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I survey my shoulder-length red hair and brown eyes in the mirror. No, I don't look like the heroine out of any story, nor like any sort of damsel in need of rescuing. I look tired, the need or hope for make-up long since past. Once, I thought I could rely on the strength of my red hair, but that, like so many other things, proved ultimately unremarkable.
"Mum?"
Jerking back from the mirror. "Jesse?" Oh gods, how could I have thought he'd be left out of this. "Jesse? Where are you?" Guilt flashes through me, turning to ash the selfish wish to be free of responsibility. I rattle the bathroom door handle that, this time, opens easily in my hand. A flat confronts me, larger than my last one but sterile, unlived in.
"Mum?" A pounding on one of the doors down the hallway. I rush to the sound and struggle with the offending door handle. It remains locked.
"Jesse? It's okay, I'm right here."
"Can't you unlock the door, or kick it down or something?"
A half hysterical giggle escapes me. "No, pet, I don't think that would work somehow."
"What's going on, Mum?"
"I don't know. I mean, I was just... just looking on the Net for job leads when someone hacked the program. Then I woke up in the bathroom here. How, I mean, what's the last thing you remember?"
"Dunno. I was just coming home for dinner, like you said. Then it got black and I woke up in this room. I looked out the window, but there's just grass all around. I don't know where we are."
He's already thought to check the windows. "It's okay, pet, I'll get us out of this. I'll figure it out."
"Shit, Mum, I don't need you."
"But Jesse, we could be anywhere..."
"Hello Dulcie."
"Mum? What was that?"
"I don't know, Jesse." But I do know with sudden clarity that is, of course, Welson's voice.
"May I direct your attention to the chair in the front room." Rigid with shock, I turn and follow the voice. No rumpled man greets me, but I fix my gaze on the chair his disembodied voice indicates. It is something out of a different age: dark polished wood and green leather, it might belong in a smoking room for gentlemen. It does not belong as the focal point of this room, facing the low-backed, over-stuffed sofas and the empty glass coffee table. "This chair will be your work station, along with a few modifications." Welson's voice pauses, but I refuse to have the question drawn out of me, fearing already his cinematic timing.
[Hello. Dulcie.]
Oh, gods.
My hands fly of their own accord to my head, but no VR equipment rests there. Frantically, I feel around for a plug or a circuit or anything. Nothing. My throat constricts. I am unsteady on my feet. I lurch towards the sofa and slide over the arm into a sitting position.
"Mum?"
Like a litany I chant in my mind, be careful what you wish for. Be careful what you wish for. Be careful what you wish for. Becarefulwhatyouwishfor.
[Be. Careful. What. You. Wish. For.]
"Be careful what you wish for," Welson's voice whispers...
* * *
A door bursting open startles me out of my stupor. I am suddenly unaware of how much time has passed. The sky holds the last angry edge of an orange sunset. Cedars are black against an undulating, chiaroscuro bay. My son's hurrying figure rounds the coffee table and lands on the sofa next to me.
"They let you out, Jesse?"
"No, Mum. I picked the lock."
"What! Where did you learn to do that? I mean..."
"Leave it, Mum. Are you okay?"
"Yes, I mean, no. Gods, Jesse, they're inside my head." Swallowing. "That is, I think they've put some sort of CICI plug in me, and now they want me to work for them."
"Cool. Like in some sort of corp warfare, and you belong to the corp now and they'll pay you shitloads of money, but you can't leave." Looking around speculatively, "so which corp is it, anyway?"
"I have no idea and, Jesse, it is most certainly not cool. They've done brain surgery on me against my will and now they've access to my mind. They can probably control my thoughts."
"Don't be stupid, Mum, they can't control your thoughts with CICI, they can only send and receive stuff, like you can go on the Net without a box or anything. D'you think I've got one too?"
The thought sends a wave of nausea through me. "Of course not, Jesse, they wouldn't do that to an eleven year old."
[You. might. think. about. sitting. on. the. chair. Dulcie.]
[Put. both. your. minds. at. rest.]
"Mum?"
Breathing. "It's all right, Jesse. They want me to sit in the chair."
"Cool. I'll find some food in the kitchen."
I stare after my son as he discovers the kitchen. Briefly, I wonder if he'll rediscover his fascination for Korean food. Is it resilience, flexibility, or denial?
The chair beckons implacably. I wonder if it is simply a chair and a psychological tool. I sink into green leather. I resist placing both arms on the armrests. To my surprise, a screen shimmers to solidity in front of me. Jesse glances at it, looking impressed. The screen holds an image of Welson facing me from across a desk, and sitting in a chair identical to mine.
'Welcome, Dulcie. It's good to see you again.' His smile reminds me of the night and of his unfocused gentleness-as though he was conscious in more places than that one. As though he didn't see me at all.
'I see you still have my gift.' Looking down in confusion. Indeed, my hand still clutches a bullet. And, in that instant, the flat, Jesse, the chair are all gone. Instead, I sit on granite, its mica and schist flakes glittering in the twilight. Welson sits next to me on the granite outcropping. Our backs are to the trees that, to either side of us, overhang a narrow pebble beach and a flat, silver bay.
'What is it that you want, Dulcie?'
I find that I want to tell him the truth in this setting that is both lush and stark.
'I want to lose reality, Welson. That is, I want to lose the line, the sense of where reality stops and virtual reality begins.'
He smiles.
Jenna Manley, 10/07/01
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