The Sensory Deception (41 page)

“Chopper, I’m not going to the Amazon.”

“You have to come. I need you there. They need you. VirtExArts needs you.”

Gloria said, “I’m a venture capitalist. Now that the business has taken off, my role is just about finished.”

“No,” he said. It came out in one sharp syllable.

It hadn’t occurred to her that anyone would expect her to continue working for the company. She’d already done far more for VirtExArts than her job required. Of course, if she hadn’t
taken such a big role, the business would have failed and her career would have failed with it. “Chopper, this is your business, yours and Ringo’s and now Bupin’s. It’s not mine.”

Chopper smiled.

It seemed like an odd response to Gloria, but at least he didn’t sound as angry as he had the previous second.

He leaned over the counter and picked up his yellow tackle box. He opened it and fiddled with his tools, or whatever he kept in it.

She leaned on the counter and stared into the parking lot. A few of the other people who worked at the strip mall had parked their cars. She told Chopper how important her time with VirtExArts had been to her, how special. She started to weep a bit when she said how much she’d miss them.

“When are you going to leave us?” he asked. She noticed a certain calm to his voice, and it pleased her.

“As soon as things settle down and Bupin trains my replacement.”

“Hey,” he said, “you want to do Moby-Dick?”

“Right now?”

“Sure. I can open the store for the staff and you’ll be finished before much happens. You should at least enjoy it while you’re here. You’ve never done Moby-Dick, have you?”

“I still haven’t.”

“Well, come on, then. I insist.” He still spoke in that level way, without any of the illusion of toughness and distance that he usually had. Something seemed wrong, though. Could he really have released so much grief that fast?
Well
, she thought,
it comes in waves
.

“Oh, all right,” she said.

“Here, drink the antiemetic and suit up.”

He handed her a large cup and she drank. It was bitter.

She said, “This is horrible. Is it always this gross? How come no one ever complains?”

“Drink it all. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

She finished it and went to one of the chambers.

Chopper walked over and put his arms around her. He said, “Gloria, don’t worry; I won’t let you betray him.”

She started to object, but the words couldn’t take shape in her throat.

Looking up at him, she tasted something funny—not the bitter taste of the antiemetic, but something else. She looked away from Chopper and the taste changed. Colors started to rumble in her mind, and her thoughts began to dissolve. Like grains of sugar being stirred in a cup of coffee, her thoughts weren’t lost so much as they merged with her senses and her senses merged together.

The steel-cable feel of Chopper’s body became something she could see. She could taste the color of his eyes above her, hear the salt from his tears slowly, inevitably crystallizing, and with every beat of his heart, colors flashed through her vision. She felt confusion wrap around her. Unlike any dream, this was a fundamental misunderstanding: The smells of the earth and the sea, rain and ozone, coffee and carpet, sex and sweat, all increased. Then colors, sounds, tastes, smells, music, and vibration mixed together like every color of paint stirred into a multidimensional greenish brown. Every cell in her body reported different sensations to her mind. Then, in an instant, a rainbow emerged from that mess of greenish brown, a rainbow of spiritual sensation. This was her last reflective thought.

The universe went too fast for her to think. Hers became a world of stimulus and response devoid of words. The memory of coherent reflection, reason, and rationality decayed behind the onslaught of stimuli.

From that point, everything was reaction to sensation.

For a moment, Chopper had felt something he’d never felt in his life: intimacy.

She’d been everything that was beautiful: hair of black silk spun by caterpillars with angel wings, her skin a blend of sea foam and earth loam, her eyes the night that yields peace to day’s violence, her loins the blossom that calls for appetite. Chopper had loved the depths of her body and mind and the elusive interface between the two. They’d made love. The meaning of that word had escaped him until she made it safe for him to cry. He’d had sex with hundreds of women, but he’d never loved anyone and had never done anything like what he and Gloria had done.

He should have known it was a lie.

The models people make of each other are prone to disaster. Expectation and desire don’t mix with reality. In those minutes when he and Gloria had been one, he’d believed that his model of her and her model of him had merged—an idiotic, foolish concept.

Minutes after they’d shared that magic, she’d come right out and told him that she would betray Farley. The model of Gloria that had appeared in Chopper’s mind during those precious moments of delusion would never have done that. At first he’d felt outraged, but then it came as a relief. Relief to know that his guiding assumptions of
Homo sapiens
had once again been verified.

Farley had been the only decent person on earth.

If the model of Gloria in Chopper’s mind didn’t align with the reality of Gloria and if the model was superior to the reality, then the reality had to be modified. The thrill of the delusion of
love had been special, but standing on the firm ground of biochemical reality felt much more comfortable.

He poured ten doses of the sensory deception drug into a glass. Then he talked her into drinking it. When she finished, he held her. He wanted to share the transition, he wanted the model of Farley in his brain to see what he’d done.

She was passive but alert. Every sound caused her head to rotate and every change of angle shifted the focus of her eyes. Then her eyes jerked to and fro. She muttered, whispered, moaned, and sang—all at the volume people use to talk to themselves. Her nose wiggled like a rabbit’s and her head rotated from one side to another like a DAQ system.

