Akanor: Tales From Necro Box Set Page 12

  “Damn it…”

  A RetinaChat request. The subject read: Are you OK, my dear? I’m terribly sorry you got hospitalized! It’s my fault…

  Robert opened a RetinaChat window for the first time in months.

  Markle: Please forgive me! It was my fault! I upset you, dear! What were you diagnosed with?

  Another fucking stroke. But it’s fine, Markle. I needed a break from Anicor, and I surely had it. And now I’m ready to leave.

  :) Let me make it up to you…

  There’s no need, Markle. The only need I have is to leave this world. Now get off my back and never RetinaChat me again. You hear? I’m done!

  Robert closed the RetinaChat window.

  “You didn’t have to be so harsh with your Understudy; he’s only trying to apologize,” said Anicor.

  “Whatever. Take this catheter out of my arm,” said the fat man.

  The organic tentacle catheterizing Robert’s vein retracted. When it emerged from the blood vessel and skin, it automatically cauterized the incision with a laser zap. Robert jumped. The tentacle became a pen-like structure. The device would soon begin the process of self-sterilization to be used on another patient when needed. Another cylindrical servo-craft picked up the catheter and hovered back to the busy hallway outside the hospital room.

  As Robert walked out to the main hall, he saw many other users leaving the gigantic building. Luckily, he wasn’t wearing a wig. No one recognized him without his golden curls. He was back to being just another anonymous human being—a phenomenon both scary and gratifying for a man used to being the center of attention.

  V

  “So how much space is there, Trust?” asked Honest. His hair was combed in the shape of a blazing wildfire while his plump body was clothed in an Armed Forces uniform—military green with a stylish finish to it.

  “Enough for gazillions of geezillions of light-years to occupy babyllions of space. I tell ya, Honest, there’s room enough for Minotaur Biotech to conquer lots of it!” said Trust. He was wearing a mask that made him seem like a Mechanized Warrior, representing the average grunt in the battlefield.

  “Then we’d better beat the Eurussians at conquering the Sol Solar System!” said Honest.

  “Absulutingly yes! Luna Terra, our first military colony, is already property of UniCorn. The plan is to conquer Mars and several asteroids in the asteroid belt just a few strides from Mars. Honestly, things are looking good for Minotaur Biotech!” said Trust, waving his hair around as he smiled.

  “I trust you when you say it—get it? You’re a Trustworthy source!”

  Robert closed the Honky Dory window on his iTop display. He was sick of listening to the hosts’ constant gaggle. Robert returned his attention to the rehearsal for his final episode. With a RetinaCommand, he replayed Casa Blanca for the hundredth time. He reduced the window, placing it in the lower-left corner. He didn’t need to watch the movie. Knowing that that Old Memory was within his reach was comfort enough.

  It was a Tuesday, one day before the last Episode he would ever play: “The Day of Reckoning.” This was the most important one of the two hundred and sixty Robert had pledged to act in.

  The rest of the cast was also rehearsing at the huge Theater. As usual, Robert stood at the center of the wooden stage, closest to the where the audience would be sitting. Behind him, the other actors were waiting for him to snap out of his daydream. Only Markle dared tap his foot on the stage, hands on hips, his gaze a deliberate contour of frustration.

  Thousands of empty seats were staring back at the superstar with red fabric in place of eyes. The proclamation of the Holy Words of War was at hand. Robert was fully dressed in his presidential black suit and tie with an inch-thick layer of makeup covering his face, effectively hiding him under the mask of Yulius Zezar, his asylum. From behind, the dramatist looked like a gigantic square man, almost like a refrigerator, his long, curly, golden wig decorating his balding head.

  The stage was fully adorned and equipped for tomorrow’s play. Both the Jellyfish and Falcon cameras were holstered to the walls, waiting to be activated and deployed to capture the final episode.

