Veldt, Inc.

I.

“Am I dead?”

You mean because of the light?

“Well…yeah. Why are you smiling?”

I’m sorry. No disrespect is intended. Most of you ask that same question. You know: Don’t walk toward the light. Only in this case, you’ve paid good money for it. In fact, you’re about to be more alive than you’ve ever been in, well, your life.

“Who are you?”

The concierge. I greet all the guests. If we dropped them right into their adventures, it might be unduly disorienting.    

“Oh…then what is this place?”

A staging area before we send you off. Through that doorway, your adventure begins. When you’re done, just return to the doorway and knock. Once you’re back here, we’ll get you home.

“Will I be able to find it again, the door, I mean?”

Yes. No matter where you go or how long you’re gone, you’ll always be able to find your way back. Guaranteed.

II.

“Another?” said Detective Brachman, as he eased into the desk chair, across from his cubicle-mate, Detective Stubbs. “What does that make, twelve trippers in the last two weeks?”

Stubbs glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes since he’d called his partner. How’d he get here in one piece? The weary-eyed detective took a swig from his third cup of coffee. “Yup. Came in last night. Big-ass mansion in Bel Air. Royally messed up my wedding anniversary.”

“Sorry about that,” Brachman said flatly, and wondered if he should’ve at least gotten the lovebirds a card.

“I’m not.” Neither man laughed. Brachman wasn’t in the mood to hear about his partner’s bitchy wife, not at 6:00 a.m. Stubbs didn’t think his home situation funny one damn bit. “Still have to pay for the damn thing, though. Non-freeking-refundable.”

“Nonrefundable? What the hell. Hawaii’s a ghost town. They should be paying you to come there.”

“Yeah, well, when you book the super-duper economy deal, that’s the risk you take.” Stubbs didn’t feel as bad about losing the money as he wanted Brachman to believe—if eating the cost meant not having to take a vacation that would be a miserable argue-fest.

“Ah, the frugal romantic.”  Brachman ignored the peeved look on Stubbs’ face and started on his first cup of tea.  “Puffer, bone pile, or mummy?”

Stubbs flipped to page two of the report. “Puffer. The feeder and timer stopped about a week ago. The dude’s auto-pay was light, so no power.”

“No sitter?” said Brachman.

Stubbs shook his head. “Not according to the prelims. His financial records show huge withdrawals on four occasions. The last one drained it, about right for a trip, and nothing else.”

“Wow,” Brachman said, shaking his head. “Not enough money left to do it right.”

Stubbs shrugged his shoulders. “Fiscal will check to see if that’s true. If he had other cash, maybe the sitter skipped on him once he went to dreamland.” He tossed a few photos onto Brachman’s desk. Brachman took a look and wrinkled his nose; like a teenage girl, Stubbs thought. “The Atomi was disabled, so nothing helpful there.” 

“Is that possible? I didn’t’ think you could disable that sucker.”

Again, Stubbs shrugged. “The geeks say it can be done; but it’s hard—and expensive—that includes offing the backups and alarms.”

“No money, no power, no video, no recordings.” Brachman took another look at the photos and shook his head, like an exasperated parent this time. “Yeesh. Guy shoulda sold the Bentley to pay for a reliable sitter. Or at least the power bill.”

Stubbs nodded, absently. “Especially, since it’s been hotter than hell these past weeks, but it looks like he sold it before the third trip.” He thought of his car air conditioner in dire need of a dose of Kool-on, and him having no hope of scheduling the work anytime soon. “Thank God, we didn’t process the crime scene on this one. Rolles and Teakwood drew the short shit straw.”

Brachman smirked. “Yeah, too flipping bad for them”

Stubbs held his tongue, barely: Junior, here, doesn’t have enough years for such sauciness. After a cup-draining sip of coffee, he said, “Let’s not get too comfy. Boss man says we gotta find out where the guy scored the box.”

No duh, thought Brachman. “Is that all?” Maybe the putrefying corpse gig wasn’t so bad. “Why doesn’t Silicrimes deal with this mess?”

