Rift (5 page)

“We all need something,” he continues. “We all have to make a difference somewhere. You don't have any kids. You don't seem to be that much in love with your wife—”

“What the hell are you talking about? You have no idea what—”

“Look, Cameron. I'm not going to order Gates to force you into the portal. If you don't want to do it, then I'll find someone else. But you need to think hard—and quickly—about what you want from life. I know it isn't accounting, that's pretty obvious, so what do you want? I know you're really into golf, so maybe you could be a professional. I don't know. But this opportunity for financial freedom will give you the chance to find out what you want and pursue it. How else are you going to do that if not volunteer for this test? At the very least, if you never figure out what turns you on, at least you'll be able to say you helped test transmission technology. At least you'll have contributed that.”

Finally some kernel of adventure, some payoff for my risk besides the money.

“Even if the machine kills you,” he adds, “you'll be remembered as a pioneer.”

This is what I want to hear, the affirmation I need to solidify my decision.

“Do you think it's going to kill me?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Do you think I'm going to come out on the other side scrambled or insane or permanently blind?”

“I've shown you the videotapes. We've perfected this machine. But we need human tests on record if we're going to market this idea to the public, and that's why I'm willing to pay you so much money. Because this company will make a thousand times that if people buy into the technology.”

“But you're not willing to test it yourself. You wouldn't have to pay yourself five million dollars if you were a test subject.”

“That would be a conflict of interest, for one thing. And yes, of course there is a risk that something could go wrong. But I don't have to accept this risk. I have enough money to pay someone who needs it more than I do. And I think you make the perfect candidate.”

Somehow Batista's honesty regarding the machine's risk factor means more than anything he's said since he first offered me the test.

“Okay,” I tell him as adrenaline streaks through my body like electricity. “Let's go do it.”

“Good, good,” he responds, once again rubbing his hands together, as if warming them.

We make our way back to the terminal, where Misty waits with wide eyes and hopeful expectations. The fear returns as I see the transmission portal, and I smile to conceal this from her.

“Well?” she asks.

“I've decided to do it.”

“Oh, Cameron . . .”

“It's something I really want, Misty. We've talked about this. I just needed a little reassurance from Rodrigo, that's all, and now I'm ready. Really ready.”

“But—”

I bend down and kiss my wife. With my lips pressed against hers I try to make her understand that my love for her is part of what drives my desire to do this. I want to be a better person. A better husband. And if something goes wrong, I want her to remember this. This kiss.

“I love you, Misty, but I have to do this.”

She lets go of me.

“Are you wearing contacts?” asks Cheryl, the transmission attendant.

This is part of the drill. During the transmission process, a human body must go through minus anything not permanently attached. Just a protective measure, I've read, but I can't help but think of that little mishap in the Jeff Goldblum version of
The Fly.
Sweat moistens my upper lip.

“No,” I tell her. “Had laser surgery.”

“And,” she smiles reluctantly here, as if to apologize for saying so, “you'll remove anything else attached to your body that is not permanent?”

“Certainly.”

“Good,” she says, and then looks toward Batista. “I think we're ready?”

“Right this way, Cameron,” Batista says, opening the door marked
PASSENGERS
. The black hole stands before me, door open, shadows concealing whatever may lurk inside. And suddenly the fear returns, unexpected. It begins near my heart, simultaneously hot and cold, and swells rapidly, fluidly, until my entire chest cavity floats with it. Then into my arms, my legs, and now I'm afraid I will simply collapse onto the floor, a boneless, shapeless heap, my insides completely melted.

Melted by this sudden fear of death.

“Cameron?”

Behind me. Misty. Her hand on my shoulder, her voice wavering, and I turn to hug her tightly once more. Without looking into her eyes. Without admitting what she may already have guessed.

“I love you, baby. I'll call you when I get there. Not even an hour away.”

She cries openly now. “Oh, please, Cameron.
Please
. . .”

I release her and look only briefly into her eyes. “I'll call. I promise.”

“Good-bye, Cameron,” she says, and turns away.

“Inside the portal,” Cheryl tells me in a soft voice, “we'll communicate via intercom. If you have questions or wish to abort the procedure for any reason before the scan begins, just say so.”

I step inside the transmission portal. This time it is just how I imagined—a square of seven by seven feet with a sturdy-looking metal seat positioned two-thirds of the way to the back wall. The starkness of this room somehow resembles my impression of the electric chair.

