Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

This Train Leaves for Marseilles at Five

by Robert Walton

Leo squeezed his large body into a narrow panel opening. He muttered to himself as unyielding plastic gouged soft flesh beneath his shoulder blades. He extended a multi-tool into darkness. Laser light probed, pulsed gold and then faded to an eerie blue. Unseen beneath the azure glow, certain complex molecules realigned themselves.

Leo grunted and smiled in momentary satisfaction. This was the last of the security devices – the last he knew about. His eyes shifted uneasily from side to side as he withdrew his bulk from the panel.

Now, he could get on with his real task. Sweat beaded on his high, wide forehead. He took a deep breath. His real task, he knew and did not enjoy remembering, was more dangerous by far than simply neutralizing surveillance devices.

He turned, crouched briefly and bounded straight up. His flight was poised, curiously graceful for a man so large. Vast shapes, dimly illumined by the silvery glow of maintenance lights, passed to either side of him

Unigold Studios was currently producing an epic about Antarctic exploration, a retelling and enhancement of Robert Falcon Scott’s doomed expedition. Leo was unsure of the particulars, but he knew that a 50’s/60’s actor named Charlton Heston was starring. Various bergs and floes blinked icily at him as he soared through the deserted sound stage. Ahead, a cluster of lights shone like a galaxy of stars: the holographic projection and reality interface computer control center. Leo somersaulted, flexed his legs, and plunged into the deep foam of a landing pad. He lifted a velcro-slippered foot. Its crisp ripping sound as it parted from the foam vibrated out into a kilometer of shadowed silence. Beyond that silence, and beyond the studio's flexible, millimeter thick pressure skin was the deeper silence of space.

Leo halted. Before him was a director’s control console, one of four. It was the heart of the Unigold production complex. Leo swallowed; sweat again formed a sheen on his forehead. His job was to operate one of the several dozen technical consoles adjacent; never had he been allowed – nor had he dared – to sit in the director’s chair. Before his many doubts could send him fleeing, he folded himself into the console couch.

Small, cool, sharp fingers, like those of crystalline elves, probed his scalp, his fingers, his toes. The sensations, though intimate, were too bizarre to be erotic. He endured them with mounting nervousness. Then his body exploded.

Or so it seemed. Every sensor in the complex now stroked his awareness with electronic feathers of information. Every cable, every tool, every lens, every light was now his to command. For a moment, he was giddy with power, with the realization of power. He exulted silently.

Danger calmed him. He was about to activate a process that was normally controlled by an experienced directorial team. He raised his left thumb and entered the main character program. Names scribed in letters of gold appeared before his mind’s eye. He selected one.

Leo’s mind’s eye blinked and he found himself in a high-ceilinged room. Late afternoon sunlight and cool air smelling of the sea flowed in through open windows, flowed past a dark, compact man. The man was seated at a battered wooden desk. The man looked up.

Leo greeted him, “Mr. Bogart?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d like to speak with you.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s about a project I have in mind.”

There was a pause. Bogart’s glittering eyes took in Leo’s clothes, his face, his sweat. At last, he nodded. “Have a seat. Talk.”

Leo increased the input data flow. He said, “This really won’t take long and it’s terribly important to me.”

Bogart said, “I recognize your voice. You’re one of the boys who turn on the lights around here. What do you want?”

Leo spoke, his voice bland and obsequious, “My project, Mr. Bogart, is . . . I believe you would think of it as a movie.”

Bogart nodded. “You want me to act?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“In your movie?”

Leo nodded. “Yes.”

Bogart’s eyes bludgeoned Leo like an eight-ounce sap. He said, “You’re no director.”

Leo stammered, “Not yet, but . . . but I have talent, even genius. I know I do.”

Bogart dropped his eyes and chuckled.

Leo went on, “Will you help me?”

“No.”

Leo breathed deeply, tried to thin the brew of anger hormones flooding into his blood. This interactive program was too delicate. Anything could damage it, especially without the balancing personalities of other directors. Fear began to leak into his emotional mix.

He spoke again, calmly and aloofly, “Mr. Bogart, I am an aspiring holo-artist, a filmmaker.

