A few months after receiving the second Nobel, he sold his company to Aberdeen Enterprises and used the profits (which were considerable) to create a small start-up in Reno where he returned to his first love: hands-on physics.
Dr. Lorentz spoke into a lapel mike attached to his lab-coat. “Edward, are you about ready?”
Lorentz voice was calm and level, and that amazed his assistant, Dr. Adrianna Drake. Here they were on the cusp of an experiment which would revolutionize the communications industry, and the Professor showed no signs of excitement at the prospect. She had worked with him for long enough to understand, she believed, why that was. He was simply one of those men who enjoyed the chase, the existence of the puzzle rather than its solving. It gave little gratification to him to know he had potentially succeeded in his goal. She found that odd, alien even in this results driven world where she had spent her last few years.
Three rooms further down the corridor from the lab, a similar box sat in a similar room. Instead of the connectors for the VR-Comp and microphone, this box had only one connector for an ancient Bose speaker that was resting on the table next to it, connected by a length of twisted speaker-wire.
A young man, his eyes owlishly amplified by his thick glasses, sat with the lid of the receiver resting next to him on the table. A soldering iron in hand, he was deep in the wiring of the machine, his shoulders hunched tightly as he maneuvered carefully through its electronic guts. A thin plume of gray smoke rose into the air as he secured a new component in place and the acrid smell of hot solder floated through the air.
“Just finishing up, Doc,” he said in a basso-profundo voice that belied his wiry body. “Give me about five more minutes and we’ll be ready to roll.”
Back in his room, Dr. Lorentz pulled up a second virtual-display on the VR-comp and using his index finger to highlight and capture the data on the first display, pulled a duplicate across to the second screen that seemed to hang in the air a few feet in front of his face. Thanks to the holo-projectors located strategically around the room, no matter where Lorentz or any of his staff moved, the display screen of the VR-comp would follow them, always at the optimal position and angle for reading. As Lorentz walked around the room, the screens became transparent to allow him unhindered vision, coalescing back into visibility when he stopped moving.
Data generated by the experiment would be collected through myriad sensors positioned throughout the room, or if manual entry or adjustment was required, by voice or hand; alleviating the need for physical keyboards. The main CPU driving the system was located in its own room elsewhere within the laboratory complex.
“Alright,” came Edward’s voice over the com-link, “just running the diagnostics… and… couple more seconds… okay, everything’s kosher here, Doc.”
“Thank you, Edward.” Professor Lorentz pressed an icon outlined in red on the floating display in front of him and ‘RECORDING’ began to flash at the top of the VR screen.
“Okay team, we are up and running. Everybody stand by, please,” he said.
The computer now began churning through an automated program, displaying each step and its result onscreen. Although everybody on the project was receiving the same feed, and the VR-Comp was recording everything in real-time, Lorentz still read each step aloud as the computer progressed — old habits died hard, at his age.
“Phase 1 Diagnostics: Complete.” And: “Phase 2 Diagnostics: complete. System Diagnosis: Optimal.”
The transformer in the corner of the room began to power-up, emitting a low whine that rattled the protective bars of its cage like a monkey testing the security of its enclosure. The whine rapidly grew in pitch until it passed out of the range of human hearing, leaving behind a low thrum that reverberated through the walls and across the floor of the lab.
Then: “Power: Engaged.” The old scientist’s screen flashed a message in bold green letters: System Diagnosis: Completed.
Power Leveclass="underline" Optimal.
And a few lines beneath that, outlined by a flashing red border, a single icon glowed.
ENGAGE? The word blinked on and then off repeatedly.
Lorentz regarded the screen for a few moments longer, savoring the moment. Finally, he turned to look directly at the black box on the table and his associate professor standing expectantly next to it, holding the microphone in her hand.
“Alright, fire her up,” he whispered and pressed the engage icon.
Everything changed.
The Slip
“It is hard to have patience with people who say ‘There is no death’ or ‘Death doesn’t matter.’ There is death and whatever is matters.”
“Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life.”
Six
Rebecca Lacey woke up screaming.
Her fingers twisted into claws that grasped at the cloth of her sodden, sweat soaked t-shirt, bunching handfuls of the material until the shirt pulled up to expose the lean paleness of her damp belly. Her breath exploded in short, ragged, panting gasps and tears spilled over her scarlet cheeks, as beads of perspiration dribbled over her naked arms and legs.
She heard her words as if from a distance, more pleading than spoken, “Oh… God. Oh… God.” A mantra of horror repeated over and over as her heart rattled behind her ribs, a terrified animal trying to escape its cage.
The dream — it felt so real — had started out so wonderfully. She was someplace beautiful. The half-remembered sensation of running her hands through long grass. Warmth. A wonderful light permeating all things. And clouds. The scent of something so… as much as she struggled to, she could not describe the wonderful fragrance that filled her mind.
And then it was all gone, ripped away from her in an instant and replaced by a horror so profound her breath froze in her lungs.
The knife.
She could still see it glinting in the light of the naked bulb hanging from the bare stucco ceiling of her apartment, the glass lampshade shattered on the floor where her head had smashed it into a hundred pieces.
The stranger had twisted the knife back and forth, back and forth, letting it glint and scintillate across her eyes, his face inches from her own, and his breath hot against her cheek.
She felt the frigid keenness of the blade as he traced its point from her forehead over the ridge of her nose and across her lips, sliding it down the curve of her throat until it reached her breastbone.
An everlasting pause and then: Snick. He had sliced away one of the buttons of her blouse. In the dream, a moan of terror had escaped her lips.
Snick. There was the next button.
“Oh please, no. God. No,” she had pleaded.
The man with the knife had worked his way through all of the buttons, his breathing becoming more and more rapid, and then, Oh dear God, and then he had… he… Rebecca threw herself over the side of the bed and heaved a steady stream of vomit that spread in a rank smelling pool across the carpet and splashed against her ghost-white skin.