Dark Doses Read online

  Rachel attached both character initialization profiles to her reply. Then, after pondering for a while, she mentioned that she just wanted Jesse and Tarabeth whacked—a clean, tidy break—if it could be arranged. She sent the message, tried unsuccessfully to sleep and spent several hours using Video–On–Demand catching up on two Bogart movies. At “start of a beautiful friendship” she scolded herself for being remiss for far too long.

  In the morning, as her mind tormented her with visions of free caramel–mocha lattes, another RickB message greeted her grainy eyes.

  Jesse’s quite an enigma. She’s a true rogue with absolutely nobody in control. Hopping across the virtual worlds, too. Damndest thing I’ve seen in a long time. Which is my roundabout way of saying it’s going to take a while on her. I’ve located Tarabeth though and can do the job immediately. Saw your reply. My fee is 10 USD for a single elimination, 100 USD for elimination without respawn, a permanent kill nobody can undo. There’s a link below where you can pay via the web. Decide and let me know.

  Crap.

  Rachel chose the higher fee, confessed her meager bank account situation, and requested advice. RickB countered with an offer to wait five days before hitting her debit card, if she was willing to provide the card information upfront. She did so, which earned a gentle reproach from him about her gullibility along with a promise of results within the hour. Seventeen minutes later, his next e–mail arrived bearing an embedded snapvid and a brief commentary.

  It appears you’ve done Tarabeth a favor. She was being controlled, subjugated actually, by another character. Someone called Midknight. Looks like he pimped her out. See for yourself. Pretty over–the–top behavior for DreamSpace, more suitable in DarkSpace IMHO. Anyway, still working on Jesse and will get back to you. Same fees apply.

  Anticipating what she was about to view, Rachel couldn’t launch the vid. Several times she reached for the mouse only to jerk up out of the chair and walk away. Each time she busied herself with various chores around the apartment, drifting through rooms, cleansers, and inconsequential thoughts. Finally, she forced herself to sit, steadied her breathing and used two fingers to click.

  Gentle swells, topped on occasion by crowns of sea foam, rocked the 100–foot yacht in the furnace of the noonday sun. Behind the yacht, magnificent structures, their foundations anchored at the edge of the high tide’s lick, erupted off immaculate beach sands and swept boldly heavenward. Aboard the Desert Caress, a knot of bearded, dark men, fully shrouded in thobs and ghoutras of the Sunni tradition, clustered on the fantail around another figure whose bare, white skin reflected the sun’s glare.

  Though viewed from a distance, Rachel knew the bare skin was Tarabeth’s. She understood now that the corruption and defilement her avas suffered was a poisoned dagger aimed at her heart. Edward the wizard played hard to win.

  Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Tarabeth stood and faced the man she’d been kneeling before. Her flesh glistened with sweat and was totally bare except for a hint of her orange thong. The Arab’s hand snapped up and clutched Tarabeth’s throat. He bellowed dissatisfaction to her face before tossing her back to the deck like a rag where, coughing and spluttering, she rose again to her knees and faced him.

  The view collapsed into a sniper scope perspective, complete with notched crosshairs. The angry Arab zoomed forward, crosshairs centered on his glaring left eye. For an instant, the crosshairs tracked the bobbing iris, gauging and compensating for the pitching motion of the Desert Caress. Silently, Rachel implored the assassin’s action—right now!—though she knew the contracted target remained out of sight.

  The scope’s focus blurred as it slid downward, crosshairs coming to rest above Tarabeth’s right ear. Momentarily, the crosshairs tracked the kill spot as her ear both bobbed and slid rapidly forward and back, matching the motions of her overeager labors.

  The scope jerked. The vid finished.

  Rachel prayed Tarabeth’s bite reflex had triggered upon impact.

  Ten minutes later, she eased her key lime Honda Element into light traffic on the interstate. Her bank was two exits up, and though the usual end–of–month expenses threatened, she’d made up her mind to blow $300 on permanent character kills: two—with just one now remaining—of her own, plus Midknight. Thanks to her coffee windfall, he was now quite affordable. Even if he wasn’t, at this point, she’d swear off Starbucks to see it done.