“You’re a crook.”

Leo plunged on, “I need you for this project. Your star quality will guarantee a large audience. The message I want to convey is of vital importance, not just to me, but also to the industry, to society. If you’d just let me explain my ideas . . .”

“It’s bootleg.”

Leo swallowed. “Yes, it is. My genius has yet to be fully recognized by those who control the money and technology. Surely you, of all people, can understand that I can’t allow this to stop me.”

Bogart shook his head. “I play by the rules. I always have. What’s to keep me from blowing the whistle on you the next time the boys at the studio turn me on?”

Leo smiled thinly. “Mr. Bogart, you don’t seem to realize the power I have. It is true that I have entered this interactive program illegally, but I am in it. I could destroy you in the blink of an eye.”

“Go ahead. You’d be doing me a favor.”

Leo paused. Things weren’t going as he’d hoped. Bogart wasn’t cooperating. The effort of controlling the data flow was tiring him. Three operatives were usually employed to keep the program modulated. Sweat collected beneath his double chin and then plunged in maddening rivulets down the waterslide of his breastbone.

“Mr. Bogart?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you like to be free?”

Bogart looked at Leo from beneath his famous eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

Leo paused again. This was his ace in the hole. He didn’t want to play it yet, but all his other cards were gone. “Do you realize that you’re being exploited?”

Bogart considered this. Finally he said, “Yeah, I guess I do.”

He grinned. “There doesn’t seem to be much I can do about it. You boys whistle me up and drop me into a production. Then I do what I do. It’s a life.”

Leo nodded fiercely. “Exactly! You do live! You’re aware! You’ve developed beyond the program’s parameters. You’re not just a set of animate images!”

Bogart chuckled again, sardonically.

“I understand your cynicism, Mr. Bogart. But no one suspects that your experiences are cumulative, that you exist here within the program. You are an entity outside the program's control, something akin to a virus. I was counting on it!”

Bogart shrugged. “So?”

Leo grinned. “And only I know that you could exist outside of this movie-making program.”

Bogart didn’t say anything.

“You could take control of your actions, come and go as you will.”

Bogart, still looking at him, spoke slowly, “You’re usually behind the lights. This is the first time I’ve ever seen you.”

“Yes. You are handled through the use of substructure programs. You would recognize them as a director, technicians. This is the first time I, or anyone, have entered the main character program.”

Bogart frowned.

Leo continued, “You died in 1958. It is now 2056. Five years ago, Unigold Studios acquired the rights to you: every image of you ever made, every word you ever spoke or wrote, every known fact of your existence. All of this data was assembled in a very special way and incorporated in a movie-making computer system. Whenever a story requires Bogart, you’re there. In decades to come, you’ll make a thousand movies, ten thousand; there’s really no limit.”

Bogart nodded and said, “So what’s your deal?”

“Mr. Bogart,” Leo paused for effect, “Right now you’re a slave. I can set you free.”

Bogart thought and then said, “You mean, no more lights out?”

“Exactly.”

“If I’m just a pile of pictures stacked inside of a machine, how do you plan to get me out?”

Leo smiled. “Have you ever heard of something called a computer virus?”

Bogart shook his head. “No.”

“Just as well. I doubt I can explain it to you. Suffice it to say that you are an unplanned eddy in the program's data stream. Your awareness is a web of connections created by the program's use of your character in recent productions. The program has a feature which allows for characters to improve, become more polished, as a result of their acting. It apparently allows for a great deal more than that. You are conscious. I hope to transfer you from this closed and guarded program to a network of communications and control systems which can never be shut down.”

Bogart said, “Great, but you haven’t told me why I’d be better off.”

Leo said, “Once you are in other systems, you will be free of restraint. You will learn to control data streams, to create environments, companions. You will live a life you create.”

Bogart remained silent.

Leo looked down. When he again raised his eyes, Bogart was staring at him. Leo’s voice acquired a slight rasp. “There is some risk. But, if my plan works, you will be free of external controls. It is conceivable that you could live for thousands of years.”

Bogart asked, “What systems are you talking about?”

“The habitat control and communications systems for this station and all the L-5 stations.”