  “Horrible! Terrible! Cheesy is what you all are!” yelled the Master of Ceremonies, Denton Klos. The tall, sinewy man had a gaunt and elongated face. He had deep, sullen eyes and the breath of a dragon from constantly chewing on artificial, corn-based tobacco. A small hunchback was always covered by a blue-grey suit, white shirt, and black bow tie. Denton Klos was guilty of possessing an Old Memory; bow ties were seldom used. Like much in Texalifornia, such elegance was not prohibited but simply scorned and insulted. The norm was emotional clothing, but for some reason, most actors and their directors preferred to dress in some other type of fabric.

  “The audience is expecting you to be…rather dramatic, my dear Yulius, something which I argue you already know, mind you,” said the Master of Ceremonies. “You’ve been coming up short of late, haven’t you? I’ve noticed you’ve been daydreaming, simply ignoring most of my suggestions for the last few weeks. Is something wrong, my dear? Have you been to a Health Box lately? I bet you need a bolt tightened.”

  “Oh, sweet corn, he is just fan-tas-tic! He’s so well he doesn’t even care about me!” said Markle. He was dressed as one of the many cadets in typical military green.

  “I’m fine,” agreed Yulius. The slab of skin under his chin trembled. “I’m closing in on my fifth year, remember? You’ve surely seen how the previous Actors have needed a little extra push at the end? No?” said Robert.

  “That may be so. It doesn’t really matter, now, does it? Even if another Actor did become disturbed during his final plays, it gives you not the right to sabotage my play,” said Denton. The Master of Ceremonies half closed his eyes and raised an eyebrow. He had an annoyingly thin mustache, such that at times it seemed to be just a smudge of dirt.

  “You Actors are horribly spoiled. You think you’re so special? You Actors don’t remember your place! My predecessor warned me about you people! Oh! Sweet corn!” Denton was crying at this point, his sunken eyes drenching his elongated face, the tears curling up on his severely angled chin before falling to the wooden floor of the stage.

  “Oh, by whatever gods! Let’s continue. Take it from the top! Chop! Chop!” he demanded.

  The empty theater echoed deeply. Above them, the city was as busy as ever, its Skyways buzzing with the rhythmic hum of hovering vehicles. A Flagellated Pelican patrolled the sector with intense beams of light, perhaps searching for Offgridders.

  “O! Mighty forces of the heavens!” began Robert, smooth as silk, slipping into character with perfection. Yulius took over.

  “Make our enemies bleed as you thrash them!

  O! Country of Texalifornia, forgive us,

  For we mistake in our natural freedom!

  O! Utter forces of the West!

  Feed us, protect us, and we in turn will die for you!

  “This country ran with the blood of our ancestors,

  Charred, their corpses convulsed during the dark days,

  When the bombs of utter chaos splashed us,

  And we in turn returned the call of Holy War!

  We are the Forerunners of this forsaken world,

  Thrashed and gushed by thine enemies from the East!”

  Denton Klos yelled, “No! No! No! Let’s start from the top again! Yulius, my dear, come back to Earth, for corn’s sake. You seem to be on Luna Terra rather than here. If you’re to be promoted to Unification, then you must end your last Episode stunningly…as you usually do. Stop drifting away. Let’s start from the top, my dears!” Denton walked toward his seat in the empty theater. He took a sip from his corn-martini, his lips pouting.

  “He’s right, Robert,” said Markle. It was the first time the Understudy publicly criticized his tutor’s changed ways. “Your attention span has been terrible these last few weeks. You’re not even paying attention to me like you used to! You were so affectionate a few months ago! Oh! I
t’s terrible, Denton, I tell you,” complained Markle. The other secondary actors were already mumbling among themselves. It seemed they had also noticed how Robert had changed.

  “Whatever gods damn you, Markle! You and your torn heart always choose the worst moment to squabble! Why do you torment me? Is this your way of expressing your guilt for my recent hospitalization? I told you to forget about it!” argued Robert.

  “Gentlemen! Shut up for the life of me!” yelled Denton.

  “Your blood pressure is 210/100. Please calm down,” said Robert’s personal AI. “I have deliberately stopped Casa Blanca and played soothing music to keep your blood pressure from rising. There’s no need to thank me.”