“Well, Sherlock, the dead body should be your first clue. And we’re down to our last few geekers. Q-tron’s paying ‘em a lot more—and a pension, to boot. Hell, they even hired Creplock, for God’s sake.”

Brachman rolled his eyes. “Can’t say I’m sad Creplock is outta here. That bastard is…was the nerdiest of the geekers, that’s for sure. The bastard now gets a pension, we lose ours.” Both cops chafed at this fact, and it added to the stress of the last few months. This was on top of recently announced (further) budget cuts—and amidst a relentless heatwave, which the weather belles, in their too short and too tight skirts, cooed would strangle the city for at least three more weeks. 

More problematic was the fact that the dead weren’t homeless expendables, drug dealers, or gangbangers. Those crimes could be investigated during a normal workday and packed up each day at the close of a shift—and even entire weekends. No, these were respectables whose deaths made headlines and grabbed the attention of elected officials. Crimes which couldn’t be left unsolved—or dithered over.

Politicians rattled by angry campaign donors had no qualms about calling the Chief, and this kicked off the manure avalanche that ended up on the desks of frazzled detectives. At least there was lots of overtime regardless of the budget cuts. Though that shit was now straight-time—no more time-and-a-half or holiday double-time.  

Brachman leaned back in his chair, hands interlaced behind his head. “That 3-D dealer in Palisades is a heavy hitter, far as we know.”

“That we knew,” said Stubbs. He tossed over another report. Brachman bolted up straight, like a prairie dog. Stubbs smiled inwardly at the jolt he’d given Bachman. “Chan’s head was found in Irvine, one arm in Barstow, his dick in Oxnard, tongue in Bakersfield, an eyeball in Vegas; they’re still searching for the rest.”

Bachman relaxed, smirked again. “Do the police suspect foul play?”

“Well, someone is sending quite the message, that’s for sure,” said Stubbs.

“Yeesh, good thing for us the dude ain’t a starfish,” Brachman quipped, eliciting a slight smile from Stubbs.

“Obviously, somebody filled the void in the market.”

“Ain’t capitalism grand.”

Stubbs agreed. “Commies weren’t ever going to invent this stuff.”

“Hell, Q-tron didn’t invent it either,” said Brachman. “Well, at least the Halcyon chip part of it.”

“As far as we know,” said Stubbs. Who knows what goes on at that goddamn Q-tron complex?

Brachman’s face set itself in seriousness. “Q-tron is exploiting this shit. Their new gamer device is called the Omega-DT for crying out loud—supposed to mimic the expensive stuff. The bad guys may need to up their junk if the legit guys are wanting in.”

“That didn’t take the sick bastards long,” said Stubbs. “But how much more can they amp this stuff up? We already get bodies as it is. You’re too young to remember when real drugs were the rage. That at least seemed like honest police work. Now we got digital junkies. You shoulda seen the line of geekoids camped in front of the Q-tron store when I drove in this morning. You’d a thought it was some new iDickmassager or something.”

Stubbs knew the line wasn’t all geeks. Hell, all ages were there. Families and their kids, babies in strollers, grandmothers, every race and creed, as far as he could tell.  

Brachman looked over at the old-school calendar that Stubbs had tacked to the cubicle wall. “The release date is Friday.”

Damn, thought Stubbs, that’s four days from now. “I hope the dumbasses brought lots of water and sunscreen.”

“Anybody check eBay or Amazon or Furk yet?” Brachman said, half joking.

“For the rest of the body parts or dealers?” Stubbs asked. 

“Hell, why not both?” suggested Brachman. “You can buy anything there.”

“Don’t forget TheNewMyRedbook,” added Stubbs. Neither intended to forget any such thing.

Stubbs’ eyes involuntarily peeked over at Brachman’s wedding photo, which was unintentionally angled so he could see it whenever he didn’t want to see it—and he definitely did not want to see it, especially now. A few more years and he’ll be tossing that picture against the nearest wall. “Alright, newlywed, we gotta get movin’ on this; otherwise, boss man will have us checking ass cracks over at intake.”

