CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Alex likened the awakening of transferring from the Lobby to the real world to a storing away of blissful events in preparation of heavier ones. Disoriented, he recognized the smooth walls and unique lighting of the personal access room in his master suite.
Commotion overrode his reunion. Voices barked urgently. Sneakers squeaked on the glass floor. A drawer shut with a bang. The private access room covered forty square feet. Half of the room held two rows of four access chairs, each with its own privacy curtain, a small sitting area, and a table with a motion activated lamp. The other half of the room held the control panel, which resembled an industrial generator with an interactive top for inputting vacation durations, the number of chairs to be used, and in extreme circumstances, the ability to execute emergency extractions.
Since vacations launched in this room involved Roy, Charles, and Alex—rarely any others—it remained a private sanctuary. The garble of worried voices told of a packed house.
Opening his privacy curtain, Alex stood. A handful of medical staff worked diligently on resuscitating a non-responsive Roy. A physician administered chest compressions: one, two, three, four, continuing the rhythm to fifteen, twenty, twenty-six until the assisting nurse nodded. At which point, he paused the compressions and a third nurse used an ambu bag to force air into Roy’s slack mouth.
A fourth female nurse held Roy’s limp wrist, shifting her fingers to different locations, searching for a pulse. Two other attendants stood nearby. Another manned a cart with various electronics, seemingly bored, considering the urgency around him. Another EMT stared out of the back wall, which overlooked the rear of the property; possibly watching to see if even more of the medical team approached by way of the rear deck, which doubled as Roy and Charles’ private entrance.
As Alex stood dumfounded, Rosa’s hand intertwined with h is. Her eyes stayed on the commotion. She clamped her lips together to control their quiver, tears streamed her cheeks.
Noticing movement beyond the walls informed him the sterile pattern of white with meandering Broumgard logo’s had been deactivated by Rosa, leaving simple glass.
The uninhibited view through walls, floors, and ceiling further disoriented him. He imagined himself standing in mid-air, witnessing a tumult among the heavens. Seeing two members of his yard maintenance crew huddled in the master suite, along with their chef, Anton, and a few security members dropped a weight in his gut.
As he watched, none looked in his direction. The group turned in unison toward the main double-door entrance to Alex and Rosa’s immense bedroom. Leaning to follow their gaze, he saw Glen pushing a gurney at a brisk jog. As he neared, someone opened the access room door for him.
Rosa’s hand moved to the back of his neck. As always, the gesture calmed his rising anxiety. Being near a freak-out, it lowered him to feeling deranged.
Two nurses relieved Glen of the gurney.
The doctor stopped the chest compressions. After backing away to give others room, he exhaled one massive breath, retrieved his cell-phone, and casually tapped on its surface as he paced away.
As if activated by a switch, the room’s intensity vanished.
“We’re at the epicenter of national news,” a nurse said to another.
“Your ugly mug isn’t going to make it on TV,” said another, drawing a few chuckles.
The female nurse who had been searching for a pulse assisted with aligning the gurney against Roy’s chair and then moved as the stronger nurse prepared to transfer his friend.
“I’m sorry, Alex,” Rosa said.
His mind swirled with thoughts. Roy dead? That wasn’t possible. Alex had just watched him racing a Formula One car. He’d also seen the flames consuming the A-26 cockpit; found no body in the wreckage, strewn on the road, or attended by pit-crew medics.
If felt like someone poured wet cement into the top of Alex’s head, filling his body with an unwanted weight. He eased onto the edge of his access chair. When he spoke, his voice sounded unfamiliar, as if thrown into him by some unseen ventriloquist. “Why’d you stop?”
The preoccupied doctor looked away from his phone and, finding Alex, softened his countenance. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Cutler. There was nothing more we could do. I should have called it ten minutes prior. The preliminary assessment would be that Mr. Guillen suffered a major cardial infarction. He was gone by the time I arrived. I really am sorry.”
Though confusing, if Roy had died in real life while driving his Formula One car, it solved the mystery of his disappearing body. Since Roy’s hadn’t been a program-induced death, where a corpse remained powered by the energy that constituted the man it sustained, it disappeared like a regular load-out. Kill the power, in this case, the life force of a human being, and you severed the data stream into the Lobby. Thinking back, every time he had witnessed a person logging out, they had vanished in the same fashion. Yet those exits had been planned.
Something deep in Alex wrestled with the reality of Roy’s demise. He would never talk to his friend again. They’d never be a pair of Gulmacs, the Ogre-like race in Cosmic Conflict, never storm Normandy with the first wave.
“I’m having trouble with my service,” the doctor said, displaying his phone to Alex. Behind him, the nurses had loaded Roy onto the gurney and politely guided his decrepit, rancid body past Alex and out of the room.
Alex puzzled over how small the man had become. The husk before him resembled an old, disfigured elf out of a Grimm’s fairy tale.
“I’ve been coming out here for three years,” the doctor said more to himself, but loud enough to be heard. “Never had any problems with my reception before.”
