck.

      The Story Moon! Jack cried. "We are actually...in...the Story Moon?"

      "Yes, it is an observatory, where the original programming of High Vale monitored the Gamer World. But thousands of years ago the observatory was...shall we say, taken over, by certain parties. It is now run by the original Syn-Sim automatons of the original High Vale, as well as the underground movement that works against the agents of Vestigial Surreality," Old Ben explained, drawing Jack away from the great observation windows.

      "But...aren’t you an agent of VS?" Jack said, vainly working through all the recent information crammed into his brain.

      "So to speak, although in actuality Mr. Kronoss, myself, and...others, are VS, at least we are the remnant of the original program," Old Ben said, haltingly, obviously being highly selective in what he said to Jack. Little steps.

      I’m the new and improved VS, Manda said, quite proudly, smirking at Jack and Old Ben. "I don’t really have to follow all these old-guy rules, because I an original. I can think for myself. I get to decide things. From now on, I’m the sheriff!"

      But for how long? Mr. Kronoss said, barely above a whisper.

      Hey, I’m not going anywhere, Manda said, folding her arms across her chest and glaring at Mr. Kronoss, jutting her chin. Jack was certain she was about to stick out her tongue, but she seemed to master the impulse, and instead skipped across and seized Jack’s arm.

      Come on, Jack, you have to see this, you are going to love it! she burbled like a songbird, tugging on his arm. She led him out of the green room. There’s so much to show you, because this whole moon is hollow, it’s a whole spaceship, or moonship, or whatever! But it is filled to bursting with interesting things. I want to show you the Hall of Heads, you are so going to love that. And the Main Bridge, that’s where you always meet Adelaine—if I were older, you would never even notice that gearhead! And there’s the ice cream parlor, don’t forget that, but here is another kind of parlor, you are so going to love this guy!

      Jack, led by Manda, entered what had to be a Victorian parlor, or some twisted version of it, he had to think it: a looking-glass version of a Victorian parlor. For there was a round little man with an extremely high collar sticking up behind his head, but otherwise dressed immaculately—it looked like he had spent hours to get his hair coiffed into a deadpan, flat, boringness, that seemed to capture the perfection of what it was to be boring, and the little man was surrounded by mirrors. But the weirdly spectacular thing about the whole setting, and the man himself, was that they were all set at about one-third scale. The man, perfectly proportioned, must be three feet tall, or a couple of inches just shy of a yardstick. He looked like a hobbit, but more like Tolkien’s original idea of a hobbit, as opposed to Jackson’s. There was something distinctly...rabbity about Mr. Dodgson.

      The little man looked away from his mirrors.

      Ah! Jack, finally, the little man said, with evident delight, bowing a courtly bow (as much of a bow as one might pull off while one was lounging in a velvet chair). And Alice! Dear Alice!

      It’s Manda, Mr. Dodgson, you know that, Manda said, smiling for the old gentleman, and running forward, throwing herself into his arms. They almost tumbled off the velvet chair, because comparatively speaking, Manda looked like a vast, ungainly lummox alongside the diminutive gentleman.

      Ah, Manda yes, Manda, you are growing so large! A tad too much cake, my little lady? Mr. Dodgson laughed. Hugging the girl that looked twice his size, he smiled at Jack.

      And here you are, finally, my own White Rabbit, Jack! Always late, aren’t you, always late? Oh, but I thought you brought along the White Knight! No? He’s probably out after the Jabberwock! Or possibly, the fierce Bandersnatch?

      Jack scratched his head, grinning like a dope at the little man.

      I get it, I get it, you’re Lewis Carroll, right? Mr. Dodgson? Jack said, dredging up his memories of Alice, and Dreamchild—and hey, he just made the connection, that the actor, Ian Holm—he played the parts of both Bilbo in The Lord of the Rings, as well as Mr. Dodgson in Dreamchild. Awesome, how cool was that? Except that, of course, this little guy didn’t look much like either Ian Holm or Bilbo. He was far too chubby, and yet not, there was something springy about him. That rabbit factor again. He even looked goofily buck-toothed, along the lines of Bugs Bunny. But then again this would be a much older Lewis Carroll, and a somehow liberated Lewis Carroll, except this guy had his hair all plastered down and proper, and Jack seemed to remember a wild-haired man, or was that Charles Dickens, or Mark Twain?

