Lesser Gods (34 page)

Ralph Crocker

I raced time. The Doze-Less tablets no longer helped, and the moment I slowed down to rest, the dreams returned. I found myself lost in worlds that might have been designed by M. C. Escher had he worked in five dimensions; I wandered through imaginings that would have made Pablo Picasso weep; I languished in landscapes inspired by a psychotic who loved the work of Salvador Dali. Often I could pull myself out of these places, twitching awake before I had to battle against the monstrosities that roamed these dreamscapes. Occasionally I found myself pitted against variations on the theme of Huntington. In other episodes he seemed absent. Always I warred to maintain sanity and preserve my life.

I still had no idea what portion of these visions was illusion and what part might be some sort of reality. I did know I could not fight off deep and dangerous sleep much longer. Soon the flesh would be seduced by the tempter in the garden of sleep.

After using my hotel room’s computer to track down the physical position that corresponded to the next IP link in Huntington’s relay system, I checked out of my hotel and bought a ticket for Miami. I left Antarctica via shuttle and arrived without incident at Miami International; from there I took a roboplane across the Caribbean Unitico mainland to New Sarasota, nearly exhausting the last of the small fortune I’d collected in unmarked e-cash.

The last of my wealth went toward the purchase of a fake ID and car rental for what I hoped would be the last leg of my journey from New Sarasota airport.

I drove outside the New Sarasota city limits, through the vast stretch of grassland and scrub brush bathed by an orange sunset. Cattle — the real thing, not plastic imitations — meandered through pastures, each cow followed by an entourage of tall, white cattle egrets who matter-of-factly gobbled up the insects disturbed by the passing cattle.

I fought to keep my eyes open as I continued driving. The wilderness gradually gave way to tourist traps and small business buildings as nightfall approached. I entered the southern end of the town that, along with the ancient Ringling estates, had somehow survived the nuclear blast that had leveled most of the northern part of town nearly a century before. Now the whole area was a historical preservation zone, restored using old Goggle map images to what the experts thought the area must have been like before it was nuked. That translated into very expensive real estate, albeit with prices offset somewhat due to radioactive residue.

Yawning, I continued south, checking the GPS navigator before turning west down the John Ringling Causeway to Lido Key. Soon I was circling the drive that had been cross-referenced to Huntington’s physical address — most likely another relay house. Only a streetlight shimmering here and there lit the baked night.

The generally modest sleeping homes were interspersed by an occasional uninvited McMansion that hogged its lot. I slowed in front of the two story, flamingo pink stucco house, that was my target, driving past the wrought-iron fence to park beneath a giant palm tree that seemed draped in the indigo sky.

After checking to be sure no one was watching, I exited the car and searched the rusty fence for visible sensors. Seeing none, I vaulted over the wrought iron barrier into the Spanish moss covered jungle beyond.

Scrambling through the palmettos and scrub pine, I heard the low hum of an air-conditioning unit singing counterpoint to crickets and a lone tree frog. The air conditioner’s a good sign. Huntington didn’t seem like someone that would waste money cooling an empty house. Maybe I was finally going to meet him flesh-to-flesh.

Since most people concentrate their defenses on the front door instead of where the devices should be, on the side entrances and windows, I avoided the wide front porch and instead scooted along the mock orange bushes to a side window where I extracted an infrared/ultrasonic detector from my jacket and scanned my potential entrance.

Nothing. Way too easy — that should have sounded my alarm bells. But I was exhausted and ready to get things over, so I reached through the edge of the antique window frame with the cheap pocketknife I’d “borrowed” from a young thug outside the airport, and slipped open the lock. Easing the window up, I entered the dark house.

The burglar in me drooled. I crouched in what seemed almost a palace, even in the dim light. Wide oak doors graced the foyer and faint rainbows cast by the outside streetlight spanned out from the beveled glass in the front door. There was antique wooden — not plastic — furniture. Original oils graced the walls. Much as I hated to admit it, Huntington had good taste.

I crossed the room and paused in front of a door. Light shown below its lower edge, illuminating the soles of my boots. I grasped the knob of the door and eased it open, peeping into the room beyond. There sat Huntington gazing at a computer screen displayed in the air.

I took a step toward him. His motorized wheelchair hummed, turning him to face me. “Been expecting you.”

“So you’re psychic as well as psychotic.”

He laughed. “I only know water seeks its own level. You’re the first of the trainees to approach my capabilities, and the first to set foot in my home. I figured it was only a matter of time before one of us killed the other in a game, or you dropped by for a visit to head me off at the pass. Won’t you have a seat?”

I started to reject his proposal, preferring to remain on my feet in case he had a manservant with a butcher knife waiting in the wings. But the moment I opened my mouth to say, “No,” only bird chirping flowed from my lips. No words, just chirps.

A cushioned chair scuttled over, walking on its own four legs to stop behind me. An invisible hand shoved me into it.