Bachman grinned. “You wish.”

Stubbs pointed to his iAll. “I’ve been going through his receipts to see if we can nail down the dealer and the poker.”

“You sure he didn’t self-connect?”

Stubbs shook his head. “I talked to a relative right before you got here; stated our tripper hated needles. Though we can’t rule out him being desperate enough.”

“We can try and get ‘em for manslaughter, maybe this once,” said Brachman.

Stubbs begrudgingly admitted to himself that he envied the younger man’s gumption, but the older detective was a Libertarian at heart. “Hell, I say it’s the buyer’s fault. Nobody has a gun to these 3-D jockeys, making them hook up.”

“Tell that to the Omega-DTers in a few weeks—even without the poke.” Brachman drained the last of his tea. “All right, how about practicing medicine without a license? Selling a faulty feeder or timer, you know, a consumer fraud issue? Maybe go after the power company.”

“The DA said to be creative, but…”

“But what?” asked Brachman.

“Sometimes, I wonder who’s the victim. These dudes that die, or the rest of us schmucks who stay behind. At least they had the ultimate fantasy for a while.” Sort of like a great honeymoon, he didn’t add.

“You ever want to try it?” asked Brachman. “Not that we could afford it.”

“I’ve thought about it. But, man, it seems risky. Your fricking mind dumped inside a freekin’ machine.”

“Some say trapped, some say liberated. The tourists we’ve interrogated have that look, you know, not a regret in the world…except that they came back.”

“They can always go back if they can come up with the money for another play,” said Stubbs.

Brachman nodded. “Hell, if I was Bill Sharma with Q-tron billions, I’d go and never come back.”

“You have to come back eventually.”

“Why? People in comas are hooked up to feeding tubes for years.”

“Hell, two days seems like a long time to remain on a trip, even though when I was a kid we did Xbox all-nighters.”

“Okay, gramps, but we did the same things. I went four days without sleep during an Antares tournament.”

Stubbs did a smartass air calculation with his fingers. “How the hell did you stay up ninety-six hours?”

Brachman showed both his palms in a smartass hands-up. “I can’t tell you. Those IA pukes will say I lied on my application.”

Stubbs looked at his empty coffee cup. My drug. “But, damn, a week. Two weeks. Who would want to go away for that long?” Hell, me of course.

“If it was the right game—and I could afford a damn reliable sitter, I’d do it,” said Brachman. “Go first class, sponge baths and all.” The smirk transformed into a leer.  

Stubbs paused for a moment in thought. “Gotta wonder if your frickin’ soul is in the damn box?”

Brachman thought this was somewhat melodramatic. “That’s a myth. It’s more like a movie getting injected into your skull, with you the star.”

“Oh yeah, that’s certainly better. Give ‘em time, junior. Sharma will stick our minds in a box somewhere.”

“Maybe it’s just a manipulated dream inside our brains.”

“They say you don’t have REM when you’re there. Wouldn’t that rule out a dream?”

Brachman pondered the question for a few seconds. “Who knows what it really is, except maybe Sharma himself.”

“The fucking Cloud Boy,” said Stubbs. “People act as if it’s heaven—and he its god—with the angels giving blowjobs.

Brachman almost spit out his tea, as he laughed. “The Cloud ain’t nothing but a box somewhere else, and somebody’s got control over that box. That’s the god. That’s what scares me from wanting to give it a go.”

“I’m more scared of the physical aspect,” Stubbs said. “Most of these tourists are gone for days; I’ve heard rumors that one guy went a whole month. Seems like your risking getting schivoed if you’re not careful.” He pointed at the photos. “Like our friend here.”

Brachman nodded in agreement. “A rich dude with his own nuclear power plant and a 24/7 sitter might pull it off for months, no problem.”

“What about muscle atrophy? Bone density loss?”

“Get yourself a good physical therapist, too.”

“Somebody has to run the power plant.”