I turn around and look out into the terminal. Misty stands there, watching me. I wave and mouth the words
I love you
to her. She nods and then looks away. The sum of our fear is overwhelming.

Painted on the closed door is a short list of instructions, including a bold reminder to
REMOVE ALL JEWELRY OR OTHER NONPERMANENT BODY ATTACHMENTS
.

“Cameron?” Cheryl calls over the intercom. “Doing okay in there?”

“Fine,” I say.

“We'll send your luggage as soon as you place your personal effects in the other portal.”

My hands, slick with sweat, tremble as I remove the gown, my watch, and underwear.

A few moments later I stand buck-naked, having placed everything through the trapdoor. I fight off the urge to cover my privates and quickly sit down in the chair. It's made from titanium or stainless steel or some kind of effortless alloy, and damn, is it cold. Gooseflesh marbles my skin.

“Cameron? Are you ready?”

My heart climbs into my throat. I'm shivering where I sit. Couldn't they heat the chair?

“Yes,” I say, and fear it's a lie. As surely as I have convinced myself that this is the right thing, I think I've changed my mind again. Death is not the answer. I have no desire to die.

“Your luggage and clothes are gone, Cameron,” Cheryl says. “Your scan will begin in less than a minute.”

Oh God. Oh, my God. This is crazy.

“Everything all right in there?”

“I'm fine,” I say, not bothering to hide the fear now. They all know. Probably they're placing bets on how long it will be before I cry out in terror. But I won't. I've made it this far. I'm—

“Cameron?”

“I'm fine!”

“Someone here wants to talk to you.”

I don't respond. Shortly I'll be reduced to nothing more than entangled quantum particles. I'm not thinking clearly.

“Cameron, honey? It's me.”

“Misty?”

“Yes, honey. I love you. I'm . . . oh, Cameron . . .”

“I love you, too, Misty.”

“Be careful.”

“I will, baby. I will.”

A pause. Rattling as the intercom changes hands.

“Cameron?” It's Cheryl again. “Fifteen seconds.”

“Thank you.”

After listening to Batista drone on about it over the past few weeks, I've formed a pretty good idea about what will happen when my transmission begins: nothing. The scanning procedure will render me unconscious almost instantly, and the next click of my mental works should take place in Phoenix. Everything in between will, in effect, become lost time. I should experience instantaneous transmission.

As I try to pass the last few seconds, I become aware of something different, some new sensation, something unexpected. Something else in the room with me.

A smell. A sweet—and oddly enough, familiar—smell. When have I experienced it before? Should I say something to Cheryl? Is something wr—

“Begin scan.”

Now I feel a little light-headed. And drowsy. Is this normal? Did something just bite me? A n—

two

I
can't believe how goddamn cold this chair is. Couldn't they have mounted a cushion on it? Or at least put a heating element beneath the surface? It seems needlessly uncomfortable.

“Cameron,” a female voice says, “you may open the ‘clothes' door and put on the gown.”

I'm still waiting for the scan. For the transmission to begin.

Or perhaps I've already done it.

And I'm not dead. Not dead
not dead NOT DEAD
!

And suddenly I am seized with such an exquisite delight that I nearly stand up and scream
Hallelujah!
at the top of my lungs. I've done it! I've transmitted from Houston to Phoenix by means of quantum teleportation. Beamed myself across the country like some hero from
Star Trek
. Unbelievable. I've done it! And I'm alive!

From the chair I move to the door marked
CLOTHES
. My belongings are here just as I left them. I struggle with my watch and ring because my hands are shaking. Shaking with joy. I grab the gown, hold it up to my face, and smell it. I can easily discern the scent of my deodorant, and to a lesser extent the fragrance of my aftershave. A few of my chest hairs cling to the cotton fabric inside the gown. When I put it on, it fits as badly as before.

I can't wait to go out there. By God, I've—

“Cameron, are you dressed?”

“I am!”

The door opens a moment later. Standing before me are a female transmission attendant and two familiar-looking suited men. All watch me rather quizzically, as if I'm some sort of special exhibit at the zoo.

One of the men, the older of the two at perhaps sixty, steps toward me. His navy suit is obviously tailored and probably set him back five thousand dollars. He is taller than I am, larger, and even his smile and extended hand strike me as imposing.

“Mr. Fisher,” he says as we shake firmly, “I'm Stanley King, vice president of research and development for NeuroStor. Behind me is Ted Lloyd, Arizona district manager. On behalf of NeuroStor, we'd like to welcome you to Phoenix.”

