Earth, 35th Century. You can cheat death by downloading your consciousness into a Virtual Universe, with thousands of imaginary worlds to choose from, and countless 'lives' to be 'lived.' But someone of vital importance to the Virtuaverse has been m...
Strangely enough, Moonbase Alpha's security force had left the lab and its beds alone and untouched. Wanda strapped Teepee (with Willy), Sunny and myself in, and handed us each my weapon of choice – a disruptor. As Les was setting coordinates, boosting communication strength, and activating the laser traps around Mare Imbrium, an announcement came through Lunar Public Radio – an independent, ad-free old-fashioned radio station at Moonbase Delta.
"...to report that all across Terra Veritas, Dromedaries are suddenly exploding, causing massive structural damage to buildings, and causing mass panic in the streets. Chicago in particular is the focus of several outbreaks in fighting, being led by MetaAppleSoft Security teams. Repeated calls have been made to Helena Bracegirdle, Uninada's Secretary of Cyber Security but her office refuses to comment."
"Here on the Moon, there is an all-bases lockdown in effect. Stay in your homes and cooperate with authorities. All travel to and from the moon has been suspended until further notice. Stay tuned to Moon Free Radio: We keep you informed, to Infinity and Beyond!"
"Everybody ready?" Les announced.
"You come back alive, dammit," cried Wanda, "Cause he don't pay me enough to bury no bodies!"
"Love you too!" I shouted in reply, and suddenly we fell to Middle Earth. And if I needed proof that Murkerberg had built in fail-safes should something happen to him, it was all around us. Because Hobbiton was in flames. And to my limited knowledge of the trilogy, Balrogs had never been spotted in the Shire.
We were attacked instantly by several score hobbits, a dozen or so Westron knights, half a handful of Elven archers and an obvious newbie wizard. We stood on top of a hill made of dead halflings, our disruptors looking like enormous scimitars soaked with blood. You see, in his twisted red-alert reworking, we were the Balrogs.
"Hey, Les," shouted Sunny, felling an entire front line of knights with one swipe, "A little help, here!" In a few seconds, we were mounted Rohirrim, and galloped down the main road as fast as a giant eagle could fly. It was Teepee who shouted, "Les, Eagles!" We dropped a few hundred feet, terrified, before Les got the programming right. Up high, we saw the funnel of soul data pouring upwards and outwards to a galaxy far, far away.
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It looked as if we'd made the flight from the Shire to Mount Doom without incident when the nine Nazgul appeared, Numenorian royal riders and all. A laser blast from Teepee blew one out of existence, going right through a far wall of the Tolkien World power grid. One-quarter of the map simply vanished. He'd placed his cannon weapon inside One-eyed Willy.
"Yeah, you bear-barfed his butt!" shouted Sunny, who turned two into sparking data piles. I disrupted two more. Which left four. I was offering a prayer up to Coyote when a lightning blast from the Witch-King of Angmar caught Sunny in the shoulder. I caught her before she hit the ground, and though she was in pain, she screamed, "Override MAS-1984-32Mz!! Delete Nazgul and Nazgul riders!"
How she remembered Murkerberg's code, I'll never know. She passed out. She wasn't physically hurt, but her data had taken a hit. She'd successfully vanquished our enemies, however. "Beam her out, Les! Teepee – now!" We both leapt into the funnel of souls.
I watched the moon shrink until it winked out. I was alone. I tried communicating, but there was nothing. No sound, not even static. Then I was stretched as thin as paper and as long as a mile; then let go, snapped, passed out, then abruptly awakened as if I'd slammed into a wall; one second later, the process repeated, endlessly. I lost track, time losing its meaning altogether.
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It's hot. Flesh-melting-off-your-bones-hot. Then, two seconds later, the feeling's gone. My eyes open. I'm 95% robotic and 5% brain matter. And surrounded by others, who look exactly the same. My arm lifts and swings a pickaxe deep into a wall of shimmering micas and feldspars, crystals, and veins of minerals I have no name for.
I'm standing on a rotating platform with robots as far as my robotic eyes can see. They're open grates, allowing the chips and stones we mine to fall under us, where they hit a sort of gaseous soup that changes them into a lighter, disgustingly pink cloud that is captured as it floats upward, and suctioned away. Dromedary food, I suppose. My first thought is where the hell is my son?
As if in response, there's the sound of an explosion. Teepee appears on a walkway on the far wall, holding One-eyed Willy in one hand and lobbing huge chunks of rock at his pursuers, a bunch of Dromedaries in floating fishbowls. I'm guessing the heat makes them appear molten. He successfully hits one, which explodes and causes a chain reaction. Seven out of eight!
He waves at me and points to a door which I'd missed. I try to yell, but no sound comes. These poor lost Terran souls can think, see, and hear – but they can't speak. Most of them, when they see us fighting, turn back to their work. Others join us, trying to stand in the way of the Dromedaries. One jumps and grapples with one, and falls off the platform, choosing perma-death over eternal servitude. Wouldn't you?
We meet at the door and scramble down halls, which are surprisingly empty. Finding an elevator, we step inside. Without question, it's from Terra. Which means it, and probably all of the systems on this godforsaken planet, came from Terra as well. We're on the – Holy Mother of buffalo balls – 567th floor. I push 'B' for basement, and grab onto the hand railing with one hand, and Teepee with another, as we free-fall downwards. Thankfully we slowed after two minutes of sheer terror.
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The doors opened into a hallway. A goddamned hallway, with walls lined with portraits of Zack Murkerbergs, from 2029 through this century. A long but narrow hallway, with crystal chandeliers and a wood-beamed ceiling. At its end was an ornately carved door. On it was a nameplate that read 'S.O.B.-In-Chief.' Normally, I'd have laughed out loud at such a kindred sense of humor.
But I was tired of the games, the red herrings, and the ever-present reminders of one family's phenomenal greed, disregard for humanity and hatred of each other. Inwardly I thanked the Great Spirit for having spared Teepee from really getting to know any of them. I opened the door, Teepee right beside me. We sat down in the two chairs that were placed before an enormous executive desk, and immediately triggered an iron bar that trapped us. We waited for the occupant of a luxurious chair to turn around and reveal himself.
The last Murkerberg, father of the mythical Virtuaverse. "How?", I hear you asking yourselves. Because data can be copied, as well as erased.