“Windmill. Solar. Shitload of batteries.”

“Lube the gears. Clean the panels. Keep the batteries from leaking. No machine can last forever.”

“Hire a really good sitter then,” said Brachman.

“Like the one who ripped off her client’s house? Hell, he was lucky she didn’t kill him to cover her tracks.”

“Almost did, by letting the feeder run dry.” 

“Or the harvesters,” Stubbs added.

You ever done one of those?” Brachman asked.

“Yes. Fuckers took everything: heart, lungs, kidneys, liver, corneas.”

Brachman smirked again. “Did they leave his dick?”

“Then we have the rapist sitter. Christ, what a mess,” said Stubbs.

“My sister’s kid is on his Tazzar all day and night. Not much difference as far as I see.”

Stubbs scoffed: “At least he has to take the periodic Cheetos and Mountain Dew break, take a real piss. Damn, the thought of a voluntary catheter….and diapers…ugh. Makes me miss the good old days when we watched porn all day online.”

“But now, for the right price, you can actually be in the porn film—with any dick size you want.”

Stubbs smiled wistfully. “Now that I could go for. Might as well upload everyone and be done with it.”

“What, we ain’t there already?” 

Stubbs extended his arms. “If so, then we got ourselves a really shitty programmer.”

Two days ago, during the drive to chase down what turned out to be a fruitless lead in Long Beach, they’d discussed what sci-fi writers had mused about for decades: whether anything really existed or were we all just programed by some unknown supergeek into a grand program called human existence. Stubbs half-joked that Bachman’s ass-kissing would get him to at least Level Four before his police career was done.

“Maybe we aren’t anything but zeros and ones,” said Brachman.

Stubbs grunted. “Yeah, who’d pay money for the game we’re in: Overworked Cops with Crappy Marriages and Newly Eliminated Pensions? Fuckers better give us our contributions back, at least.”

Brachman held up his hands feigning indignation: “Hey, my wedding bliss is still bliss.”

Not for long, thought Stubbs. “Well, then your gamer level is way above mine, dipshit,” Stubbs said. Brachman glanced over at the picture on his desk and knew he couldn’t argue with that logic.

“Which fantasy for you, Brachman?”

“I’m a Trilogy of the Rings guy.”

“Oh, that’s original; but it’s one of the most popular, they say. The dealers charge twenty-five million a pop.”

Brachman’s face beamed in a way that Stubbs found slightly creepy. “Oh man, think about actually being on a quest, fighting orcs, doing battle with the forces of evil. Doing it in real time. Really doing it.”

“Sex with elven women is what’d sell me,” Stubbs said wistfully. “You can keep the orcs.”

Brachman made a sword fighting motion. “Hey, man, it’s the fighting orcs that makes the sex with elf chicks that much sweeter.”

“Does your wife know this?” Stubbs said. 

Brachman feigned a panicked look. “I’ll bring a digital condom, just to make sure.”

Stubbs smiled and brought the case back into focus. “Do you think we’ll ever get the meet with Sharma lined up? I’d like to find out what he knows.”

“I bet the bastards downtown are still covering for him. DA claims she’s tried for a month to set it up.”

Stubbs’ phone rang.

“Okay, newlywed, it’s go time.  We got us a tip.”

And the Rock’n’roll Squad is going in first.

III.

The man clad in body armor raised three fingers and spoke in a strong, yet subdued, voice: “On three.”

Brachman loves this shit, thought Stubbs. But I don’t want the bitch to win a sweepstakes with my life insurance. The two detectives crouched ten feet from the door, around which poised the entry team.

“One…Two…”

Another officer, noticeably bigger than the others, stood in front of the reinforced door to a decrepit, seemingly abandoned warehouse, his doorknocker swinging in ever-higher arcs. The other entry team members peered through night-goggles, their weapons at the ready. Two gripped flash-bang grenades with the pins already pulled.

“Three!”