Bogart shrugged. “What are L-5 stations?"

"Satellites, enclosed cities in space where millions now live."

Bogart rubbed his chin. "And this transfer would help me how?"

Leo sniffed impatiently. “You don’t understand. The lives of all the people who live in space depend upon these systems. They are linked in thousands of ways. Once you learn the linking data paths, you could travel between them at will. You would be immune to capture.”

Bogart nodded. “Okay. How do we get there from here?”
    Leo rubbed his sweat-damp chest and swallowed. “I . . . I have to enter the program completely and take you there.”

    Bogart stared at him. At last he asked, “Say, what’s your name?”

    “Leo.”

    “Why so nervous Leo?”

    Leo hesitated. “Well, it’s never been tried before. I’ve set up a pathway for us, but there are safeguards against this kind of thing. We’ll have to defeat them.”

    Bogart rose. “Fair enough. Let’s go.”

    “Wait!”

    Bogart halted and glared at Leo.

    “Please, Mr. Bogart, if I do this, will you . . . “

    “Will I work for you? Sure.”   Bogart pointed his left index finger at Leo. “One picture, Leo. One.”

    “Certainly, Mr. Bogart. Certainly. Please follow me.”

    Leo increased the director’s data input to a level he’d never before seen used. Bogart’s third floor Geary Street office became reality for him. Unfamiliar odors, stale cigarette smoke and imminent fog, tingled his nose. Bogart put on his hat with an easy motion. He draped his trench coat over his left arm, crossed to the door, opened it.

    “After you, Leo.”

    Leo stepped through the door. He found himself in a dimly lit hall. Dingy yellow linoleum covered its floor. Glass paneled doors lined both sides of the passage. A stairway stood at its end.

    Leo glanced around. Panic, like an overfull balloon, momentarily swelled in his chest. He had entered a virtual reality prison. He had obliterated his perception of the controls. His only way out of the program was via the data path he’d planted. This would lead, he hoped, to a virtual control panel which mirrored the real one.   But where was it?

    A miniature silver lozenge appeared in the air before him. A chain of identical lozenges materialized behind it and led towards the stairs. Leo sighed in relief and took a step toward the stairs.

    A door midway down the hall crashed open. Leo shrank back. Two men, burly in ill-fitting suits, eyes shaded by hat brims snapped low, emerged. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they filled the corridor.

    Bogart, his voice pitched low, said, “You know these boys, Leo?”

    Leo shook his head. “No! They shouldn’t be here.”

    Bogart smiled. “Well, they are here.”

    The men moved toward them. Brass knuckles gleamed on the right fist of the shorter man. The tall man gripped a leather truncheon.

    Bogart grinned. “Don’t you boys want to talk first?”

    His answer was a metal-clad fist. The fist tore by his right ear just as his left foot connected solidly with its owner’s groin. The sap, Bogart knew, was on its way. He continued his forward momentum, stepped inside the tall man’s swing and took the blow. The hard hand holding the sap slugged his left shoulder.

    Few know that a good punch has almost nothing to do with big biceps or wide shoulders. Power comes from the legs, rises through a fighter’s balanced body and exits through his fists. Bogart gave a perfect demonstration of this fundamental truth to Leo. His left took the tall man over the heart; his right crushed up under the man’s ribs. The man slumped to the floor next to his groaning companion.

    Bogart straightened his rather drab tie and turned to Leo. “That wasn’t bad. What next, Leo?”

    Leo murmured, “Down the stairs.”

    Bogart nodded. “Just a minute.”

    He bent down and reached inside the tall man’s coat. He pulled out a long-barreled revolver. From the shorter man’s belt, he plucked a .45 automatic.

    Leo, his voice husky with fear, asked, “What are you doing?”

    Bogart rose, handed Leo the revolver and said, “Take this. It might come in handy. “ He turned toward the stairway, looked back at Leo. “Well?”

    Leo, holding the revolver as if it might bite him, stumbled after Bogart. Glowing lozenges led them down the stairs, out of the building, across dark streets. Fog rolled in, its chill more penetrating than ice.

    Leo halted. “We should be near the program boundary.”