“Thank you,” I answer. Behind them stands the transmission attendant, a short young woman who this Mr. King apparently did not find worthy of an introduction.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“Great. I didn't even realize it was over until she spoke to me over the intercom.” I nod in the direction of the attendant.

“Wonderful,” King says in a commanding baritone. “This test seems to be a success. We are most pleased.”

“I should thank you for the opportunity to volunteer,” I say to him. “I think this will turn out to be one of the more important experiences of my life.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because if the technology proves to be economically feasible, I think it will revolutionize human culture. I think it has been an honor to contribute to the project in some small way.”

“Good,” he says. “Very well.”

“I guess it's time to run your tests?”

“Of course,” King says. “Let's get started so you can be on your way. Mr. Lloyd, will you escort Mr. Fisher into the examination room?”

I follow him out of the terminal and into a hallway identical to its counterpart in Houston. Now gathered in the small examination room: the two suits, the nurse (older this time, but also much thinner), and me.

This is it, I suppose. The tests. Did I make a mistake? Will I pass, or did the transmission alter me in some way? I know I should be nervous, that everyone in this room probably expects me to be awash with fear, but again I get the feeling that something inside me has changed. Confidence has replaced doubt. Confidence that I am a man who can face the world the way I see fit, and if I choose to believe the transmission procedure sent me through intact, that is my prerogative.

“How do you feel?” the nurse asks.

“Fine. No different.”

“Dizziness, nausea, numbness or tingling in your hands or feet?”

“No.”

“Taste or smell anything funny?”

“No. At least not now.”

“What do you mean by ‘not now'?”

“Well, in the transmission portal—when the scan began, I guess—I smelled something a little strange. It was kind of a sweet smell, like air freshener for your car.”

King looks up as I mention this, and then glances at Lloyd, the district manager.

“Do you smell it now?”

“No.”

“I'll make a note of it in the report.”

“Is that something you expected?”

The nurse shakes her head. “You're the first volunteer I've examined. I wouldn't know.”

I look wordlessly to King for an answer. He offers nothing, but the look he gave Lloyd certainly didn't appear to be nothing.

We work through the physical exam, and vindication surges through me as the results appear to be the same as before. My balance is still fine, my tactile sensations, and all the rest. She runs through the vision examination next, and again I don't notice any change compared to before the transmission.

“What do you think?” I ask. “Any change?”

“You certainly seem fine to me,” she says. “But I don't have anything from the nurse in Houston yet. We'll be comparing results later. Now, if you'll just go across there and provide the urine sample, we'll be finished.”

The crowd parts for me as I head out the door.

“I hope you saved some,” King says.

“Of course.”

I complete my assignment in the bathroom and then rejoin the others. The hospital gown doesn't feel so awkward now that the exams are almost over. My hands are quiet as I dress, not shaking the way they did in Houston.

When I emerge from the changing room, King is looking at me expectantly. He opens his mouth to speak, and for an instant it occurs to me that they have found something wrong, that the test results from Houston have come in and they need to examine me further. An instant, and then I banish the thought, unwilling to give in to the unforgiving fear that has colored me for longer than I can remember.

“You have a telephone call, Mr. Fisher. From Houston.”

King leads me into a large, executive-style office with cherry furniture and walls adorned with large, framed paintings of famous golf holes from Pebble Beach and Augusta National. He pushes a button on the telephone and offers the handset to me.

“Hello?”

“Oh, Cameron. Thank God you're there.”

“Hi, baby. Yeah, I guess I made it over in one piece. I told you it would be okay.”

“I was so worried, Cameron. I kept thinking that someone there would call and . . . and . . .”

She begins to cry softly, and her tears turn my own eyes wet.

“I'm just so glad you're all right,” she says.

We talk for a little while about the transmission, and I explain everything to her. She apologizes for being so difficult on the way to the station, and I express regret for being so one-minded.

“Be careful out there,” she says.

“I will.”

“I guess I need to hand the phone over to your boss. He wants to talk to you, also.”

“Oh.” I didn't realize she was still at the station.

“I'll see you the day after tomorrow,” she says. “I love you, Cameron.”

“I love you, too, Misty.”

A second passes as she hands over the telephone, and then Batista bursts onto the line.

“Cameron!” he says. “I take it you're happy with the results of this test. All you have left is the return trip and you'll be a rich man.”

“Just like we agreed already.”

“Of course,” Batista tells me. “You're such a literal man, do you know that, Cameron? You'll be on your own the day after tomorrow, of course, but could I give you one more piece of advice as you begin your new life?”