The doorknocker blew the door in—not as reinforced as the swinger thought—the momentum meeting an unexpected lack of resistance flung the stumbling officer onto the floor inside the building. Two grenades rattled across the floor and exploded in a loud burst of noise and light.

“Move! Move!” Men flooded into the warehouse, stepping over their prone colleague. “Police! We have a warrant! Get the fuck down on the ground!”

Stubbs and Brachman waited for the team to secure the scene. From the yelling and startled voices, it was obvious they’d encountered occupants.

“Down on the ground! Down on the ground!”

Twenty minutes later, Stubbs waived a Halcyon chip in the face of a handcuffed Asian man. The suspect was pudgy, mid-twenties, silent, almost pouty. Nearby tables held an army of empty Mountain Dew and Red Bull cans. The boss man told them to use every means in order to get the info. This one is top priority.

Stubbs took the lead.

“Okay, dipshit. Where did these come from?” Each chip was the size and approximate shape of a Pop Tart.

“I want a lawyer,” the Asian said, a slight crack in his voice belied the calm face.

“You’ll get a lawyer, and maybe get out of here with only a few broken bones, if you shit some valuable intel.”

Sweat broke out on the Asian’s face, but he tried to put on a brave mien: “I know my rights. I don’t have to tell you jack.”

Stubbs sighed in a way that Brachman imagined a frustrated Grand Inquisitor might before lighting the wood beneath a stake. Stubbs nodded toward the violated doorway: “Your rights start as soon as we walk out that door, but for now that door might as well be on the moon. Now before I start a righteous attitude adjustment on your ass, I’m gonna ask you one more time, and only one more time. Where the fuck did this come from?” 

“We make them here.”

Stubbs’ slap was like a coiled mongoose, erupting from seemingly nowhere and plowed across the Asian’s face, almost knocking him out of his chair and onto the ground. Two beefy cops roughly straightened him back up and slammed him back into the chair. To his credit, the Asian glared at the cops with a steeliness that hadn’t been there prior to the slap. Blood trickled out of his nose and one corner of his mouth. One side of his face looked sunburned.

“I’m not talking about the modified CPUs.” As to remind the man, Stubbs jabbed the Pop Tart to within two inches of the Asian’s face.

Typically, the workers in these labs were docile nerds lured by the huge sums of money paid them by the dealers. But none had rolled yet, and this surprised Brachman as much as it had Stubbs. This geek didn’t seem any more breakable than the others, especially after seeing him take Stubbs’ slap.

“All I can tell you is that some guy drops them off once a month. Picks up the finished units at the same time.”

“Name?” said Stubbs, his tone softer, almost like an old friend.

“None of us know. Chips and cash in. Units out.”

“What does he look like?”

“I…I don’t know. He wears a mask, long sleeves, and gloves. Sunglasses. I can’t tell if he’s round eye or a slant. Hell, he doesn’t even speak.”

Stubbs glanced briefly at a nearby table of finished units. Each unit was the size of an old desk top computer tower, and worth tens of millions of dollars each—good for one trip only. The Asian sensed Stubbs was about to land another blow.   

“Look, I don’t know anybody’s name. None of us do.”

Stubbs leaned in again, the Asian recoiled back into his chair. “When is the dude coming back to pick up the finished products?”

The Asian relaxed ever so slightly, a faint smile appeared, infuriating Stubbs. The Asian slowly motioned his head toward the detective’s body camera, which had been kept off for the raid. 

“He ain’t.”    

IV.      

He waited in line with thousands of others, since dawn several days ago. Even then, he’d only gotten a spot two blocks away from the store. Behind him, the line ran down Pico Blvd., and eventually out of sight. I hope they don’t run out before I get to the front of the line, he thought, for the hundredth time today. By now the deodorant and travel wipes had given up the futile effort at trying to mask the general stench among the throng. Nobody seemed to care. The excitement about the new gaming device, and the apprehension about there not being enough of these, made olfactory assaults nothing of concern. 