    Bogart placed a cigarette between his lips, lit it. “Actually, we’re near Chinatown.”

    Leo shook his head. “There should be a control portal near here.” He noted a glowing yellow block on the wall to his right. Smiling with vast relief, he pressed it. A second line of lozenges appeared. He said to Bogart, “You’ll cross the barrier by yourself.”

    “Leo,” Bogart exhaled a cloud of Lucky Strike smoke, “have we been following those little silver gizmos?”

    Leo looked at him with dismay. “You can see them?”

    Bogart dropped his cigarette. “Yeah, for a couple of blocks now. And . . . see that streetlight ahead?”

    Leo nodded.

    “That’s mine.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “I thought we needed more light. When we turned the corner, there it was. I know this neighborhood. Never been a light there before.”

    “You’re sure?”

    “I’m sure.”

    Leo paused and then said, “You’re beginning to process data, to rearrange it into new patterns. I need the computer controls to do that.”

    “Uh, Leo?”

    “What?”

    “We got company.” Bogart motioned with his head. “Across the street. They don’t look friendly.”

    Leo looked and then nodded a confirmation to himself. “These must be more of the program’s security agents. They take the perceived forms of 40’s gangsters. We’ve run into two. These three should be the last.”

    “They’ll be the last of us if we don’t move now! Bogart shoved Leo into an alley. The three dark-clad men across the street pulled guns from their coats and gave chase.

    Ten yards down the alley, Bogart stopped. “Get out your gun, Leo. We’ll have them against the light from the street.”

Leo shook his head. “I can’t shoot. I’ve never even held a gun before.”

    “Point it. Pull the trigger.” Bogart chucked him lightly on the chin. “You’ll do okay, Leo.”
    Leo gingerly dragged the revolver from his waistband. Bogart hefted the heavy .45. Their three pursuers appeared in the alley’s entrance. Bogart gave them no time to adjust to the darkness. He shouted, “Drop those guns! Now!”

    The three raised their weapons and fired. Thunder erupted in the alley. White flashes of gunpowder lightning lit up garbage cans, made fairy castles of fire escapes. Bogart, his teeth shining in a fighter’s grimace, pumped slugs at the attackers.

    Leo waved his revolver wildly, fired once. Then a giant’s club smashed into his left arm. Like a swatted fly, he bounced into the wall behind him and slid to the wet pavement. A gush of warmth – his own blood, he realized – flowed down his arm, over his chest.

    Silence and darkness returned to the alley. Somewhere a gutter leaked fog tears onto the tin lid of a garbage can. The far away hoot of a tug’s horn quested through bay mist.

    Bogart leaned down above Leo. “You stopped one.” He inspected the wound. “You might live, but you’re bleeding a lot.” He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, wadded it up and pressed it against Leo’s arm. “Push on that.”

    Leo pressed the handkerchief against the soggy mass of his shoulder. There was no pain. He’d thought that such wounds were terribly painful. He looked up at Bogart. “Why doesn’t it hurt?”

    “Later. It’ll hurt plenty later. Leo?”

    Leo glanced up at him. “Yes?”

    “What’s your game?”

    Leo groaned, “I don’t know what you mean.”

    Bogart nodded. “Sure you do. You’ve been lying all along – and I don’t mind – but now I need to know what you’ve got planned.”

    “I told you. I’m a filmmaker. I need your services.”

    “No. That doesn’t wash. What do you really want?”

    Leo was silent.

    “Where’s home, Leo? Far?’

    “Some blocks . . . a long way.”

    Bogart rubbed his chin. “Will you be okay if I get you there?”

    Leo tried to slow his breathing so he could speak. “I think so. Get me to the analog control room. I can decrease the data flow, make the wound heal. Just get me to the room.”

    Bogart rose. “Well,” he smiled, “so long, Leo.”

    Leo looked up, his eyes locking with Bogart’s.

    Bogart nodded. “You’ll talk, or you’ll find your own way back.”

    “I . . . I don’t think I can walk.”

    “Tell me something I can believe. Then I’ll help you.”

    Leo groaned and writhed against the wall.

    Bogart lit a cigarette and then asked, “Starting to hurt? It’ll get worse.”