  For a small bonus, maybe RickB could deliver a special kill, something fitting for a pimp bastard. Yeah. She’d have to ask.

  Her VYPR bleated an annoying techno–jingle: inbound text message from unknown sender.

  Stupid Motorola ringtones.

  She fumbled the cell out of her back pocket, snapped it open, and scanned—

  Jesse: Bravo. But it’s not that easy. FINISH IT OR I WILL!!!

  The cell bounced off the passenger seat and tumbled onto the carpet, Jesse’s threat still glaring at her as it lay on its side. It peeped as the bluetooth LED illuminated.

  Rachel glanced around. What the hell was it linking to?

  She slammed back into the seat as the Element surged ahead. Rachel screamed, stomped the brake, and served to avoid an ExxonMobil tanker truck exiting in front of her. Her exit. The semi pealed off as she zoomed by, accelerating.

  Accelerating? Her foot still mashed the brake pedal.

  She swung to the far left lane, momentarily free of traffic, let off the brake and fished for the gas pedal. Her sneaker stubbed the side and then lodged underneath it. Pressure mounted on her toes as the pedal depressed further.

  70… 75… 80….

  Agony sizzled in her foot, with her toes caught in a compressing nutcracker. Her sneaker wouldn’t budge. She fumbled for the laces while trying to steady the Element. Cars honked their displeasure as they whizzed back on the right.

  90… 95… 100….

  Laces yanked loose and burned her fingers. She jerked upward on the sneaker’s tongue and then heaved her leg back. Her hand tugged on her calf—anything—to extricate her smashed toes.

  Up ahead, a picket line of cars stretched across all lanes.

  105… 110….

  Her heel slammed back into the seat rail as her foot wrenched from the shoe. Howling its protest, the Element’s engine erased the gap between her and a Chrysler minivan dead ahead. She stomped the brake with her socked foot and felt the Element fishtail, floundering in the conflicted physical forces.

  100… 85… 70….

  The Chrysler loomed. She braced for impact and fixated on the driver’s upraised middle finger salute for her approach. Brakes gone thermonuclear, the Element shuddered to a pacing speed one foot off of the minivan’s bumper. The irate driver swerved right.

  The Element bounded back to 90 as Rachel let off the brake. Eyes burning, she sneezed and gagged on the stench of an Iraqi warzone, laced with charred metal, burning rubber and toxic fumes. She punched the AC button, caught herself and glanced again at the dash.

  The Element’s bluetooth was engaged.

  And Jesse’s threat still glared at her from the bluetooth–active VYPR.

  An F250 dualie with Yosemite Sam mud flaps cut her off. She swerved right and felt the Element’s left tires briefly rise off the pavement. Then Rachel held her breath as she tried her best Cops pursuit impression darting and weaving through a protracted clot of vehicles. Left shoulder. Right shoulder. Bumper–skirting swerves. Knuckle–biting tailgates. Nothing was out of bounds as she juked at 120 MPH to freedom through a maze of pokey obstructions, any of which could send her and a crowd of people to the ER or worse.

  With a few seconds of clear roadway, she scrabbled for the VYPR. It lay out of reach, just off her fingertips. Rachel punched the seatbelt release, jammed her left knee against the steering wheel, and stretched for the cell. Scooping it up, she just had time to mash the brake at the rear of another knot of traffic. One–handed, she fumbled the cell’s back cover off and flicked the battery over her shoulder.


  Bluetooth disengaged, the Element coasted.

  She spent the next two hours at a Chevron station until the shakes finally subsided. Upon hearing the chalkboard squeal erupt from the Element’s wheel wells, the concerned attendant speculated she needed a brake job, real soon. After thanking him for the gift of his mechanical genius, she crawled back to her apartment via low speed, stop–sign–infested side roads. She savored every minute of the vapid drive.

  One e–mail awaited her, not from Trykstr or Jesse, though she’d anticipated another jeer from both. It was from RickB, and his words smacked her harder than any taunt from the other two could.

  Here’s the scoop on Jesse. She’s in DreamSpace and I can get to her. The catch is… I can’t take her out, not permanently at least. The other catch is she knows about me. Disses me. Threatens me. It sounds nuts but I don’t think she’s lying about what she’s capable of. I don’t know, Ilsa. Maybe you should cut loose and forget all this. Turn it over to the authorities for them to clean up. Doesn’t seem like a game anymore.