Fortunately, he’d been smart enough to bring an umbrella, a brimmed hat, and long-sleeved shirt. Yeah, the heat was murder, but at least he didn’t resemble a freshly boiled lobster like many of those around him. Man, they must be in fucked up pain. One guy, ten people closer to the storefront than him, offered a thousand bucks for the umbrella. Though tempted, he declined—and noticed covetous looks in the eyes of his neighbors.       

Q-tron publicly assured its minions of fans there’d be plenty of the Omega-DT consoles in stock—and this included a free trial of the Omega Ultra-Game which came with each of these, good for “The ultimate adventure of your life!” that was scheduled for twenty-four hours only, one week from Friday. This was the first 4-D game available to the public, but whether it was truly the 4-D experience discussed in the darkest corners of the web, rivaling the experience it was rumored one could buy on the black market, nobody knew for certain. 

They hoped like hell it was true.

He was flanked by soon-to-be Luddite retros, helmeted and watching their VR.  Virtual.  Nerds.  How passé.  The 3-D holograms were impressive, but an affordable—and legal—4-D unit where the player felt like he was actually in the game, now that was something extraordinary indeed. The makers of VR devices plunged forty percent on the news. The video footage of these lines further ravaged the stock prices.  

His parents long ago gave up nagging him about the time spent in these digital universes. Hell, most parents were now doing the same thing, as evident by many of the people making up this line. A particularly vile or violent game might garner some scolding publicity, perhaps a feckless Senate hearing or two, but for the most part the world found itself segregated into a large number of gamers and the rest of society who for some unfathomable reason were immune to the lure of binary intoxicants. Would that change now that they had the chance to be tourists?        

In Silicon Valley, the game creators and those who made the hardware were titans, fabulously wealthy, often at ages south of thirty.  It was not far-fetched to say the game creators were, in fact, gods, creators of fantastic worlds and issuers of the commandments in the form of terms of service, which the denizens of these worlds must follow. It was your choice as the consumer to which world you went, to which gods you owed allegiance, which levels therein you reached.

Q-tron and other companies excelled at producing this digital khat. The games of today towered parsecs above the primitive days of Pong, as each generation of game was better than the previous one, a few hiccups notwithstanding. A hit game could make hundreds of millions in profits, sometimes billions, for the lucky company that struck digital gold. Many games were indistinguishable from a great movie, with the viewer serving as director and writer, depending on practice and skills. The consoles became better and better. The peripherals equally so, literal extensions of arms, legs, eyes. What would be the next step? Noses, skin, and tongues? 

Everyone hoped what this next step was.   

He’d heard the whispers. A friend of a friend of a friend shared the delicious rumor about a better game. Unbelievably better. Perhaps as good as the equipment used by the dead billionaires. Screw them. About damn time the poor folks got a taste.

Finally, the lined moved.   

He had his box!

What the fuck!

None of this would work until next Friday!

What the fuck!

V.

Hell yeah. It’s time. The kick off for twenty-four hours of gaming that Q-tron assured us will be unlike anything we’ve experienced—or imagined.

I’m hydrated and well-fed. I took a final piss, got my Depends on snug just in case.

“Oh, wow. I can’t believe this. It’s so beautiful. Who are you?”

“Greetings. I’m the concierge. Are you ready for an adventure for a lifetime?”

Hell yeah.

VI.

The virus—if that’s what it was—had lain in wait for just this moment. Outward it spread, infecting software throughout the world. A research base in Antarctica was no more immune than a teenagers’ bedroom in Manila. 

The first servers crashed at 8:32 PM, PST. 

The bodies, each of them without a feeder or timer, and no hope of a sitter even if they had the cash for one, started turning up a few days later. The ones who weren’t dead were unwakable, unrevivable. This time they weren’t found in mansions. A trailer park in Barstow had a dozen.

After a week, the remaining detectives gave up trying to investigate.

VII.

A few of them made it back to the door. Found it locked.

They knocked. Politely at first.

Then louder, more frequent, more desperate.

On the other side of the door, the concierge smiled, but he did not move to open the door. Instead, he turned and walked away, toward whatever new place required his services.