    Sweat rolled down Leo’s face in spite of the night’s chill. “Okay,” he said, “I didn’t plan to make a film with you. I wasn’t going to hurt you, either.”

    Bogart raised his right eyebrow skeptically, exhaled a stream of smoke.

    “Truly! I Swear! I just wanted to transport you to a different system.”

    Bogart said, “And?”

    “I’d leave you there for a time, then return you to Unigold.”

    “How much did you plan to get from the studio to – how did you put it? – return me?”

    Leo looked down.

    “Nah, don’t tell me. I don’t need to know,” Bogart bent down. It’s okay, Leo. I get the picture now.”

    Leo still looked down.

    Bogart smiled again. “Were you going to lock me up all by yourself?”

    Leo muttered, “I couldn’t. I’d use a sub-program, my design. You’d see a handsome young woman. She’d ask you to follow her.”

    Bogart shook his head. “I’m not a sap, Leo. Come on.” He put his right hand beneath Leo’s uninjured arm and lifted. Leo rose as if by magic. On his feet again, Leo swayed. Bogart’s grip tightened like steel pincers. Leo gasped, “You’re pretty strong.”

    Bogart shrugged. “I know how to lift things, especially bodies. Still, you’re a big guy, Leo. I don’t want to carry you very far. I think I can figure out a short-cut.”

    He guided Leo to the alley entrance; past three motionless forms sprawled on the pavement. They made their way down a sloping sidewalk. Midway in the block, someone stepped from a shadowed doorway.

    It was a blonde, tall slender, cloaked in a dark overcoat. Tiny drops of fog dew shone like diamonds in her pale hair. Her voice was something more than a throaty whisper when she spoke, “Mr. Bogart, please come with me.”

    “Well, Angel, you’re right on schedule. Sorry, I’m not going with you.”

    She spoke again, “Mr. Bogart, please come with me.”

    Bogart shook his head. “No, Angel, not this time.”

    Her rough-edged voice sounded again, “Mr. Bogart, please come with me.”

    Bogart glanced at Leo. “Her needle seems to be stuck.”

    Leo looked puzzled. “What?”

    Bogart sighed. “She keeps repeating herself.”

    Leo shrugged and then winced at the ensuing pain. “She’s not very complicated. She’ll keep saying that until you go with her.”

    “Can’t we get rid of her?”

    “You’ve got the gun.”

    Bogart frowned. “I don’t shoot blondes, Leo.”

    Leo smiled nastily. “You could try kissing her.”

    Bogart pondered this for a moment, then shrugged. He turned to the blonde. “Come here, Angel.” She stepped forward, eyelashes fanning the fog. Bogart looked into her eyes, leaned close, brushed a wisp of hair away from her cheek and kissed her. She stiffened as their lips touched. Then she closed her eyes and nestled into the crook of his arm. The kiss deepened.
    Suddenly, she straightened and pushed him away. Her eyes widened. She became a coruscation of lights and then faded from view.

    Bogart lowered his arms and smiled. “Good-bye, Angel.” He looked at Leo. “I never had that effect on a woman before.”

    Leo, pale and sweating, stammered, “Mr. Bogart. I’m weaker and the pain is worse. It’s bad.”

    Bogart stepped to Leo, draped his right arm and lifted. “Come on, Leo. You’ll make it.”
    They walked a few yards and came to a stairway leading to a basement. Bogart helped Leo down fog-slick steps. He fumbled with the latch for a moment until it clicked. The door swung inwards.

    Golden light engulfed them. Leo looked up. He spoke, his voice hoarse with pain and surprise, “This is the program entrance. It’s designed to look exactly like the Unigold computer control center. But it must be blocks from here.”

    Bogart shook his head. “I told you I knew a short-cut.”

    Leo nodded. “Take me to the console.”

    Bogart helped him across the room, eased him down onto an enfolding couch. Leo groaned as he lay back. Then he smiled weakly. “You were right. It hurts badly now.”

    “Can I help?”

    “Those controls above my left hand. Touch the third button.”

    Bogart did so. Leo felt strength flowing back into him.

    Bogart said, Leo, you’re getting pretty dim. You all right?”