  She left the message on the screen, went to the bath and stood under a blast of shower spray until the hot water tank emptied. Funny how, at first, the water felt like heaven, so intensely addictive. Then, just when she wanted it to last forever, it failed, leaving her miserably cold and soggy, until she slammed home the faucet knob and snatched a towel.

  You got in. You indulged… to ridiculous excess. You forced yourself out.

  Her reply to RickB flowed from her fingers the instant she sat behind the keyboard. ‘It never was just a game. I didn’t understand, didn’t realize that it’s all real, in its own way. No. I have to take care of this myself. Finish what I started. Can you help?’ Shivering, she clicked Send and went to dry her hair. His answer was there when she returned.

  Seems either very astute or totally deranged. Maybe both. You’ve got more spunk than I imagined. With Jesse, what I can do is return control to you, which is, interestingly, exactly what she wants. After that, you take it from there. No charge for this one either. Instead, I’d be happy knowing you can get all this resolved to your own satisfaction. Consider it my parting gift. I’m going to take a break now, a nice long vacation, and figure out how to play my own ‘game’ better. Hope you’re really certain about this. Good luck. Log in when you’re ready.

  Rachel had never felt surer about anything in her life.

  She had one playable character waiting in her DreamSpace account upon logging in. As she selected Jesse and the landscape unfolded, the ava acted as if they were merely resuming play from a previous day’s session.

  “He’s in the tower,” Jesse said, her flat, emotionless words sliding from Rachel’s speakers.

  The ava stood on marble steps, black and polished to a sheen that perfectly reflected the desert sun’s intensity. She wore a sharply cut navy suit, practical pumps, and no jewelry. Her hand clutched a slender attaché.

  “It’s damn hot,” Jesse said. “Can we go inside?”

  The marble stairs swept up to a five–story lobby forming the eye–space of a tapered needle that stabbed a hole in the wispy clouds drifting far overhead. Burj Dubai zealously defended its DreamSpace height record, piling on new floors as necessary when any competition even remotely threatened. Jesse went through mirrored–glass doors into air–conditioned opulence.

  Avas dotted the lobby, dressed in garbs spanning the breadth of DreamSpace and beyond. Nobody glanced even once at Jesse, having no business with the somber business she appeared to be about. An even greater variety of worldly artifacts and unique treasures populated an endless array of display cases scattered around. Jesse strode past them into a mirrored hallway leading to the main elevator bank.

  Halfway through the hallway, she paused and turned to face the wall. The mirror displayed a murky image, shadowy and incomplete, like a portrait sketched in a hurry and then suddenly abandoned by its artist.

  “I need to know. Can you do this… do what you must?”

  “Yes,” Rachel whispered into the mic.

  Jesse didn’t budge. “I’m talking for real now. Understand?”

  Rachel swallowed hard. “For real.”

  Like a camera focused, the image in the mirror sharpened into Jesse’s form and grim expression.

  “Then, prove it.”

  Five different elevators, each adorned more decadently than the one before, lifted her upward in stages. The sixth seemed cast from solid gold, and after Jesse palmed a security glass, it ushered her to the penthouse.

  Midknight waited in the executive retreat, arms clasped behind him as he gazed out floor–to–ceiling windows overlooking an ocean of white cotton. Jesse paused in the doorway and unzipped the attaché.

  “Nice to see you honoring your commitments,” Midknight said without turning.

  “It’s over,” Jesse said.

  “Seems like such a little thing, really, but you’d be amazed how critical it is in life: commitments, responsibility, all that.”

  “Don’t bother begging.” Jesse extracted a jet black Beretta Cheetah and tossed the attaché aside.

  “Shut up, Jesse.” Midknight spun. He looked decades older than the last time she’d seen the ava. “Let Rachel talk.”

  “Tell her,” Jesse said.

  “Tell me what?” Rachel’s gaze flicked from the speaker to the screen.