He put her in the VirtExReality jumpsuit, helmet, and gloves and set her in the sensory saturation chamber. She would be Moby-Dick. He wondered if it would kill her, if she would choose to ram the ship as Bupin had. He wondered if this dose of the drug would realize that childhood myth: When you die in a dream, you never wake.

F
arley woke from another nightmare and immediately wished he could return to that hell instead of the one he was in. Another steamy day in a stinking cave crammed with hungry, angry people doing their best to maintain a level of civility. He was proud of them, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be there.

They spent the first several days of their captivity with their right feet clamped in two-hundred-year-old leg irons attached to a chain. Their place along that chain dictated who they talked to and whose pain they shared. It was a week of pissing and shitting where they stood, sat, and slept. That none of them had acquired a deadly disease was a wonder of immunization technology.

The gunshot wound in Manny Carrasquillo’s shoulder smelled of rotten meat. He sweated with fever and had to be supported by people on each side to prevent him from falling into the muck. Several got dysentery. Farley went unscathed but empathized with those who suffered, encouraging them not to give in to the humiliation and shame of having their shit dribble down their legs onto the floor where their neighbors sat. The others followed his example, and what could have been disgusted complaints became commiseration and shared misery.

They spent most of the first few days considering escape strategies, discussing the likely ransom demands of their captors, and
evaluating who among them had family or friends who could foot the bill. There were arguments, lots of arguments, and Farley wondered more than once if the leg irons prevented an exchange of blows. The major arguments revolved around points of strategy that needed to be thought through. Farley decided to hold off on contributing to the discussion until he could gauge the constitution of his team.

On the third day in irons, the stink of Manny Carrasquillo’s infection was either buried under the other scents or disappeared under the onslaught of his immune system. His fever broke on day four. Early on the fifth day, Manny woke from his fever and said his first words. “Hey, man, I’m as kinky as the next guy, you know, but chains in a cave? Is this the best dungeon you fuckin’ perverts could come up with?”

Spencer said, “It’s alive.”

“Spencer, man, you twisted bitch, is this your crib?”

There wasn’t enough light to examine his shoulder, but Cai, the paramedic, positioned her nose and inhaled. She said, “I don’t smell infection.”

“Fuckin’ bacteria’s got nothin’ on me.”

Cai said, “I guess you’re too tough for staph.”

Farley asked, “How can we get the bullet out?”

“Probably don’t need to. The shell will calcify. As long as the infection is under control, it’s best left untouched.”

“Part of my collection, man. I got enough rounds in me, someday I’ll be a human Gatling gun.”

“Good to have you back, Manny,” Farley said. With everyone paying attention, it was the moment he’d been waiting for.

“We’re pretty lucky, you know.” He stood and positioned himself to face the others as well as he could, given the leg irons. He spoke just above a whisper. “We came here to accomplish something, and we’re not finished. I’ve never been in combat,
but I understand that plans change when the battle begins. Our plan was to return toxic waste to the source on live TV. That was the plan. Our goal, however, was to put the crimes of Terre Mer Gestion in the world spotlight. We can still accomplish that goal. It’s a commitment that every one of us has already made. The question becomes: How do we accomplish our goal? I think the answer is simple. Again, I’ve never been a soldier, but it seems to me that what we have here is a snafu: situation normal, all fucked up.”

Their laughter was exaggerated by anxiety.

He knelt down in the dry center of the cave and the others huddled around him. It took a few minutes to work the chain into position. “Okay,” he said, every bit the quarterback scratching a play in the dirt. “If they were going to kill us, we’d be dead already. The most obvious conclusion: we’re being held for ransom. This is a big whitewash campaign. It’s what they do, and they’re good at it.” In the shadows, it took a few minutes for Farley to make eye contact with each person. “We will wait, we’ll behave, we’ll maintain our dignity, and we will observe, collect data, and accomplish what we set out to do. By the time we’re released, through whatever means, we’ll have the rope to hang these bastards. Do you understand? We’re not going to attempt an escape. The longer they hold us, the more information we can collect.” He stood and held out his arms to indicate the small maze of tunnels. “This is where we live. The water is okay, the food is bad but will sustain us, and we have plenty of good company.”

Farley assigned trivial responsibilities to each person. The two people along the chain closest to the entrance were in charge of tracking the number of days in captivity and estimating the time of day, should anyone desire to know. He assigned every sixth person along the chain the role of arbitrating disputes.
Groups of three along the chain were required to invent games for passing the time.

Late evening was difficult. Homesickness, worry, and loneliness crept into the cave like so many ghosts. Starting on the fourth night and every night thereafter, each person took a turn telling personal stories about something nostalgic or sweet. It helped stave off the nightmares.

On the sixth day, a steel gate reinforced by razor wire and set in concrete was constructed at the prison entrance. It dispelled the last doubt that their captors were indeed employed by Terre Mer Gestion SA. Once the gate was up, the leg irons were removed and they could move freely about the cave and its various offshoots. The area near the entrance where they’d been chained was designated as the lavatory. In addition to already having been used as such, it had the added benefit of requiring their captors to trudge through it when they desired contact. They mapped and named the various tunnels. The one that reached farthest from the light, deep under the ridge, was dubbed Niagara because a trickle of water dropped from the ceiling and disappeared under the floor. Niagara water tasted cleaner than the water provided by the guards.