The End, Virtually
by Charles David Taylor
part 1
Marjorie opened her eyes to another glorious day at the pool, the warm sun beaming down from a true blue sky. She smiled as Brad, grinning ear to ear and so cute in his waiter’s outfit, strode across the deck to where she was lazing on the lounge. She stretched out her long, shapely legs and turned toward him as he bent down to place a fresh drink on the little table next to her.
“For you,” he said huskily. “Gentleman at the bar sent it over.”
“How sweet.” She glanced over her shoulder to see George, tanned and handsome, giving her a two-finger salute. She raised her glass in a toast, rewarded him with a smile and took a sip. The Mojito was icy, perfect. She extracted the tiny parasol and dropped it on the side table.
“He’s so persistent. But I only have eyes for you, Brad.” She mirrored his sly smile. “I’ll be going back to my apartment in a while. Can you get away?”
“Wild horses, Marjorie, not even wild horses.” He flashed his marquee grin, blue eyes sparkling, as he backed away.
She called him back. “And Brad...” she giggled. “The pirate outfit, okay?”
“I’m thinking you really want Depp. Come on, babe, I’m jealous enough as it is.”
“No, I like Jack Sparrow, but you... well, you’re cleaner.”
“Aarrrgh,” he growled as he turned back to the bar. “We’ll see about that.”
She finished her drink and stood, a bit tipsy as she drew on the tiny robe that showed off her fantastic legs. She didn’t bother to tie it up, so her breasts jiggled fetchingly as she passed the bar. George looked her up and down, openly admiring her figure.
“Leaving, Marj?” asked Alex from behind the bar. He was polishing a glass, but frowning. “Don’t you want to play?”
“I need a nap, Alex. But throw me a few quick ones. For a round.” Heads perked up around the bar.
“You’re on,” he grinned. ”Okay, the first telegraph line was strung across this state.”
“What is Maryland? The year was 1841, by the way.”
“Right-o. In 1955, this steelmaker quit making his namesake cars.”
“Who is Henry J. Kaiser?”
“Right again. Okay, here’s a tough one, a double. This strongman’s constellation had a star go nova in what year?”
“Who is Hercules? When is 1934? Easy-peasy, Alex.”
Everyone at the bar applauded, including Jennifer, who was feeling particularly peevish that day, and not only because of Marjorie’s bikini. Cameron and Penelope had both shown up in tight, tight minis. So desperate for attention, Marjorie thought, but it didn’t matter; she’d clearly won the day.
George shook his head in wonder. “My God. Smart and beautiful!” Next to him, Angel, Brad’s ex, stared daggers.
Alex shook his head. “You are amazing, Marj. You’re what, fourteen drinks ahead this week? Don’t you want to collect?” He spoke with awe to everyone at the bar: “I haven’t stumped her yet.”
She grinned and tossed back her gorgeous blonde mane. “No, no. Just use my winnings to buy another round. Whatever they want, it’s on me.”
More applause followed her exit. Brad stowed his apron under the bar and smirked knowingly.
* * *
Dr. Wilcox was baffled. “I don’t understand, Mr. Manley. I thought you’d be pleased. Her pain has completely disappeared, and without drugs. She’s happier, too. Haven’t you noticed?”
Dexter Manley raised his head from where he’d been studying his nails. “Of course I’ve noticed, doctor,” he snapped. “She’s my mother, for God’s sake! I know her better than you ever will.” He glared at Wilcox. “And I’ve noticed something else. More and more she’s not with us. In her own world. Very disturbing.”
Wilcox’s professional demeanor did not waver. “And I know something about end-stage symptomology, Mr. Manley. At this point, the pain is excruciating. Most patients would be screaming for more sedation, demanding to be knocked out. But your mother is alert and sharp as a tack. Happier than I’ve ever seen her. Depression is inevitable in a terminal patient, but I see no signs whatsoever.”
Manley backpedaled. “Of course, we’d want... her last days, as it were, to be bearable. That’s fine, as far as it goes. But often I can’t get through to her. I want her here, with me.” He corrected himself. “With us. Our family. Not in some other world, where we can’t reach her.”
“True, she is somewhere else, much of the time. In a blissful world of her own creation. Where she can deal with her remaining time on her own terms. All thanks to Virtuality. I wish we understood more about the extraordinary ability of highly realistic virtual reality to relieve pain, but—”
Manley interrupted. “Sounds like you’ve just substituted one drug for another,” he grumbled. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “And speaking of this Virtuality thing, I just got a statement.” He tossed the papers on the desk in front of Wilcox. “I’m shocked at how the expense, the time, is increasing exponentially. She started off with a few minutes every other day or so, but now it’s hours, every single day. It’s costing her thousands. I thought you had a grant of some kind.”