  “Fuck you, Anicor. I’ve had enough. Now let’s get on with this shit!” yelled Robert. Markle backed off and said no more.

  Robert began moving in circles, summoning the strength to continue. He was weary. The golden wig was shining brilliantly under a powerful beam of yellowish-white light. The bulbs were wirelessly controlled by Denton’s OHP-I with an App installed on his iTop.

  Robert slid back into character. “Death to those beyond our borders!” yelled Yulius. “We shall prevail over those heretics who dare mock us! We loathe those who didn’t believe in the fusion of our great nation, who sought to oppose us when we had fallen after the great Battle of Atomic Bombs! But never again…we shall be ever watchful of our foes…”

  “Mr. President,” said the General. She was a sexy woman with full breasts almost popping out of her tight uniform. “But the Offgridders are too strong! We do not have the force to repel them! We are doomed…”

  “In that you are right, General Currant. Our forces have been vaporized by fusing atoms,” replied Yulius. His head was slightly downcast by the supposedly bad news. “We only have one choice. We must convince our noble citizens to fight for our cause, because in the end, it’s their cause too! The Good Civilian Law is their moral code!”

  One of the beams of light concentrated solely on Yulius, making him stand out. The rest of the stage darkened. Denton was coordinating the ambiance as if it were The Day of Reckoning.

  “I summon you, citizens of Texalifornia! Aid me in this honorable quest! Aw, shit. Just stop! Stop! Fucking lines are bullshit!” yelled Robert.

  “What?” resonated the voices of the secondary actors.

  The lights turned on.

  Silence became intrusive.

  “I beg your pardon?” yelled out Denton. “What on Earth are you doing, Yulius? You…you rascal! You…! Spoiled brat! Why are you doing this to me?”

  “It’s…this script…the things I say…I…I…”

  “You what?”

  Robert Thorns yanked off his wig, revealing a balding head with long whiskers falling from its sides like a monk of the old ages. The secondary actors, except Markle, giggled.

  “Robert, for the love of pickled baby corns! What are you doing?” yelled out Markle. The Understudy’s eyes were tearing up. Seeing his tutor failing was terrifying him. The woman playing the Secretary of Defense was aghast; the General was taking her time adjusting her bulging breasts.

  “Here are the changes you requested, Mr. Klos,” said a tired man whose head and eyes were downcast. He had brown hair that was barely combed to one side. He had entered the Theater unnoticed, perhaps because of his crestfallen nature, or maybe because his steps were so light. He looked thin…malnourished. The depressed man handed Denton a digital clipboard containing what seemed to have a file composed solely of words.

  Denton took the tablet with disgust, eyeballing the tired man as if he had tuberculosis.

  Robert glanced at the newcomer. After several seconds, his whole body turned to face and study the man talking to the Master of Ceremonies.

  A sudden pain stabbed Robert’s heart. Why does this man provoke me so? He’s so thin! And that grey suit he’s wearing looks beaten up, like he hasn’t auto-cleansed it in several months! And those eyes…so deep, so sad…so disappointed.

  His eyes teared up, his heart thumped, his gut churned. The ache that invaded his soul was deeper and more severe than anything he had ever felt before. Why?

  Robert took a mental sample of this pain and scrutinized it.

  The nostalgia he felt when he had tried to kill himself for the first time came to life, resurrected from the wells of his soul. The assault of emotions began to strangle him.

  A mysterious silence clouded the superstar. His eyes changed from bewildered to an inconsolable longing for something precious, now forever lost.

  A moan crawled up Robert’s soul. He restrained the cry, yet savored the despair. As he analyzed the contents of his lament, he traced its origin. Robert thought it came from his torn heart. The emotion came, however, from his battered existence. The source of such a desperate cry had been the crestfallen man who was currently speaking to Mr. Klos. The man turned and left without a word after being reprimanded by Denton.

  “Who is that?” Robert queried Anicor. His voice was fragmented, the fatty flap of skin under his chin trembling as he jittered with sadness. The iTop immediately registered the face of the sad man. Within seconds, the AI pulled up his requested information from the UniCorn servers.