I prepared to die.

Ralph Crocker

“I can see you’re puzzled by my powers,” Huntington said, a wicked smile on his lips. “And, no, you’re not dreaming. To be honest I was puzzled by my new abilities at first, too. Thinking back, I realized I acquired them with my exposure to the new version of jet I’d concocted for gaming in the SupeR-Gs. I soon discovered that the drug not only alters the gaming rules somewhat, it also modifies the brain. From there I found that reality is actually bent along with my own perceptions as well as the perceptions of those around me, whether they were in a SupeR-G or in real life. For me, actuality and imagination have become almost the same thing.”

“I think your condition is called insanity.”

“It borders on that sometimes. But it isn’t based on delusions. For years researchers have known that reality is different from our perception of it. Our brains fill in gaps, and sometimes alter things, even time, ever so slightly. My abilities simply expand on these. Watch.” He closed his eye and a standing version of him appeared next to his wheelchair-bound self.

“Now,” the standing version said, “which is more real? This version of me or the former?”

“Trick question, right?”

Huntington’s duplicate laughed. Then he stepped toward me and slapped my face. “Did that feel real?”

“Of course,” I replied, determined to return the favor when I had the chance.

“I hate to hurt you,” the image said. “But it seems to be the only way I can make a lasting impression on you.”

“You can quit then because I’m duly impressed.”

“I hope so.”

“The dreams?” I prompted. “How real are they?”

“Oh, yes. Another side effect. They are their own realities, I believe. Brief jumps into alternate universes, and something I’m hoping we’ll eventually be able to control. Recently I’ve found I can also enter computer feeds of various types as well. Reality ultimately becomes a perception of the mind.”

“But helicopters in malls and dragons flying the Kansas plains — that’s madness.”

“No more so than a nuclear bomb in the hands of a terrorist. Or napalm dropped on innocents during war. Show me the world’s commonplace and I’ll show you true madness. Now, since you and that girl — “

“Alice?”

“Yes. You and Alice seem to have become an integral part of my dreams and games and I have become intertwined with your dreams and games as well. Both of your powers are growing — judging from my own experience, I suspect you’ll be amazed at the abilities you’ll acquire before long.”

Huntington number two stood at an end table where he removed a cigarette from an ornate silver box. He glanced my way to be sure I was observing, then snapped his fingers, producing a flame that floated for a moment as he touched the tip of his cigarette to it, puffing it to life. “No doubt such feats might be duplicated by cheap parlor magic. But you don’t have to go to all the work to create the machinery for the illusion. With what you will soon have, all you’ll need is enough self-discipline to master your potential.”

“I feel a ‘but’ coming on.”

“Yes, there’s always a ‘but’ isn’t there. But my fear is that once you and Alice master your abilities, you’ll gang up on me. There isn’t room in Heaven for more than one God — if you catch my drift.”

“How about a pantheon?”

Huntington laughed, but I could see by his eyes that he meant business. I closed my eyes and concentrated. A moment later the restraints on the chair melted away. I stood, rubbing my wrists.

“Very well done,” Huntington said, both of him clapping their hands. “But I think you’ll have to do better than that if you want to survive.” He clicked his fingers and the cigarette in his hand transformed itself into a flamethrower.

Whose flame remained unlit.

Hoping his mentally produced flamethrower functioned the same as the real thing, I knew it should take an extra moment to light the flame before it could be fired. In the instant before Huntington could activate his weapon, I created a loaded pistol that I aimed not at the standing Huntington, but instead at the head of the seated original. I placed the muzzle against his temple. “You can flame me,” I told his Doppelgänger, “but burning, while painful, isn’t a quick death. I am betting I can put a bullet through the brain of the real you before I die. And I’m also betting a bullet through the head will work wonders at curbing your abilities.”

The standing Huntington turned white as a sheet and took a step back. “No need for that,” he said, lowering his weapon. “Tell me, did you ever wonder if the constructs in a SupeR-G game could think. Or if they might imagine they were alive since the game lasted?”

“Constucts are just code. Nothing more.”

“Yet, as you’ve seen, it’s possible to get to the point where imagination and reality are one and the same. Right now,” the standing Huntington said, “I’m a construct. Yet I feel totally real, as real as my original self. And better in some ways. I have two eyes — and could grow two more if I wished. I can walk, think, speak. I can breed children or create a flock of birds with a snap of my finger.”

“But you’re afraid you wouldn’t survive a bullet through the brain of your creator,” I said, keeping my pistol pointed at the original Huntington’s head.

“Suppose you were a construct? An artificial man who thought he was real. Who had memories that seem oh, so real, yet are only so much code in a computer somewhere, or the twinkle in my synapses.”

For a terrible moment, my faith in myself was shaken. And then my confidence returned. “An interesting metaphysical thought, but one I can’t buy since I’m inside my head and know I’m real.”