Now we get to the crux of it, thought Wilcox. “The grant paid for equipment and software, installation of high-capacity data lines and the technicians’ time. But the terms require the patient to pay part of the computer time.”
“How convenient,” said Manley, sarcastically. “But is it prudent to let the patient have all she wants? Don’t you set limits? They do that with drugs, don’t they? To avoid addiction.” He spoke the last word with distaste.
“No, we set no limits. Only she knows what she’s going through.” Wilcox’s mouth formed a hard line. The illogic of Manley’s reproach annoyed him. Doesn’t the man understand? She’s terminal. Addiction doesn’t matter at this point. Leave her alone, for God’s sake. “Virtuality is not a drug. It is a fulfillment—”
Manley cut him off. As a trial lawyer, his instinct was to control the discussion and keep others on the defensive. “Don’t you monitor her usage and see how much she’s using?” He waved the papers. “Where does it all end?’
“I thought that was obvious.” Wilcox snapped. “It ends with her death. Which will be soon.”
Manley turned ashen. The idea seemed to hit him hard for the first time that afternoon.
Wilcox was a compassionate man and even though the lawyer was getting on his nerves, he recognized an anxious son and moved to help him deal with this painful realization. Gently, he said, “Dexter, we monitor her activity twenty-four hours a day. We know everything she’s going through. That’s an essential part of the protocol for an experimental treatment.”
Manley was too sharp to let that pass. “What do you mean, everything? More than the usual vital signs on that monitor by her bed? You can’t know what’s going on inside her head, can you?”
Wilcox shut down. “Sorry, I can’t divulge that. It’s privileged data, HIPAA regulations. Patient privacy.”
But the doctor’s slip had whetted Manley’s appetite for full disclosure. His position as next of kin with power of attorney gave him powers he intended to exercise, and he was not about to let some doctor’s notion of privacy get in his way. He suspected there was more to this “data” than a numerical readout on some machine. He made a mental note to examine HIPAA privacy regulations as soon as he got back to the office.
* * *
In her room, Marjorie peeled off her bikini and paused to take an admiring glance at her lithe body as she slipped into the shower. After drying off, still naked, she closed the window curtains and slipped under the sheets. Almost immediately, there was a knock at the sliding door that opened onto the patio.
“Entrez, s’il vous plaît. If ye be friendly.”
Brad burst into the room, in full pirate regalia, a dagger between his teeth. He slammed the sliding door shut behind him.
“Oooh, brilliant!” She giggled. “Please do me no harm, rough sir. What be your intentions?’
Brad threw the dagger at the far wall, where it stuck and quivered. “Depends, my lovely lass, on what ye mean by harm.” He advanced toward the bed as she cowered in mock fear, her nipples hardening against the sheet. He leered at her barely-concealed form. “Aarrgh, methinks me intentions be strictly dishonorable.”
“Best remove those filthy boots, you rogue. And that doublet and that ruffled shirt as well.”
But he had already stripped down to his breeches and those too were coming off quickly. She admired his chest and thighs as he peeled off his stockings.
“Be that another dagger concealed so poorly in your bloomers, rough sir? Do you mean to use it against me? Am I in danger?”
“Hardly a danger, if ye comply.” He bent down to kiss her shoulders and her throat. His voice changed to a throaty purr, soothing and sexy. “Hard-ly a danger.” She giggled again as Brad slipped between the sheets and into her arms.
“You are so silly,” she said, wrapping her legs around his firm buttocks. “But don’t stop, not until I say stop.”
* * *
The technician leaned back from the screen and exhaled a huge breath. “You go, girl!” She turned down the audio, which was all pants and moans. “Wow, oh wow!”
Wilcox frowned. “Okay, Lindsay. Let’s be more professional, shall we?” But he too was astounded. “Amazing what a complex fantasy life she’s generated. Who would have thought an octogenarian...” His voice trailed off as he stared at the screen.
“I like how all the actors are in their prime,” she said. “And so hot, but not as hot as she’s made herself. She’s like, perfection. An ideal.” Lindsay, a 27-year old mother of two, was noticeably flushed as she looked up at Wilcox. “Any idea when they’ll go commercial with this version? Open it to the public?”
