Caffeine: a Novel
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CAFFEINE 1 2 RYAN GRABOW I opened my eyes, standing unharmed in the middle of the road. The car had dematerialized. The rain had stopped. The city was quiet, except for the steps of a woman walking in the road. She stopped three meters from me, observing me. I saw her face and her descender. I remembered where I had seen her before. Blackjack table. Modern clothing had replaced the Soviet uniform and, without the cap covering it, hair that appeared white was reflecting the streetlights above with a faint silver luminance. “Who are you?” “There is only one thing you need to know, Mister Dauphin.” Her words were spoken in neither love nor hate. Her eyes were a puzzle. Her face revealed no emotion. Even as her next words shook to my core, that which was behind them seemed very alien. Hers was the impersonal statement of a fact, of things decided before I’d even stepped into the ascension booth. “If you don’t start cooperating, I’ll kill you.” CAFFEINE 3 CAFFEINE A NOVEL BY RYAN GRABOW FORT MYERS, FLORIDA egrabow.com/media 4 RYAN GRABOW EGrabow Media, November 2011 First e-book version: October 2009 This e-book was created in the United States of America by Ryan Grabow, and is available worldwide at egrabow.com/caffeine. If you enjoyed this work, the author encourages you to share it with others. It is a free download, after all, which can legally be printed and copied under the terms of its license. Thanks to Ryanne Batey, Chris Ebert, and Mike Skold for their help proofreading the longest anything I’ve written to date. Oh yeah, and to my mom, too... on whose advice I changed “Ver” to “Vair,” which actually sounds right when I read it. : ) Thanks also to Splashdown Books for those few last edits and for putting this book into print. May God bless them and their readers richly. Now here’s the legal stuff: © 2009, 2011 by Ryan Grabow Some rights reserved. This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the product of that thing Ryan Grabow calls his “imagination,” or are fictitious uses of “real world” stuff, as observed by Ryan when he once walked away from his computer, got lost, and discovered a strange, bright place called “outside.” Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. All rights reserved throughout the world. “EGrabow Media” is not a legal entity, but a brand the author applies to his work. The cover was designed by the author. Permission granted to reproduce the cover to accompany any promotion or review of this book. CAFFEINE 5 Caffeine is now available in print! splashdownbooks.com Thank you for your support of this work. 6 RYAN GRABOW For the glory of the master programmer, without whom artificial intelligence could never be dreamt of. CAFFEINE 7 1 PART|ONE The question seemed to trap me. With each passing day, I felt more I would need to face it, or that it would destroy me. I ran my hand along the surface of the old poster: an advertisement for one of Thomas Edison’s famous inventions, one of the first devices to capture a moving image. Its simple films had been fantastic marvels to an older generation. I thought of their old sense of wonder, and how it was preserved in that place. I envied them. I spent a long moment feeling the surface of the poster with my fingertips, wondering why it didn’t seem as real anymore. A small piece of card-paper scraped against my nose. “You? Staring off into space? I’m impressed.” I took the orange ticket from Vair’s hand and managed to smile. “I thought you hated musicals.” “With a passion,” she said, glancing over. “Vitascope,” she read, smiling as she tapped her finger on the poster. “C’mon, Brandon, we’re in Technicolor now.” The sights and sounds that day were familiar and powerful. Sometimes it seemed as if the pictures were the only joy I had left in life, the only thing that could comfort me in difficult times. We took to our seats as the chandelier lights dimmed and The March of Time filled the silver screen with images of the European continent at war. Isn’t this the sort of thing we want to forget? Vair began shoveling popcorn into her mouth. I found my hand resting on her free one, the contact making me feel anchored 8 RYAN GRABOW to something I needed, as if it were more real than I was, something I could admire but never understand. There was a flash in the corner of my eye. “Not again,” Vair said under her breath. We knew the glitches held nothing good for us and let the moment pass, hoping they would go away on their own, or at least stay small enough to be ignored. On screen, reality and war were replaced by images of fantasy and imagination: a story grounded in a humble family farm in Kansas. The mood of the room softened as we were drawn into the dilemmas of a girl named Dorothy. I put my arm around Vair, knowing she would already be engrossed in the plot, musical or no. I reached for some of her popcorn, hoping I would be fast enough. My hand got smacked. Such things always amused her. I plopped my fedora on her head and pulled it over her eyes. She plucked it off, bit onto the brim and whispered that it needed salt. “I used to have a neighbor just like her,” she said as we saw Miss Gulch seize Dorothy’s dog, Toto, claiming the dog bit her. “Seriously, I think she even hated dogs that much.” “Probably a cat person,” I replied. “More like she hated all living things beside herself.” I laughed. Someone behind us cleared their throat in that ‘be quiet, I’m trying to enjoy the picture’ way. I rolled my eyes. Vair leaned closer and whispered, “No sound dampening. Makes the theater experience more realistic, remember?” I composed a sentence in my mind and sent it to her. “Well, mister sensitive-hearing wouldn’t mind if we talked like this.” “Never mind, we’ll rag on the Wicked Witch of 9A later,” she replied in the same way. “They couldn’t do this in the 1930’s anyway, so—” CAFFEINE 9 The glitches reappeared, much worse than before, causing the fibers of the chairs to flash like the lightning of some distant cloud. Vair sank into her chair and groaned. I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t get in a lather, kitten. I’m sure this joint won’t give us the bum’s rush.” She pointed to the screen. “Twister’s comin’, honey cooler. Better spill later.” Dorothy’s family scrambled for shelter, and our ordinary farm girl ran through the rural landscape back to the farm to escape the tornado. The film felt so authentic yet otherworldly, as tornadoes had become as rare as the family farms they once devastated. Though the film was fiction, it still highlighted a once-real culture and invited us into the imagination of another time: the Land of Oz, the scarecrow, the tin man, and the cowardly lion. When the house fell, Dorothy walked out from a sepia past into a colorful future, one that might seem more real and more fantastic all at once, taking entire audiences along with her. I was again yanked from the Land of Oz, by a single streak Vair didn’t even seem to notice. It was my turn to groan. Why can’t it be real anymore? The glitches appeared whenever Vair and I were together, only growing worse as the months went by. The energy of the story drew those around us further in, and Vair had the iron will to keep her focus where she wanted it, but something kept drawing me back out, calling my attention to the illusion. My attention fell to my surroundings: the other moviegoers, men and women, individuals and groups, those who “dressed the era” like us, and those who preferred to stay in modern clothing. I could hear the simulation of Vair’s breathing, smell the simulation 10 RYAN GRABOW of the butter on her popcorn, and feel the warmth of what wasn’t really her body. I’m an insomniac, I thought. I try to dream like all the others, but can only curse the pillow beneath my head. It became impossible to ignore the noises coming from the front row, the sound of obnoxious kids. They were shushed but didn’t care. As the movie’s villain planted poisoned flowers in the path to Emerald City, to make the travelers fall asleep, a loud scream and laughter erupted. A slampak of Tiger Blood smacked into the movie screen. The spell was broken. People everywhere were suddenly shifting in their seats and tapping on control panels. A badly dressed kid with huge foam hair stood up and yelled about how “statick” and “wheeled” the special effects were, to the enjoyment of at least two loser friends. “Why do they even breathe?” Vair said.