Chapter 2

A few days later:

“I quit!” Melvin yelled from the harness. He thrashed in place weakly. “Get me out of this thing!”

In a viewing room, down the hall, Mr. ‘Johnson’ turned from the wall of screens he watched over the shoulders of several techs.

“This isn’t working.” He muttered angrily.

Dr. Veronyka Krasnov looked up from her computer. Born to the mistress of a Russian mob boss in New York, she’d grown up having almost no relationship with her father. The unmet man made sure she was taken care of though. And when she showed incredible intellect at an early age, had her sent to the finest boarding schools on the East Coast. She thrived in the competitive environment, finishing high school a month before her sixteenth birthday. The full ride to MIT she earned spring-boarded her into her goal of uniting biology with technology. She was a pioneering innovator in the world of cybernetics and neuro-implants.

There were five of them, all seated at a row of tables behind Johnson. Each had both a computer, and a large notebook full of papers in front of them. None of the machines in the room were networked with the outside world. Save for the wall of screens, hooked up to the servers which pirated the signal so they could see and hear what the subject did, all other networking devices, whether by wire or radio, were physically disabled in the entire facility.

“His insight that they were speaking an obscure or modified form of Gaelic sped up the process by weeks.” She protested. Though she was only responsible for creating the interface mechanism that they implanted into the subjects’ heads and connected them with the ‘game world,’ her intelligence and ability to innovate even non-technical solutions had impressed every one of her current colleagues. They regularly solicited her opinion on a host of varied topics.

Dr. Malcolm Brown, the team’s psychologist leaned forward to look at her. Tall and thin, he’d grown up in the gang-run neighborhoods of South-Central Los Angeles. His older brother recognized his young sibling’s smarts, and had joined the local gang in an effort to let his brother avoid being pulled in. The young Malcolm had developed into a phenomenal runner, sprinting to school and back every single day. His brother would warn him of any ambush spots, so between his speed and inside knowledge, they’d catapulted the budding track star into a scholarship to Stanford. His work with inner-city youth, now that he was well renowned, had transferred from Oakland to Baltimore when he agreed to work on this project.

“Until he decided he couldn’t stomach being chained up in a cage.” Dr. Brown pointed at the door. “I can’t say I blame him. Telling him it’s a simulation doesn’t change that it doesn’t feel like one.”

“Twenty-five.” Colonel Herb Mason, their current Defense Department project lead muttered, counting off his fingers. Nobody knew anything about the officer, except his name and rank. And that he frightened all of them in ways not even Johnson could match. “Twenty-five subjects. Two spontaneous deaths. One person going rogue, forcing us to physically disconnect them, thereby killing one more. Five people completely catatonic, and the rest refusing to go back.” He pointed at Johnson. “You might be right.”

Johnson met each of their eyes before speaking. “I’m just the cover, and resident spook, you guys are the brains. I suggest you put your heads together and come up with something new before the general replaces us all.”

He walked out, and they could see on the monitor as he walked in to the room where Professor Melvin Whitmore lay panting. No matter what Johnson said to him, all Melvin would do was shake his head stubbornly.

“Any suggestions?” Steve Nguyen, their talent scout asked. He’d been a successful headhunter, placing military leaders, young and old with leadership-hungry businesses after finishing his own junior officer time in the Navy. “I thought the professor would do better than that. He’s smart, used to the outdoors, has a good head for languages, as he proved. I checked before recommending him; he’s done some LARPing, and dabbled in other medieval combat sports. But as soon as he got into any altercation, he just ran away.”

“We need someone who can fight.” Their neurosurgeon, and medical expert, Dr. Mariana Borges agreed. Born in the outskirts of Miami to illegal immigrant parents, the beautiful young Latina parlayed her academic success into an Ivy League education and medical degree at Johns Hopkins. “None of our subjects had any real combat experience. That may be what we need.”

Veronyka’s heart pounded. “I may know of someone.” She offered.

Four sets of eyes regarded her expectantly. Biting her lip, she met the Colonel’s gaze.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” She asked, tilting her head to indicate doing so outside.

“Sure.” The man agreed, getting up and walking out. Eye-rolls from the other three accompanied his departure.

“Be right back.” She promised them.

The Colonel was waiting for her in another room down the hall. She closed the door behind her and regarded their sole military representative. She’d only ever seen him in a uniform other than fatigues one single time. Even then, his dress uniform looked just like his utility one: sterile. No decorations or badges denoting skills. No unit designations. Nothing save his rank and name.