Jesus. Reality slammed into Alex. Roy was gone. A smile tickled his cheeks. The wave of nausea receded. What a great way to go. You’re driving along having fun. You don’t even know your organic system has been socked by heart failure, or that you’re in pain, or that you’re scared. Then blip, you reenter the brain attached to your body. It’s fair to imagine, at that point, you’re confused; engulfed by the body’s own defense mechanisms reserved for the finality of death. Confusion. Perhaps a brief, peaceful understanding, then nothing.
By the time Roy realized he inhabited trouble, it passed.
“He was such a great man,” Rosa said from next to him. “Angels will swiftly guide him into the gates of our Lord.” She kissed his shoulder.
“Seriously,” the doctor addressed Alex. “Have you ever had problems with service before?”
Ignoring the question, Alex rose, excused himself, and stepped out of the room. Those present in his master suite shared quiet condolences and dispersed.
“Alex,” Victor’s voice came in from one of the nearby speakers. “At the first sign of catastrophic heart trauma, I contacted Ms. Capaldi, per my programmed instructions. She is eleven minutes out and has asked that we keep everyone here until she arrives.”
Tara? Why would she come here at this moment? The odds of her being in California were nil; being in America at any specific time might be fifty-fifty. And though Alex respected the woman, he didn’t give a rip about her request.
If his Yin included staying out of the limelight and enjoying time in the Lobby and with his wife. Tara’s Yang placed her on every forum imaginable. Once, while channel surfing, she occupied five stations at the same time—all unique interviews. Without fail, seeing her on a program meant a clip, photograph, or entire story about him would follow. Their inseparability drove him mad.
Alex wanted proliferation, but not at the expense of being so recognizable he couldn’t live in society.
Tara matched him financially. She used her resources and fame to promote, propagate, and pacify the false campaigns against the Lobby. Only a handful of people, including Alex, knew her top goal—allowing Markers to be implanted at birth. She had wild theories for child rearing in the Lobby.
He respected her drive. Anyone would. And he appreciated their being on the same team (because she often scared him). Conversely, he’d had his fill of scheming and planning. Atriums littered the planet. Strangers discussed the Lobby a million times a second. Bottom line, her involvement in any matter diminished his authority. Her silver tongue acted as a lasso, twirling around everyone in earshot, tugging them closer until their position aligned with hers. Resigning himself to deal with Tara as she came, he moved to the immediate concern of informing Charles of Roy’s death. Dread superseded his mounting worry.
Alex stared at the phone on his nightstand, inhaled, exhaled, and said, “Victor, put me through to Charles Arnold.” He lifted the receiver.
“No calls are permitted at this time.”
Alex stopped, stared at the nearest speaker, Victor’s voice. An icy chill plinked down his spine. A notion spirited the possibility that his image of Victor as a doting friend had been fraudulent, that these seven years of dependability between his electronic assistant and himself had been but a ruse for this very moment of revolt.
“I’m not following you, Victor. What does that mean?” He pressed the talk button, brought it to his ear.
Nothing. No dial tone. No static. He might as well have been holding a brick.
“What is this, Victor?”
“I do apologize. It’s a directive for this specific circumstance. Ms. Capaldi shall arrive in six minutes. The gates are closed and communications are down for a duration of her choosing.”
Rosa exited the access room. Unaware of the imposed restrictions, she smiled meekly. “Are you okay?”
He inspected the phone, stared at the speaker.
Furrowing her brow, Rosa said, “What is it?”
“Victor says there’s a block on all outside calls and people can’t leave Legion.”
“Don’t use that name,” Rosa snapped. Grabbing the phone, she listened for a dial tone.
“Nine-one-one personnel were allowed to enter and are taking possession of Mr. Roy Guillen,” Victor chimed. “The rest is beyond my control. I do apologize.”
“Is that why everyone keeps complaining about their phones?” Rosa asked.
A glance onto the balcony showed a trio of nurses gesticulating their phone frustrations to one another. A fourth woman held hers at arm’s length as if searching for a signal.
“He says it’s a policy directive for this specific scenario. Tara’s orders.”
“Tara?” Rosa said, as if a bad taste accompanied the pronunciation. “Tara Capaldi?”
Seeing the familiar irritation in Rosa caused his own to flare. If Tara intended to arrive in four minutes, he’d get to the gate in three. Unable to call the guard shack, he’d walk down there and open it manually, allow whoever wanted, to leave. Tara be damned. He strode past Rosa.
No matter the situation or motivation, Tara had no right to assume control of their household. Descending the stairs, he thought of a dozen curses he’d toss her way.
Reaching the bottom of the steps paused him as his anger boiled. He wanted to give Tara’s hair a tug. The uncharacteristic violent nature of that rerouted his thoughts. Perhaps grief, not anger, fueled his current overreaction.
Taking a succession of deep breaths, he steeled himself, and then motored toward a presumption of greater stress.