Free The Game by Christopher J. Thomasson Page A

you
mean?”
    “ What if the fact that he wasn’t brain dead is what caused the mental transfer—and all
the others actually were brain dead? In all those other
tests, the subject sent out their mental capabilities into a host
whose brain was incapable of containing it. Kind of like
overloading a circuit breaker in your home—at some point it draws
too much electricity and blows.”
    She’s nodding now. It makes sense. Until Paul
showed up a few weeks ago, the question that Rob’s brain wasn’t
dead never crossed their minds. She had hoped all those years ago,
but she never really knew—until recently. “That’s got to be it,”
she says.
    Paul asks, “So what about now?” He points to
one of the computer monitors. On the screen is an interior view of
the sphere with Potter lying in the center.
    “ Feedback,” she says.
    “ What?” Singleton asks.
    She tries to explain. “Feedback—reverb. That
thing that happens when you put a microphone too close to a
speaker.”
    “ So instead of that one-way street
between the simulator and the host—what?” Singleton shakes his
head, trying to get a grasp on where his thoughts are taking him.
He is still extremely tired. Georgia can see it all over his
face.
    “ What?” Paul asks him.
    A knowing smile creeps across Singleton’s face
and she knows he’s figured it out. “A closed circuit,” he
says.
    She smiles.
    Singleton continues, “His mind leaves the host
and goes out in search of the test subject, just like the program
is going to tell it to do. But it’s just going to come back to
himself since he is the subject.”
    “ So,” Paul begins, moving back to
the original question posed to Georgia. “Any idea what we can
expect?”
    Her smile broadens. “All those other tests left
the subject mentally handicapped. Even after the test failed,
there’s still a fraction of their old selves within them. This time
though, I’m afraid the poor General’s going to destroy
himself—complete mental overload.”
    They sit in silence, each one pondering these
new speculations. After a few more moments, Paul slaps his hand
against the desk, startling the other two. He shouts excitedly,
“Well let’s get this show on the road!”
    Georgia adjusts the computer mouse under her
fingertips and clicks a button on the screen before her. The screen
turns dark and two words flash repeatedly: Program
Initiated .
    She turns to Paul, an evil glint flickering in
her eyes. “You want to do the honors?” He leans forward and glances
at the screen. The curser hovers over a button labeled with the
simple word, Go .
* * *
    All before him is dark. It’s as if he is
spinning through space—but without the stars. Then a sliver of
light appears in the distance. Over time, it thickens, grows
wider…taller. He can’t tell if it takes seconds or hours. All sense
of time has slipped away.
    Where am I? he thinks, and his words
echo back within his mind. The pain is severe, striking him like an
ice pick to the eyes. The darkness closes around him again, then
reappears—brighter this time. Finally, the bright light dims and he
can see more clearly. Above him is a bright blue sky. Intensely
bright, like the sun reflecting off snow. He turns his head to look
to his left. He looks right. He appears to be lying on the top
level of a parking garage. About a dozen cars are scattered around
in various parking spaces.
    There’s something in his hand.
    He lifts it. It’s a gun—a gun that looks eerily
similar to the ones he had developed for the program...
    “ No,” he says aloud and it’s as if
that one word is amplified ten-fold. It echoes around him and slams
into his ears. His eyes flood with tears. Echoes usually diminish
over time as the sound travels further away and bounces back from
greater distances. But not this. His single, spoken word gets
louder and louder with each reverberation. It pounds into his ears
and pierces his consciousness—pounding his brain like a hammer.