  “He is called Ingman Greenberg. He was born in July, is ninety years old, and lives in West New Hollow, close to Houston Memorial City.”

  “…I know that name. He is young, yet he looks one hundred and fifty years old. What does he do for a living?”

  “He’s the Screenwriter for your plays. The Screenwriter writes, The Actor acts. It’s a synergistic relationship,” answered the mechanical voice.

  “What!” Dear whatever gods! thought Robert. So he’s the artist who has been mysteriously changing the Script! Uploading poems and thought-provoking passages. He wished to talk to the Screenwriter, hear his voice, his vernacular; to sit down and listen to his story, commiserate on the things that should and should not be.

  “What are you thinking, Robert? Your blood pressure is 230/110, and your blood sugar is running over the 300s. I sense your bloodstream is thick with adrenaline and serotonins. Are you sentimental once again?”

  “I…umm…Oh, it’s nothing, really. I was just wondering how sad that man looks. That’s all,” said Robert.

  “You used to trust your emotions to me. You used to tell me everything. You were so communicative during your childhood, adolescence, and most of your young adult life. At your young age of sixty years, you have grown distant and cold. Are you taking the antidepressant medication prescribed to you by the Health Box?”

  “Umm…yes, you saw me take it together with my pressure and anti-diabetes pills,” responded Robert.

  “Just verifying the information I have gathered. Robert, all I want is to protect you, even if I must protect you from yourself. This is why I exist. I am philosophically bound to you.”

  “Stop chatting with your Anicor and get back to rehearsing!” said Denton. “You’re slacking off, Yulius. Do not fail your beloved fans on your last performance. Episode two hundred and sixty is supposed to be your grand finale!”

  Robert sighed deeply, unable to handle his fragmented existence.

  VI

  Robert Thorns studied himself with revulsion. He was in the dressing room at the backstage of the Theater, sitting down in front of the mirror laden with lightbulbs. The rehearsal had ended poorly. Denton had reprimanded everyone, his dramatization ending with him sobbing. Markle had left the Theater infuriated. Like all the members of the cast, the Understudy also lived in the Globus Theater Hotel, albeit in a smaller apartment.

  Robert took his wig off, making him look old and sick, fat and discomforted. At his young age, he should have a handful of hair. For some reason it had fallen off. Was it due to stress?

  Robert realized he was avoiding making eye contact with himself in the reflection. This was embarrassing. He could not sustain his own gaze! Robert forced himself to stare at his mirror image. After several minutes of doing so, he realized
his eyes were sad. How deeply can you stare into your own eyesight? wondered The Actor. What lay in the deep tunnels of his pupils?

  Robert stared hard, inching closer to the mirror. He usually would’ve felt discomforted by the fact that his personal AI would be recording this very moment. But he no longer cared about what that bionic bitch thought. There! It was something in those big, sunken, dark eyes of his. He saw in them some unexplored depth he had never been aware of.

  Who are you, you big old chump? All these years of entertaining others, and what have you actually gained for yourself? Why do you even do what you do? Fame…grandiosity…tax-free jobs…you’re being held accountable by yourself!

  Robert inched closer to the mirror. He could see the spindles of his iris spanning around the pupil like a dead sun.

  “Anicor.”

  “Yes, Robert?” answered the AI.

  “How would you go about measuring a man’s depths?”

  The fat man turned his head from side to side, probing as if changing the angles would give him another perspective. Robert was so close to the mirror that he could actually see the cracks in his pale lips, his big nose armored by heavy-duty makeup, the pores of his skin stuffed with white powder.

  He inched closer.

  Closer.

  The proximity made Robert aware of the eyepiece he was wearing on his left eye. It covered his iris perfectly. Nothing was visible on it. Neither the flashing lights of the blood pressure nor the blood sugar levels. He sighed, unable to conclude anything useful from scrutinizing his own features in the mirror.

  An invitation to a RetinaChat. It was Denton. Robert refused the proposition with a RetinaCommand and continued to study himself.

  “I would say a man’s depth is measured by how well he has served his country, his own people,” said the AI finally.