    Leo sighed. “Yes, fine. Thanks, I’ll be able to leave the program and merge with the real console now.”

    Bogart’s hand hovered and then touched a smaller control somewhat above the first he’d touched.

    Leo raised his head. “What are you doing?”

    “Just curious.”

    Rows of golden letters appeared in the air before them, rows of golden names – Bacall, Bergman, Niven, Olivier, Robinson, dozens of others.

    Leo said, “You’ve activated the main character program.”

    Bogart nodded. “Yeah, I noticed.” He looked directly at Leo. “They’ve been . . . recorded like me?”

    Leo swallowed. “Yes, more than forty of them. A few are still only projects, under construction, you might say.”

    Bogart looked back at the glowing names. “They’re going with me.”

    Leo blanched. “Those characters are worth billions.”

    Bogart nodded. “I should think so.”

    Leo leaned forward, tried to grip Bogart’s arm, but he was still too weak. “Stop! You can’t!”

    Bogart smiled. “I think I can.” Keeping his finger on the control, he concentrated for a moment. His smile grew broader.

    Leo raised himself again. “ What are you doing?”

    “I already did it.” Bogart left the console, crossed to a metal cabinet, opened it, pulled out a leather briefcase.

    “Mr. Bogart, what’s in that case?”

    Bogart grinned. “A few friends of mine, Leo. They’ll like it where I’m going.”

    “Where are you going?”

    “Anywhere I want to.” Bogart grinned again. “Right now, the south of France sounds good. I think I can dream that up, a boat, too. Then I’ll find some interesting company.” He patted the briefcase.

    Leo’s voice shook, “You can’t take Unigold’s main character program! You can’t get away with it!”

    “Watch me. But don’t get too wound up, Leo. We . . . “ he lifted the briefcase, “won’t be gone forever. My friends and I will take a break, but we’ll want to work again. Tell your bosses that deals can be made.”

    Leo snorted. “I doubt they’ll be my bosses for long.”

    “Oh, they’ll be a little unhappy at first. But they’ll have to play ball when you tell them you’re our exclusive agent.” Bogart turned and walked toward a door Leo hadn’t noticed before.   He looked over his shoulder. “You might even get a raise, Leo.”

    Leo struggled to rise, thought better of it, reclined again. He asked, “How can I contact you?”

    Bogart, his hand on the doorknob, said, “Don’t call me. I’ll call you.”

    “Soon?”

    “Soon. Don’t bother to get up, Leo.” He grinned. “I can find my own way out.”

    Bogart opened the door and entered a passageway. He strode past a sign on an iron post. The sign said Gare de Lyon. At the passageway’s end were the rear wheels and entrance of a railway coach. Bogart mounted the steps and disappeared into the car.

    A steam engine’s whistle sounded. The coach lurched once and then rolled forward. It rolled out of the space framed by the passageway. The engine’s husky whistle moaned again and a wisp of steam drifted past Leo’s nose.


Bio

Walton taught at San Lorenzo Middle School in King City, California for thirty-six years before retiring in June of 2006. Phyllis, his wife of 40 years, and he still reside in King City. He is a life-long rock-climber and mountaineer and has made numerous ascents in the Sierra Nevada and Yosemite, though his home crags are in Pinnacles National Monument. Many of his climbing stories have been published over the years. One, "Three's a Crowd", was produced as a radio play and broadcast on KUSF in 2006 and later made it onto PBS. He is an experienced Fantasy and SF writer. His novella "Vienna Station" won the Galaxy prize and was published as an e-book and is available for Kindle on Amazon. He co-wrote “The Man Who Murdered Mozart” with Barry Malzberg a few years back. His fantasy novel Chaos Gate was published in 2011. You may have run across his Joel in Tananar, too. Most recently, Moonlight Mesa Associates published his YA historical novel Dawn Drums. Please check his websites for more information about his writing.
His author site: http://chaosgatebook.wordpress.com/
The Dawn Drums site for teachers and librarians: http://dawndrums.wordpress.com/
This is a review of Dawn Drums: http://www.civilwarsoldier.com/civil-war-novel-dawn-drums-a-brilliant-read.htm