“Sure.”

“You could stand to lighten up. Life's too short to take everything so seriously.”

“Thanks, Rodrigo,” I answer. “I'll see you in a few days.”

King takes the telephone handset from me, replaces it in its cradle, and then escorts me toward the lobby. Mr. Lloyd is waiting near the doorway, and just to his right stands the man I came here to see in the first place.

My good friend, Tom Bishop.

I see him just before he sees me, and the tension on his face tells me just how worried he was about this test. But all anxiety seems to melt away when I smile and march into the lobby where he stands.

“Tom!”

“Cam,” he says. We hug briefly, and during the embrace I feel his chest heaving, hear rapid breaths against my ear. “You made it. Holy shit, you made it.”

“What did you think I was going to do?”

“This test, man. God, I was worried about you.”

“I told you everything would be fine.”

“I know you did,” he says. “But still . . . Jesus. It's good to see you.”

I try to play off his concern, because seeing him this way makes me realize again just how much of a risk this was. “You won't be saying that when I kick your ass on the golf course.”

“In your dreams,” he chuckles.

We step forward, moving past a desk and toward the exit. I'm trying to think of something to say, a sentence or two that can summarize my appreciation for this opportunity and the reality of my importance in their—

Suddenly I'm falling. My feet have caught on the carpet and I'm falling. Involuntarily, I throw my arms out for balance. Stumble forward. Slam my head against the desk on the way down. Hit the ground with a thud.

Tom kneels to help me. “Jesus, Cam. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

He extends his hand and pulls me to my feet. Thirty-five-year-old bones aren't rubbery and resilient like a child's are. I haven't taken a spill like that in years.

“Mr. Fisher,” King says. “I am so very sorry.”

But I'm already up, brushing myself off and feeling like an idiot. Everything looked fine during the exam, and now I go and trip over myself in front of everyone. What a fool. They're going to think my sense of balance has been altered in some way. They'll probably take me back to the nurse for more tests.

“No problem,” I tell him. “Just tripped over myself. I'm fine.”

“Are you sure, Cameron?” Tom says. He's looking at me like I was just hit by a car. “That must've hurt like hell.”

“I'm telling you, you're going to wish something was wrong with me when we're on the course tomorrow.”

“You keep saying that,” he says, but without a smile.

“Before you go,” King says, “I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for volunteering, Mr. Fisher. You were right when you said our machine has the potential to revolutionize human culture. And you're playing a big part in that.”

“Thank you for asking me to volunteer.”

“And for the money,” Tom says over my shoulder. “Don't forget to thank 'em for that, Cam.”

I want to turn around and punch him, but it's too late now, anyway. King only laughs.

“Have a good stay in Phoenix,” he says as we grab my luggage.

“Thank you. I will.”

         

“That was bizarre,” Tom says as he weaves his Acura into traffic. Tom is not a well-to-do man, not by any means, but that doesn't stop him from finding the money to purchase showy toys like this car. He bought it used, I'm sure, a twenty-four-month-old model with forty thousand miles on her. His clothes are pricey, but he owns few. The expensive watch is probably ten years old. He's a man trying desperately to halt the inevitable process of aging, but he's also my best friend. I guess I wouldn't know what to do if he decided to grow up.

“When you came out of that damn door,” he continues, “I wasn't sure what you were going to look like. I had these pictures in my head of seeing you all mangled and shit. Like you'd have a new eye on your pecker or something.”

I give Tom a sour look. He's smarter than he sounds. This Stephen King bullshit is just a ploy to piss me off.

“Or you'd come out all crazy, speaking in tongues or walking in circles.”

“Whatever.”

“So is it what you thought?”

“I guess so.”

“What was it like?”

“Hard to describe. On one hand, it was the most amazing thing I've ever done. I mean, one second I was in Houston, and the next . . . the next second she's telling me to get dressed. If I wasn't looking at you right now— I don't know. It's easy to imagine that maybe it didn't happen.”

“So it's like when you go to sleep. Out like a light when your head hits the pillow, and you wake up eight hours later as if no time has passed.”

He's right. That's exactly what it felt like. But . . .

“But it's
not
really like that,” I say. “I mean, I remember everything to the last second before the scan began. When you fall asleep there's a sort of twilight time, a few moments before you go unconscious that you can't remember in the morning. That's why you can never tell the exact moment when you fall asleep. But there aren't any holes or gray spots in my memory. It's like a scene cut in a movie. Abrupt and seamless.”