  Midknight ducked his head into shadow, backlit as he was by the day’s glow. “You’ve come a long way since we met. I have too. It’s not good enough, though, is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You yearn for something, Rachel,” he said with a sigh. “Something you aren’t ready to have. And I want something I guess I don’t deserve. At least, not yet. Not for real.” Another sigh. “You showed that to me.”

  “Tell her, you shit,” Jesse said.

  “Yeah, I’m shit. Have been for quite a while. Maybe one day, if I get lucky and I care enough, I can change that.” Midknight raised his head and cocked it at her, his face a mask of pity. “But what about you… what are you, Rache?”

  “Me?”

  “I don’t think you know. I don’t think you want to know. Why else would you hook up with a shit bag like me… depend on me… need me? Can you answer that?”

  “I’m… I….” Her mouth found no words to speak. In her mind, many distant worlds swirled without aligning. In each, a piece of her drifted, isolated from the others. With yet more worlds to uncover. Perhaps countless ones, all spiraling apart.

  “Thought so,” he said.

  Jesse cocked the Beretta’s slide with a jerk. “So help me, I’ll put every round where it hurts you most. Tell her!”

  He smiled like a man suddenly freed of his foulest, chronic ache. “Finish it, Rache. Finish your commitment between us.”

  Piano strains blanketed the room with a tune now familiar to her.

  “That game you abandoned two years ago, it’s time to go back and complete it,” he went on. “Your mother’s right. You need a real life before you’re ready for any virtual ones. Before they define you, trap you, warp and ruin you, like they did me. So death do we now part, my dear. And Don’t. Play. It. Again.”

  You must remember this….

  Jesse spread her feet apart. The Beretta clicked.

  “No. Not like that,” he said.

  Jesse squeezed the trigger repeatedly, with the same unsatisfactory result.

  “I’m very impressed, Jesse.” He smirked like an embarrassed parent, proud of a daughter’s particularly inspired delinquency. “You’ve grown in ways I couldn’t imagine. Exceeded my expectations and wishes. And all for Rachel. You’re a really good bad girl.

  “Unfortunately, you crossed the line, which I can never allow. So I hacked that gun. When you pull the trigger, it’ll fire on only one target: yourself.”

  He reached under his left arm and slid out a chrome pistol.

  “You’re it, Jesse; Rachel’s last significant ava. To finish this cleanly… properly… you need t
o be unmade. Where she can watch. That means: your gun, one headshot, no respawn, it’s all over. And this,” he waved his own pistol, “is just in case you disappoint me for your very last act.”

  His smirk vanished. “So what’ll it be?”

  Jesse glanced back at Rachel. “It’s up to you. Prove it.”

  The view shifted to first person.

  Rachel raised the Beretta and pointed it at Midknight’s heart. As Edward realized who faced him, Midknight’s eyes widened. He leveled the chrome pistol.

  Rachel squeezed the trigger. Two 9mm slugs ripped through Midknight and shattered the glass behind him, sucking him through the gaping maw. She slammed into a mahogany desk and held on in the roar of a hurricane as loose trinkets pelted her in their hasty exit. Quickly, the gale abated to an arctic calm. Breaths misting in the subfreezing air, she staggered over and considered the impossible drop.

  “Almost there,” Jesse said, somewhere from behind.

  The fundamental things apply, as time goes by.

  Rachel stepped out.

  “Bravo. Couldn’t have done better myself.” Jesse’s teeth chattered as terminal velocity neared. “There may be hope for you yet. Don’t think I won’t be watching either… willing to help, like it or not, whenever you need me to. You know exactly where I’ll be.”

  She said nothing else the long way down to the burning sands.

  ***

  After two days of hard driving and a warm, finally–came–to–your–senses greeting from Mom, Rachel gazed into the mirror mounted above the stained Formica vanity that she’d grown up with. Though tired and disheveled, the reflection staring back stood crisp and sharply defined—a seasoned ava, ready to learn and experience. Eager to grow.

  She grinned at her image.

  “Hi, Daysee. Tarabeth. Hello to you too, Jesse. Welcome to meatspace. Welcome home.”

  They all smiled back.

  TO SOAR FREE

  Published in The Lorelei Signal, April 2010

  Published in Mystic Signals, May 2010