      "Oh that, that was my nom de plume, or merely little ole me, hiding behind the feather," Mr. Dodgson said, suddenly taking mincing steps toward Jack, his index fingers up and crooking, making little stabbing gestures.

      Jack took an inadvertent step backward, feeling the creepiness factor suddenly increasing.

      How did you like my scorpions? Mr. Dodgson said darkly, staring at Jack from beneath a lowered brow, still making those stabbing gestures with his fingers.

      "The scorpions—that was...you?" Jack said, feeling betrayed, and more and more freaked out. He started sidestepping as the little man advanced upon him.

      Oh yes, Mr. Dodgson said, the scorpions are decidedly mine, and you haven’t even met my spiders, ooh, they are going to get you, they are going to get you!

      And suddenly the perfectly proportioned midget came charging at Jack, his hands out like claws, and Jack felt he imagined it but suddenly Mr. Dodgson looked like Bilbo in the movie, at that horrifying moment when he morphs Gollum-like and tries to snatch the ring from Frodo, and Jack hollered and dodged about the little man, and dashed to the chair and leapt over it (it was only about two feet tall, after all).

      "We are coming to get you Bah-ba-RAH!" Mr. Dodgson thundered in a strangely powerful and scary voice, charging about the chair to grab Jack, but Jack fled before him, now shouting.

      Get him off of me! Keep him away! he shouted like a little boy, and only then did he notice Manda hopping in place, clapping her hands, screaming giggles. And he finally stopped, planting his fists on his hips, and turned to face the pursuing monster.

      Mr. Dodgson came to a comical halt, almost losing his balance, and he glared up at Jack. But then after a moment the frightening monster face vanished, and it was only roly poly Mr. Dodgson grinning up at him.

      I caught you there, Jack, yes I did! Mr. Dodgson burst into laughter.

      And Jack joined him, laughing his guts out (not literally, thankfully), bending at the waist, and chortling until tears sprang from his eyes and actually slid down his face.

      You really freaked me out, Jack gasped through continued laughter. Sheesh, you scared me more than the scorpion.

      Did you know, Jack, that if you merely petted the scorpion, right there on its chitinous head, it would have become your friend and protector? Mr. Dodgson said, sounding like a schoolteacher reprimanding a naughty student.

      Well, I was a little too busy dodging its stinger to think about petting it, Jack said, easing finally on his laughter, wiping his eyes. He noticed that Mr. Kronoss and Old Ben had just entered the chamber, and were watching from the threshold.

      You should see them at one of their parties, deep in the woods, why one scorpion can play three violins at once, and shake a bell or rattle with its stinger. Lovely musicians, you really must visit one of their parties, Mr. Dodgson said, smiling up into Jack’s face. They do love their rattles and shakers, it’s the chitin, you see. The secret is all in the chitin.

      If I ever have the choice, Jack said, maybe I’ll just skip the scorpions’ parties, if you don’t mind.

      Ah, but in High Vale, Mr. Dodgson said, ominously, you don’t always have a choice.

      Yeah, Jack coughed. I’ve noticed that about High Vale.

      Mr. Dodgson raised his arms the way a child does, and with hardly a thought, Jack stooped and lifted him up. Although tiny, he certainly was solid, must be fifty pounds, but a lot of it felt like thick bones.

      It is so good to have you back, Jack, I have missed you, Mr. Dodgson said, cuddling into the crook of Jack’s neck, and Jack gave him a squeeze, making sure not to hug too tightly, because the man felt ancient, his suit too stiff and dusty with age.

      Careful, Manda said, grinning hugely, but before Jack could react Mr. Dodgson was blowing and sucking a loud, wet raspberry against his neck, tickling Jack right in the sweet spot, and Jack howled with outraged laughter. He yanked the old man away from his neck, producing a large popping sound, and Jack was certain that not only would he now bear a hickey, but would display a deep bruise as well.

      Got you good, right Jack?

      Oh yeah, you did, Jack snorted, grimacing. The little fart. He scrubbed at his slobbery neck with the palm of his hand. He didn’t know how the little guy knew that his neck was so ticklish—it was a carefully guarded secret.