“Don’t hold your breath. The computing requirements are out of sight. Teraflops, approaching petaflops, to achieve that level of realism. Not to mention the AI for rapid feedback and response, cascades of neural networks. And delicate implants to get to the brain centers. We’re lucky to have a chance to work with the advanced prototype.”
Lindsay ignored her boss’s pedanticism. She nodded at the screen. “Not as lucky as she is.”
Marjorie’s eyes were closed, so the screen had gone dark. Lindsay cranked up the audio for a moment to make sure it was tracking. It was all pants and moans. She discretely lowered the volume, and monitored the sound on the meters.
“She deserves it,” said Wilcox. “I just met with her son. What a piece of work. A selfish, controlling miser. Wants his mother to pay attention to him, even while she’s in agony.”
Lindsay sighed. “Sorry to hear that. She’s some gal, alright. What an imagination.”
“It’s more than that,” said Wilcox. “She has tremendous courage. It’s not easy, dying.”
* * *
A pulsing red light filled the dark room, and the entwined players sensed a gentle but intrusive hum.
Marjorie was the first to speak. “Brad, darling, we need to ease up for now. It’s time for my, ah, maintenance.”
Brad pulled away. “Oh baby,” he groaned. “You’re the best! How do you do it?”
“Better than the Angel?” she teased.
He was buttoning his breeches. “No comparison. But don’t quote me.”
“Don’t forget your dagger. The one sticking in the wall.”
As Brad slipped out the door, Marjorie relaxed into the meditative state she’d learned during training. The five-minute “extraction alert” had to be respected. If she didn’t prepare properly, the blast of pain from the crossover would be devastating.
When she opened her eyes, the pain greeted her like a ravenous junkyard dog. She lifted a wrinkled arm and waved feebly at the large woman sitting across the room “Hi, Jolene. Pleasure to see you again.” Her throat was so dry that when she swallowed, her voice cracked.
Jolene smiled and shook her head. “You a bad liar, Ms. Marjorie. I wish you coulda seen that smile on your face before I pushed the button. I know you’re hurtin’.”
“Just keeping up the amenities. I was born a Southern lady, and so shall I remain.”
“I do appreciate politeness. So rare these days.” Jolene rose from the chair and stood by the bed. “We’ll get it done quick, I promise. You ready?’
Jolene was fast, efficient and surprisingly gentle. She expertly extracted the electrodes and removed the headgear from Marjorie’s near-bald scalp. She took out the catheter and lifted her onto the toilet. When that was done, she gave her a bath, changed her sheets and bedclothes, reinserted the catheter. Meds followed. Lunch came last, a tasteless, soupy gruel. Anything more substantial would have come right back up. Finally, she re-attached the headgear and its sensors.
By the time it was over, Marjorie was groaning from an agony that permeated her entire body. Every joint was on fire. Stabbing pains erupted in her ravaged chest, where the cancer had begun in her breast before spreading to her lymph nodes and bones.
Jolene looked at her with concern. “I think you worse today, Miss Marjorie. I’m asking again, you want some painkillers? Got some good old-fashioned morphine to ease up what ails you. You’re entitled.”
“No, I hate that stuff. I’ll go back where I came from in a few minutes.” She tapped her headgear. “My dream world. But thank you, Jolene. You’re the best.”
“You welcome, ma’am.” What a brave lady, she thought.
Her cell buzzed. The call was brief. “You got visitors, Miss Marjorie.”
“Oh my. Who is it?”
“Doc Wilcox, for one.”
Marjorie smiled. She liked Wilcox, sensed the compassion beneath the stiff exterior, and she appreciated his understanding of the “terminal state.” She wanted to talk with him anyway, about lowering Virtuality’s barriers again.
“And your son,” Jolene added. Marjorie’s face fell. Dex was another story. He did not understand, and he would never understand. He wasn’t cruel, but he could not unwind enough to put himself in another’s place. In that way he was a clone of his father.
“Ah so. You know, Jolene, I just might take a painkiller. But not morphine. I need my wits about me.”
“Got it.” Jolene fished through the apothecary in her cart and found some super-strong Ibuprofen. “This should get you through their visit. Could upset your tummy, though.”
Jolene pushed her cart out the door, and Dr. Wilcox and Dexter stepped aside to let her pass. Wilcox positioned himself at the foot of the bed, and Marjorie could tell he was upset. Dexter bent to give his mother the tiniest kiss imaginable. He could not hide his revulsion at the wires protruding from her wispy scalp.
“Mom? Are you with us? I mean, is the machine... on?”
Copyright © 2022 by Charles David Taylor