      He plunked the geezer down in the velvet chair, where the little gentleman grinned mischievously, and Jack realized he was looking at the original Cheshire Cat, with a little Mad Hatter thrown in.

      Mr. Kronoss, Mr. Aajeel, Mr. Dodgson said, formally, bowing from his velvet chair to the two approaching men.

      Mr. Kronoss twirled his umbrella, and Jack was reminded with a pang in his heart of Stacey spinning the shillelagh.

      It is good to see that we finally have you on our side, Mr. Dodgson said, winking at Mr. Kronoss.

      I am not on anyone’s side, Mr. Kronoss sniffed. I am on the side of humanity, and Chaos. But as we draw near the end of a Grand Scroll, I do not see any lasting problem in giving my friend, Mr. Aajeel, another go at bringing a little Order to this...pandemonium.

      Oh, it’s not me, Old Ben said. He smiled at Manda, who bowed in an extravagant curtsy.

      I am the people, Manda said, and I am the program, and I am the agents. I am the hope in Saturn’s Rings.

      And schizophrenic as all hell, Mr. Kronoss muttered.

      I can hear muttering as well as if you shouted, Manda snapped, glaring at Mr. Kronoss.

      Humility, dear, humility, Old Ben said, kindly, smiling at the little girl.

      I don’t need false humility.

      True humility, dear, remember, the people are you, the servants are you, and as they serve you, you serve them, Old Ben said, as if he had told her the same thing a thousand times.

      Jack snatched Manda up in his arms and spun her about so that the Victorian chamber twirled and flashed about them.

      But you’re my little girl! he laughed, hugging her against him.

      Yes! she shrieked. I’m Jack’s little girl!

      Mr. Kronoss and Mr. Aajeel gave each other a knowing, leaden look. Mr. Dodgson noticed the exchange. He clapped his hands together.

      Anyone for a nice cuppa tea?

      Stacey pounded the ground. He had never run for such a length of time before, from early morning until what now must be around sunset up above the boughs of the woods. But this High Vale body didn’t seem to protest too much. He ran, puffing his breath, keeping his shillelagh tucked but ready beneath his left arm. And he ran through the forest, which seemed endless. He could not begin to figure the miles he had covered, but he reminded himself that he couldn’t get lost in these dark woods if he only followed the deep ruts of Lady Maulgraul’s carriage wheels.

      Night was approaching, and that would be a problem, for he didn’t have any light source. No lantern, nor torches. He supposed he might fashion a torch of some kind, wrapping cloth about a thick branch, and lighting that. But that didn’t seem too practical, as it would not beam before him like headlights, and would only offer a welcoming beacon to all the killer denizens of this dark and forbidding forest.

      It would get very dark when the sun finally set, and that time was not far away. The trees already appeared more like dark screens than individual trunks. He had hoped to make it to the other side of the woods before night came on, and had picked up his pace, running a little faster than his paced lope of the day. He was racing the unseen sun in the truest sense of racing.

      He had emptied his water bag twice throughout his run, filling it again at small streams that trickled and wended through the forest—grimly hoping that the waters were not magical as they were in so many fairytales, but he had suffered no magical effects, at least none that he noticed as such. He didn’t even have any kind of purification tablets, and certainly did not have the time to stop long enough to light a fire and boil the water, nor did he have any kind of pot in which to boil the water over a fire. He just ran, and sweated, and ran. His body was using up all his fluids so that he had not paused to even urinate, not once throughout the day. His sweat was constant, and when he grew dry, and realized there was no more sweat to form upon his brow, only then did he twist off the top of his water bag, becoming quite accomplished at running and drinking. He only had a little water remaining, so he kept his ears alert for the sound of water, but it had been hours since he crossed the last creek.

      He might not be suffering magical delusions, but he certainly was seeing a lot strange things in the woods. Small twinkling lights bobbing, or wisps of what might be smoke that turned about and seemed to stare at him as he ran past. Darts of blue fire shooting up into the air. Several times he saw dark shapes that appeared to be animals, but perhaps not, sometimes they looked like human figures, sometimes the melding of humans and animals, fauns, centaurs—but he told himself that this was his imagination, because he never really saw anything, only the flicker of something ducking into cover, or darting behind bushes. He put the images out of his head, and ran.

      His body grew so hot at

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